Just then, Ken chuckled at her from where he was sitting on their pristine amber-wood-paneled floor. “What’s funny?” she asked. “You’re plotting, Celia. I can tell.” “I’m not plotting; I’m planning.” He snickered to himself, the same screw sticking out of his mouth. “My nosy girl.” Cece grinned. She was nosy, and she was his girl. Both were true, for better or for worse.
