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to Greentown.
    It’s one street lined with Greek restaurants and bakeries. It looks pretty much the same as it has for years, except there’s a casino there now. Courtesy of Dennis Archer, Former Mayor Extraordinaire.
    I don’t think the muscle men that guard the polished chrome and glass doors of the casino are Greek or even care about being Greek. They’re there to look threatening and make the people who feed the slot machines feel either—one, safe or, two, daring and fearless for venturing to the wild and dangerous streets of downtown Detroit.
    I glance over at Clifford and admire the great way his cheekbones are sculpted. Because he doesn’t appear to notice me staring at him, I let my gaze linger.
    Hmmmmm. Nice.
    The last guy I went out with, Timothy, was small and brittle looking. Artistic. Sensitive and thoughtful. The kind of guy who can watch endless episodes of Portlandia without laughing.
    This wedge of beef doesn’t have a delicate inch on him. And there are a lot of inches. Hard, thick, unyielding inches.
    “You play football, right?”
    His square chin bobs up and down as he scans the street for a place to park. “Ever since sixth grade.”
    “You like it a lot?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Nick never did say why I wasn’t supposed to ask The Dog what position he played. “What position are you?”
    “This year?”
    Hoping to encourage him to put together more than four words, I nod and work to make my face as non-threatening as possible.
    “This year I’m tight-end. It’s a good position for me.”
    That doesn’t tell me much since I know nothing about football. Luckily, by this time we’re walking down the street and the need for conversation is diminished. After we stroll along the sidewalk for about two blocks, Clifford taps my shoulder and jerks his head toward one of the restaurant doors. “Okay?”
    Because I haven’t thought of anything dazzling to say to liven him up and get him talking, I nod.
    Inside, three Greek men linger by the register. The oldest is stretched across the counter, the other two are standing side-by-side with their arms folded. The youngest is clutching a handful of plastic-coated menus.
    The one holding the menus leads us to a table. As I slip into a chair, I spot Clifford staring at me. His face is pinched.
    “Could you stand up a minute?”
    After I rise, he places those big hands on the edges of the table and while he’s still sitting down, lifts it straight up off the floor and sets it about a foot away from himself. Then he scoots his chair away from the wall and settles himself as well as he can.
    Well! I’ve never been out with a guy who was too big to fit into a typical restaurant space.
    “Does that happen often?” I ask, feeling very waiflike as I slide daintily into my chair.
    “I guess so. After a while you get used to it.”
    When my face pales, he actually seems to notice. “Um, guys get used to it, I mean. Not you.” He looks me over and leaves a trail of heat in the wake of his gaze. “You look great.”
     

Chapter Nine
    Good Girls Go for It Too
     
     
     
    After dinner, we climb back into his car, he starts the engine up and off we go.
    As his car hums along the street, I realize I don’t know where we’re going. Since we’re heading north, away from my apartment, he isn’t taking me home.
    He’s taking me to his place?
    Sure, I could ask. But I don’t.
    By this time, I’ve figured out that the way to enjoy this big red dog is to sit back and admire the view. He made it plain that he likes what he sees when he looks at me, so hey, I’m just letting him know I feel the same.
    He pulls into the huge parking lot of the Eight Mile Roller Rink. The neon sign blinks at me, mocking me and my dress.
    “You like to skate?” he asks, parking his car.
    Is he serious?
    If he were a witty type, I’d assume he was joking and I’d laugh.
    “It’s what I had planned. Wednesday’s the best night.”
    Has he not seen what I’m wearing?
    “I