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It was two in the afternoon and Fix was making grilled cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. I’d fired an M4 assault rifle just a couple of hours ago, and there was a hitman trussed up in the clawfoot bathtub two rooms away. All in all, it was a perfectly normal Saturday.
My hair had grown long enough to tie back over the past few weeks. I undid it, releasing it from the small ponytail I could now manage, shaking it out, sighing with relief. “You’ll feel even better if you take your bra off, too,” Fix rumbled. “And if you’re planning on taking that off, I don’t see why you shouldn’t just take everything else off, too.”
“Some people might say that using an eighty-nine-year-old as a human shield to protect yourself from the man you love might be a little unnecessary,” he observed.
