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she patted her lap for the tomcat, Pascal.
She lifted her chin. “My name is Ren Gylden.” “Gesundheit,” he quipped.
Ren imagined drawing a portrait of him and knew she wouldn’t be able to get the straight line of his nose right,
one when Ren would know for certain that her life was truly beginning.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she thought,
Ren lasted all of ten seconds before it burst out of her: “It’s so beautiful!” Fitz followed her attention to the entrance, his gaze sweeping, unimpressed, across the sight before them, then coming back to her. “It’s a Holiday Inn.” She exhaled, awed. “Even the name sounds magical.”
He laughed and sat back. “Nope. I don’t do backstory.”
A sign out front read THE SCREAMING EAGLE SALOON, and rows of motorcycles filled the dusty parking lot. “Bet they’ve got great barbecue, don’t you think?”
“Duct tape, a pocketknife, and a cast-iron frying pan.”
