“Patsy, you’re a saint for not poisoning him.” “Aw, he’s a good man underneath all that gruffness.” Patsy eyes me. “Although I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to knock some sense into that thick skull of his sometimes.” I shrug. “I’ve been knocked around plenty. Three concussions. Three that were diagnosed, anyway.” “Really?” Mollie scrunches her brow. “Occupational hazard?” Patsy laughs. “Two of them were. The third he got when he fell on a dance floor, trying to do the Cotton Eye Joe.” Mollie blinks. “You dance?” “Used to, until the concussion.”
