“You’re a little frisky tonight. Frisky Fitz. Why is that? Does reading about World War II generals get you hard?” “What makes you think I’m hard?” I set down my soup spoon and shrug off my shirt. “Jesus. What are you . . .” He picks up his phone and heads up the stairs. “Will could have been on the sofa. Or young children could have been watching.” I giggle, returning to my chili in my soft pink bra and black pants. “Whose children?” “Sometimes I mentor young firefighters.” “Liar.”
