“Oh, please. Assistants get paid.” In answer, I reached down to a paper bag out of sight below the table and withdrew two paperback romances. Bob let out a squeaking sound, and his skull jounced and jittered on the blue-painted surface of the table that represented Lake Michigan. “Is that it, is that it?” he squeaked. “Yes,” I said. “They’re rated ‘Burning Hot’ by some kind of romance society.” “Lots of sex and kink!” Bob caroled. “Gimme!”
