Lorenzo seemed to find this amusing and said something about over-indulgent once a year being fine by him as he followed me upstairs to let in a guest who’d buzzed. At the door, Baron Odom, a producer my brother worked with a lot, walked in. He looked plain in jeans, a white shirt, and sneakers.

OK, he didn’t look plain. In his white velour, golf shirt, pressed-but-not-creased jeans, scuff-less bright white sneakers, and fresh cut, he looked so damn clean. So damn clean. He even smelled clean. And he looked strong. Even his forearms, perfect honey skin interrupted only by his platinum, diamond-studded watch, were thick and strong and sexy.

I was salivating. OK, mentally salivating.

But I kept it in check. Baron was a little bigger than life. Literally. He was a tall, broad, fellow packed with muscle. He was handsome as hell, but not at all my type. He looked like a thug, and I’m not interested in thugs. Typically. True enough, I wouldn’t mind a physical match or two with him, but I knew this type of guy and there was nothing to suggest we might be anything close to compatible.

The men I dated tended toward cerebral. I met a fellow who struck up a conversation with me in the Western Civilization section of the book store. Another while ordering coffee at the shop around the corner from the job. They were in professional jobs like mine. Middle managers, Technology specialists. They wore khakis and button downs and carried PDAs that were actually for business and not downloading forwarded porn. Or at least the primary purpose was not downloading forwarded porn.

But I digress. I’d certainly spend a special moment alone or two thinking about him, but I knew better than even trying to get close to that.

I nodded a greeting. He nodded back even though his eyes seemed to follow me.