What She Forgot (What She 2)

“Explain.” I just said that one word. Nothing more.

“Well,” she said. She bit her lips together and stared ahead. “Never mind,” she said quickly, shaking her head.

“No,” I replied. “Enlighten me.”

“Men are sometimes simple. They like sex, food, and whatever their favorite pastime might be. If you give them those three things, and you’re really good at being what they need for you to be, they’ll do just about anything for you.” She heaved in a sigh.

“What’s that sigh for? It sounds like you’ve found the formula for making men happy.” It was true. She was right. We are typically simple creatures. Much simpler than women, with their emotions and hormones.

“I’ve never made a man truly happy. Not like Lynn and Mason. What they have is special.” She scrunched down in her seat and pulled her knee up to her chest, then leaned her head against the window.

“Do you want that?” I asked. Shelly was talking and I was listening.

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Love makes you weak.”

“No,” I said. I reached over and adjusted the ice bag where it had slid from her knuckles. “Loving the wrong person makes you weak. Love, in general, does not.”

“Wait,” Shelly said. “You’re not married, are you?” She looked at me with sudden contempt.

“No, I’m not,” I said. Well, not really. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe never. Who knew anymore? “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said quietly. “Let’s go for pizza. Carbs. Yum.” She smiled at me and a little piece of my heart melted a little.

I turned the car around and went in the other direction. If we were going for pizza, I knew the perfect place.

Chapter 12

Clark

“You really know how to treat a girl to a good time,” Shelly muttered as she sat next to me in the car. She had napkins spread over her lap and a drippy, greasy piece of pizza rested there on a paper plate.

“This is the best pizza in the city,” I said around a mouthful of goopy cheese and meat. “Quit being such a food snob.”

I’d taken her to my favorite food truck, which I followed with an app on my phone so I’d always know where to find them on any given day. The owner, Sheila, was a former client of mine. I’d helped her through a messy divorce with a cheating husband. Because of me and my ability to “surveil stuff” she’d gotten the food truck, the house, and the children in the divorce. Her cheating husband had gotten a black eye when he ran into my fist.

She was still grateful, and she still made the best pie in the city.

“I am not a food snob,” Shelly said. She picked up the pizza and folded it in half, then raised it to her lips and took a bite.

“What do you think?” I asked. “Of the pizza?”

“It’ll do,” she said, still chewing.

“It’ll do,” I repeated, stupefied. “This pizza is superb. Don’t talk bad about my favorite pizza place, woman,” I chided.

“What makes this pizza place so special?”

“It’s the best fucking pizza in the world.”

She snorted. “So it has nothing to do with the red-haired lady who was fawning all over you while you were ordering? I was standing right next to you, for God’s sake.”

“She wasn’t fawning. She was being nice.”

“She was being a nice woman who really really wants to fuck you, Clark. Are you that unaware? Seriously?” She took another bite of her pizza and then returned it to the plate in her lap. “I can’t enjoy pizza made by such a twat as that. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”