The jangle of the phone ripped Denise out of sleep. Squinting at the clock, she groaned into her pillow. She couldn’t ignore it, not that it appeared ready to be ignored. Fumbling a bit for it in the dark, she put it to her ear. “Huh?” she grunted.

There was a long silence before his voice was there. “Denise?”

Blinking, she woke up quick. “Mack?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”

“Shit,” he muttered. The word was slightly slurred and took a long time to come out.

“Mack, you’re scaring me, what’s wrong?” Sitting up, she shoved her hair out of her face. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m, uh. Shit, I’m at your front door.”

Stunned, she froze with one leg out of the bed. She couldn’t have heard that right. “You’re where?”

“Outside your door,” he mumbled again.

Not sure if she believed him, she slipped from the bed, scooping up and slipping into her robe as she raced through her condo. Padding down the stairs, she dashed to the front door to stare at the security monitor next to the door. Son of a bitch, he was there.

“Why are you here?” She asked the question as she unlocked her door, disarming her alarm at the last second before tearing the door open. Gaping at him, she hung up the phone. “Jesus, Mack, get in here.” Grabbing his arm, she dragged him into her home.

He looked like he’d been run over by a truck. For a guy that rarely had a hair out of place in his expensive, stylish hairdo that looked like he’d just crawled out of bed, he was a wreck.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said. He was scraping his hands through his hair repeatedly.

“Hey,” she whispered. Laying a hand on his arm, she rubbed the tense muscles, then wrapped her hand around his wrist and pulled him to the sofa. “Sit down, Mack. Sit and I’ll get you a drink. Don’t you budge,” she ordered.

Once he had his ass on the cushions she went to the kitchen. Grabbing a glass, she dumped in some ice and then poured two fingers of the scotch she kept just for him. Since he didn’t visit all that often, it was still mostly full. A moment of consideration and she took the glass, and the bottle back into the living room.

“Here.” She passed over the glass before sitting down, two feet of space between them. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He shook his head, draining the glass fast enough Denise felt her own throat burning. “No, not right now,” he said.

She knew that tone. It was the one he used when he had a problem and was trying to work it out for himself.