“Do you have anything good-smelling in here?” he asks in a panicked whisper. “Something to stick your nose into? Lotion or a muffin or something? Or maybe—” He cuts off because I quickly maneuver the messenger bag away from his chest and unzip his puffy coat. I have no thoughts in my head other than B.O. bad. I’ve got one hand on the pole to steady me, but the rest of me is in the circle of Shep, my nose pressed against his sternum and his jacket mostly closing around me, blocking out the B.O. And blocking in Shep’s scent.
