I watched him get out of the truck and look at the stranger smoking on his back porch. The look of horror on his face was priceless. I'd told him about the editor, but I hadn't described her to him. And he'd been gone to the rehab clinic for fifteen hours a day for most of the previous two weeks, so he'd never seen her.
The look on his face as he walked toward her, then past her with mumbled greetings met by a curt nod of Marisa's head, had me chuckling as he opened the door and entered the kitchen.
"Is that . . .?" he sputtered.
"Yep," I beamed. "What d'ya think of her?"
He turned his head and looked, then turned back to me.
"You're kidding me, right? She's gonna help you get this book thing taken care of?"
"She's the one."
"She any good?"
The look on his face told me he wouldn't
