Make Me Sin

6

“Of course he is. But there must be plenty of people in this world better suited to help the poor.” She launches into a rant I’ve heard a dozen times before. “James graduated summa c*m laude from Princeton. He’s brilliant, handsome, and comes from a good family. His grandmother is a countess, for God’s sake! He should be in politics, or marrying some heiress, but instead he’s earning an associate’s salary and rubbing elbows with the hoi polloi.” She sighs. “Honestly, I don’t know where I went wrong.”

I have to bite my tongue in order to not recite a list. “Seven on Sunday?”

“As always.”

“Okay, Mom. I’m beat, so I’m going to hang up now. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“With Eric,” she reminds me firmly. He’s the one thing in my life she approves of, even if he does have to work for a living. I can’t blame her. Compared to most of my exes, Eric is practically a saint.

We say good-bye and hang up. Immediately there’s a knock on my door. It’s probably another solicitor selling magazine subscriptions. Darn that broken security gate!

Not moving from the couch, I shout, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, babe!” comes the muffled reply. “Surprise!”

Eric. I’m not surprised. He enjoys showing up unannounced. I sometimes wonder if he’s trying to catch me with another guy. That would never happen because I’m not that kind of girl, but his tendency to drop by without calling is a little irritating. I rub my temples, drag a deep breath into my lungs, and then haul myself from the sofa.

When I open the door, I’m immediately engulfed in an enthusiastic bear hug. The kiss Eric gives me is wet, and a little sloppy. He’s still in his police uniform. He smells like beer.

“Hey. Did you just get off work?”

He nods, grinning. I still haven’t taken off my heels, so I’m looking slightly down at him. This depresses me beyond reason. It must be the headache.

“I thought we could have dinner together. You up for it?”

I momentarily brighten at the thought of being treated to a dinner out, but Eric dispels that idea by saying, “I’ve been dreaming about your lasagna all day.”

He gives me another sloppy kiss, and moves past me into the apartment, not noticing that I’ve closed my eyes and am counting to ten.

This is one thing my mother got right. She never cooked or cleaned, so no one ever expected it of her. And if ever she got a wild hair up her butt and cooked something for us—even something as simple as toast—the entire family acted as if it were a Christmas miracle.

She might be a pampered snob, but she’s no dummy. If you don’t spoil other people, they can never take you for granted.

I close the door and join Eric in the kitchen, where he’s rummaging through my fridge. He emerges with a beer, pops the top, guzzles from the bottle, and shucks off his shoes, all without closing the refrigerator door. “How was your day, babe?”

I sigh. “Long.”

He doesn’t ask for details. “Mine, too. I’m beat. And starving,” he adds with emphasis, finally closing the door. Unbuckling the black utility belt around his waist, he deposits his gun, baton, radio, and all the other various accessories attached to it directly onto my kitchen counter. It makes a strangely ominous-looking mess. He drops his hat and badge beside the mess, strips off his navy short-sleeved shirt and regulation trousers, throws them over the whole pile, and turns to me, wearing only a pair of black socks, his white undershirt and briefs, and a huge grin.

He spreads his legs, props his hands on his hips, and declares, “Officer Eric Cox reporting for duty, ma’am! What’s this rookie’s lesson for today?”

I stifle another sigh.

Once upon a time, Eric’s talent for kissing was as bad as my Grandpa Walt’s practical jokes. It shocked me when we first started dating, because he’s a great-looking guy with loads of self-confidence, and, I assumed, plenty of experience with women. Apparently that experience did not include learning how to control a violently enthusiastic tongue while kissing. I swear the man would stick his tongue so far down my throat he could taste my lungs. When I complained about the problem to Kat, she suggested I take matters into my own hands and show him what I liked.

So I made up a game called “The Rookie Gets Shown the Ropes.” Far from being insulted, Eric took to our little game like a duck to water.

And now I have a monster on my hands.

I calmly fold my arms across my chest and lean against the fridge. “Well, Officer Cox, today’s lesson is a very important one. It’s called ‘How to Order Takeout When Your Girlfriend Has Worked a Twelve-Hour Day and Has a Migraine That Might Compel Her to Rearrange Certain Parts of Your Face with Her Fists.’”

He laughs uproariously. He thinks I’m joking.

“Babe, you’re so cute when you try to act like Grace! I love it! Do more!”

Grace is my other best friend. She’s a marriage and family counselor, whip smart, older than me and Kat by five years, and a bona fide badass. If Eric was her boyfriend and he’d demanded homemade lasagna within the first five seconds of walking in her door at the end of the day, he’d be missing a few important body parts right now.