“Yeah, I have a feeling, too, man.” He looked over at the roses he’d impulsively bought from the seller at an intersection on Hawthorne. Only in Los Angeles, he’d mused after the purchase, could one buy anything from fruit to nuts, to flowers to bean pies without leaving their car. He entered the gate, turned onto his block, and the song died on his lips. Eden’s car was gone. It had been on his mind all day: coming home and having Eden there waiting for him, still wearing his oversize tee, perhaps the smell of something healthy yet delicious wafting from the kitchen. Eden had looked good in his home. It had felt right falling asleep with her last night and waking up pressed against her lusciousness. He turned into his drive and, with motor running, dialed her cell. She picked up. “It had better be good.” “What?” Eden asked, already knowing the answer. “The reason you’re not at my house, woman!” Jansen’s tone softened. “Knowing I’d find you here is what got me through the day.”
