His head came up immediately, he looked at me and said, “Babe.”

I put my hands to my h*ps and told him, “You need to mark your CDs.”

His eyes went to my h*ps as his brows snapped together.

Then he looked back at me and asked, “Why?”

“Because if you don’t mark your CDs, they’l get al mixed up with mine,” I reached in and pul ed one out. It was Journey’s, “Evolution” (which, by the way, featured one of my favorite Journey songs, “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’” and I wondered, briefly, if I could fit that song in the next night’s set list and decided quickly to do so).

For your information, I had that same CD.

Everyone knew what that meant.

“Who cares?” Mace asked, interrupting my mental set list restructuring, lifted up the box and set it aside so he could see the tablet.

Obviously, he didn’t know what doubled CDs meant.

“I care,” I told him. “I have this same CD. How wil we know which one’s yours and which one’s mine?” Mace sat back and put the sole of his foot against the edge of my coffee table.

“Who cares which one’s yours and which one’s mine?” My eyes bugged out right before I said, “I care.”

“Why?”

“Because I do. Because it’s a CD. Because CDs are sacred.”

“It’s the same CD,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but I bought mine at Twist and Shout during my Journey phase and Twist and Shout is gone now. I was with my old band when I bought it. At my demand, we played

‘Wheel in the Sky’ like, every night. I loved everything Journey. Even their power bal ads. I hate power bal ads.

But Journey’s power bal ads kick… fucking… ass.

‘Faithful y’, ‘Open Arms’. Those bal ads rock.”

“So, if we find we’re doubled up on CDs, we’l sel mine on eBay.”

I made a choking noise then spluttered, “What?” Mace was watching me closely perhaps wondering if I needed an intervention.

Then he repeated, saying the words slowly this time,

“We’ve got any of the same CDs, we’l sel mine on eBay.” I threw my hands up in the air. “You can’t just sell your CDs on eBay, especial y if we’ve doubled up. If we’re doubled up then they serve a dual purpose. First, they’re backup CDs in case something goes wrong with one and second, they’re material evidence that we should be together because we like the same music. Everyone knows that!”

He shook his head, the expression on his face looking like he didn’t know whether to smile or to scowl.

Then he suggested, “If you want to mark the CDs, mark your CDs.”

I gasped then said, “I’m not marking my CDs. I don’t want marks on my CDs. The covers either.” I put in the last as an important afterthought.

He took in a deep breath and I could tel this was an effort at patience before he tried, “Then mark mine.”

“You mark yours.”

“Kitten, I don’t have time to mark my CDs and I don’t have any f**kin’ desire to fight with you about this.” Uh-oh.

Were we fighting?

Fighting didn’t factor in with my War against Mace’s Demons. In fact, fighting would be highly detrimental to my overal Strategy.

“We’re not fighting. We’re discussing,” I told him.

“Discussions between a man and a woman don’t include the woman putting her hands on her hips. The minute that happens, it’s a fight. And you started this with your hands on your hips,” Mace told me.

“I did not,” I snapped but I was worried that I did.

“You did,” he returned.

I glared at him. “Wel , I was putting your shit away. You could help.”

“Brody was briefing me on what he’s finding on my father. He’s coasting on the fumes of seventeen six packs of Red Bul and no sleep for forty-two hours. He’s doin’

deep hacks, al of them highly il egal and some of what he’s finding pretty f**kin’ useful. Sorry I couldn’t interrupt the brief to help you hang clothes.”

Oh dear.

This wasn’t going very wel .

I decided it was time I gave in before I left the Demon Skirmish any more bloodied and beaten.

Therefore I muttered, “Okay, whatever. I’l mark your CDs.”

I threw the Journey CD in, put my hands to the box but Mace was there too. He pul ed the box out of my hands, twisted to the side and dropped it on the floor.

I started to straighten on the word “Hey!” when he lifted in a squat, gripped me at the waist and yanked me to him. I grabbed onto his shoulders and hiked up my heels so the fronts of my calves wouldn’t slam into the coffee table. He had me on my back on the couch, him on top of me, before I could say a word.

His face in my face, he said, “Kitten, you gotta know, that coffee cake didn’t smel so f**kin’ good and I didn’t enjoy watchin’ you wander the apartment, puttin’ away my shit while you’re wearin’ those cutoffs I like so goddamned much, you’d be a pain in the f**kin’ ass.” Okay, so his tel ing me he watched me walking around the apartment meant that maybe I was wrong about losing the skirmish. Maybe I won and didn’t even realize it.

I didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t give anything away, so I said, “I’m so sure.”

“Leave the CDs in the box,” he ordered. “Once this shit is done, I’ve decided you’re movin’ to my place.” My eyes grew round, I forgot about skirmishes and wars and demons and I breathed, “Am not.”

“Yep, you are. I like your space but it’s too f**kin’ girlie and there isn’t enough room. I got a yard for Juno. I got a dining room table so we don’t have to eat standing up in the kitchen. We’l move your bed, get rid of your other shit and you can mark the CDs al in one go.”

Get rid of “my other shit”?

I did not think so!

I crossed my arms on my chest. This took some effort since I had to shove them between our bodies but I did it.

“You seem to have everything figured out.” He grinned, completely ignoring the arm crossing move (which said “fight” far, far more than hands at your hips) and said, “Damn straight.”

“Your house is modern,” I told him.

“Yeah. And?”

“I don’t mean to sound funny but modern’s not my gig.” And it wasn’t.