The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson, #12)

by Darynda Jones

“Charles,” he said in warning, his voice deep and sleepy and edged to a razor-sharp sheen. I may have ovulated, but only a little. I was a married woman, damn it.

Since I’d had enough coffee over the last twenty-four hours to see noise, I chose the shower first.

“Are you sure these are children’s books?” Cookie asked after a while. “I was just wondering the same thing.”

Apparently, “Just fuck me up” is not an appropriate coffee order at Starbucks. —MEME

“Reyes,” I said, “is there anything you want to say to Garrett?” Reyes lifted a shoulder. “Sorry I killed you. Repeatedly.”