He handed me his trousers and stood there in his socks and with his shirt tails barely coveringhis shorts. I barely noticed his shoulder holster and the gun it held.
If there was one thing I hated, it was ironing. That was why I made a point to do it quickly and competently to get it done fastest. Wills was pressed for time, but within ten minutes, his suit was ready.
“Okay, here you go.” I thrust the trousers at him, draped the jacket over a chair, and took amug from the cabinet over the sink.
He tucked his shirt into his trousers, zipped and buttoned his fly, and stepped back into his shoes.
I filled the mug and handed it to him. “Take those saltines with you. They should settle your stomach if it gets queasy.”
“Hey,” he said softly, and I waved away his thanks.
“I just don’t want you getting docked. I’m easy, but I’m not cheap.”
He swallowed his coffee wrong and started choking.
“Are you okay?” I pounded his back.