The 6'2'', 200 Lb. Challenge

He probably would be reduced to crawling.

The food just smelled too darned good, looked too darned tempting.

And a man could take only so many nights of delivered pizza.

“Fine, suit yourself, leave it there on the coffee table,” he conceded sharply. “Makes no difference to me.”

“I’m leaving now,” she said, having the good sense not to dwell on her victory. “Don’t you think I did a good job on the house?”

He opened his mouth to tell her not to press her luck. But he looked around the living room and through the dining room to the door of the kitchen. The house was immaculate—the hardwood floors gleaming, the dining room table cleared, the stacks of newspapers neatly tied with twine in the recycling bins.

She had worked a miracle in two hours with nothing more than a bottle of scrubbing bubbles, some dishwashing detergent, and a lot of muscle.

Her hair had pulled loose from its chignon in damp tendrils. Her face was rosebud pink and moist with sweat. But she hadn’t lost a bit of the perkiness that made her both a wonder and an annoyance.

Her smile was still enough to make a man believe in angels.

“Yeah,” he said gruffly. “Yeah, I guess the house looks pretty good.”

“You could say thank you.”

“I could.”

Silence.

He wasn’t going to give that extra inch.

She sighed.

“I have to go to work now, but I’ll stop in and check on you later tonight.”

“Don’t bother. I won’t...”

“You won’t what? You won’t be here? You’ll be out dancing? Out playing a few rounds of golf? Out getting a five-mile run in? Forget it, Gibson, you’ll be here. And I’ll check on you.”

“I might be asleep,” he pointed out.

“That’s okay. You won’t have to get the door and I promise to be quiet. I picked out one of your house keys from the odds-and-ends drawer in the kitchen.”

He glared murderously, but said nothing. It was like the chief said. When Mimi Pickford wanted something...well, he comforted himself with the notion that he, Gibson St. James, might be the first thing in her life that didn’t roll over and play dead to her cheerleader-like enthusiasm.

Still, the tray was very distracting.

“Gibson, it’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

Silence.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, reaching out to touch his cheek.

He felt a stirring, and then blamed his reaction on having been without a woman for so long. Too long. He wondered if he was down so low that he would call one of the women from his past. He had had a few. And although he had always been the one to leave, he’d made sure never to leave a woman angry.

He could make a few calls.

Just for the company.

No, not yet.

He was not that low yet.

“It’s been a delight, Mimi, but really, you don’t have to come back.”

“Tomorrow I really need to give you a shave,” she said, ignoring him. “And a shower. And we’ve gotta change your clothes.”

He muttered an obscenity, one he ordinarily wouldn’t say in front of a woman, one that was common around the firehouse and more politely translated in this particular context to “No, you won’t give me a shave. Or a shower. Or change my clothes, thank you very much.”

“Now, Gibson, that is no way to talk in front of me,” Mimi scolded. “If my grandmother knew what kind of language I was being exposed to, I’m sure she’d be on the phone with the chief in an instant. And we wouldn’t want that, would we, Gibson?”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “But I can do all that stuff myself. I just don’t want to.”

“You can’t get out of this chair without help because your leg is broken,” she corrected. “You can’t put on and take off a shirt because you can’t raise your arms over your head. And you can’t shave because you’re right-handed and your right hand is still in a cast.”

“I don’t need you.”

“I know that, Gibson,” she said, rising to her feet, taking the scent of vanilla and talcum powder with her. “I know you don’t need me. Don’t need me at all. You’re a strong man and I don’t doubt you can get along just dandy without me. It just requires a significant lowering of your household and personal hygiene standards.”

“I’m prepared to lower them,” he growled. “Now why don’t you just butt out?”

“Because I need you. I’m selfish. And that’s why I’ll be back. Goodbye, Gibson.”

She locked the door behind her and Gibson was alone. Very alone. He reached for the remote. Turned on a game show and was instantly irritated by the screeching of winners and the forehead-smacking of losers. Switched to a talk show where perfectly ordinary people were confessing to perfectly extraordinary predilections in front of an audience of total strangers. He turned off the television in disgust. Funny, he hadn’t minded those shows before.

He tried very hard to ignore the tray of food set before him.

But he’d always had a weakness for good home cooking. American-style cooking. Simple food. Regular people food. And this was man-sized portions of what he liked.

How did she know his favorites?

If he didn’t let her back in the house, she’d never know he ate. He’d have to call Stan at the pizza joint and tell him he didn’t need dinner for tonight.

He wondered if he could get somebody to come out this late to change the locks on the doors, but decided he didn’t want anyone else to see how far he had fallen.

But he didn’t worry.

He didn’t fret.

Didn’t consider himself beat by the five-foot-four dynamo.

He was a resourceful man.