Ronnie arrives a bit later, and I take her to the bathroom and motion toward the counter. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” I admit. Ronnie’s eyes widen as she takes in the bottles of hair dye, brushes, combs, and bowls. “What’s going on?” Her head swivels to me. “Are you having a midlife crisis, Archer?” “What!?” “Because really, if you are, I think a motorcycle would suit you a lot better than this.” Running a hand down my face, I barely suppress a laugh. “It’s not for me. It’s for Indy.”
