she says, eyeing me critically. “Apologies. No. It wasn’t. And it isn’t. A problem, that is.” Except that my body’s on fire and my mind’s turned pornographic, picturing wet paint and bare skin and— “Great,” Bea says, wrenching me from my obscene thoughts. “Let’s talk about why we’re here. Because even after pounding a chocolate chip muffin the size of my head, I’m still pissed.” “I understand.”
