Rudi set Fluke on the floor. “I thought they loved your work,” he said, touching her shoulder. Prickly vines unfurled behind her eyes. Another flash of migraine. His cologne rose like a fence corralling everything in—the passing of his sage-colored dress shirt, fingers through golden hair, chinos swishing socked feet—a collage of a man, arms through a summer jacket, leather shoes cutting across the kitchen, and then a slow, slow face pressing warm lips onto her cool forehead.
