It was Monday after Olivia phoned in the middle of the night on Saturday (or, more precisely, way early Sunday morning). The boys were back with Olivia and Brock’s attorney and Hector had been informed first thing that morning that plans had not only changed but had been shifted into overdrive. I’d had to come into the bakery for a few hours on Sunday, which gave Brock more alone time with his boys. But I’d met him at his place yesterday evening, when we pretty much zonked out because he’d had about four hours of sleep and I’d had about two.

Tonight, it was my place and I was leaving early to go home and make dinner.

“What change of plans?”

“My house, not yours. Game’s on,” he informed me.

“What game?” I asked.

“Nuggets,” he answered.

Hmm. This was interesting. Nuggets beat out Monday Night Football.

“And?” I asked.

“My set is better than yours,” he stated.

“Your set is better than mine?”

“Babe, your TV should have been retired about six years ago.”

“It’s only three years old.”

“Okay, then your set should have been retired about two and a half years ago.”

I blinked at my desk.

Then I asked, “What?”

“You trade up every year.”

I blinked at my desk again.

Then I asked, “Your truck was twenty years old but you trade up TVs every year?”

“Uh… yeah,” he said like, “Uh… duh.”

This was gearing up to be a milk jug discussion, I could feel it.

Therefore, my decision about the future of the discussion was… whatever.

Moving on.

“I haven’t stocked your fridge in a while,” I reminded him.

Another thing to note, two houses with one woman meant one woman cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges. Brock, I had learned, was not clean or tidy. Brock, I had also learned, had lived his life since divorcing Olivia (who, he informed me, was not a master chef or even close) on pizza, Chinese, fast food, and takeaway Mexican.

Considering this, it was beginning to dawn that Brock’s body was a minor miracle even with all that running and gym time.

“We’ll order pizza,” he decided.

That I could do.

“Cool,” I agreed.

“And I’m tied up, gonna be half an hour later, maybe an hour,” he said. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home and you can order the pizza.”

“Does that mean someone died?” I asked.

His voice held restrained humor when he answered, “Yeah, sweetness. Part of the gig of homicide is someone dying.”

I turned and looked out into the bakery, smelling cake smells.

When my phone rang at the bakery, this usually meant someone wanted to order a birthday cake. When Brock’s rang at the station, this usually meant someone had a cap busted in their ass.

My job was way better.

Thus, I didn’t mind (too much) cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges.

“Okay, baby, text me and I’ll order the pizza,” I said softly.