She whistles, long and low. “Is part of my job fetching you coffee? Because you clearly haven’t had enough this morning.” I drag a hand through my hair, irked by the idea of Winnie doing anything so personal as fixing my coffee. “You won’t be getting me coffee. Or picking up my dry cleaning.” Winnie eyes my worn jeans and motorcycle boots. “Good. Because I can’t imagine your dry-cleaning bill for the month. Must be enormous.”
