Page 68 of The Fixer

“Six, seven years ago? I was maybe twenty? Twenty-one?”

The curl to her lips grew wicked. “How long did it take to get all that oil off your body?”

He barked a laugh. “It felt like months, but it was gone after a few showers.” That had worked in his favor too since the object of his lust at the time had helped him soap it off.

“Was the hair real?”

“Yeah. I kept it at that length until a month or so ago.”

With a tilt to her head, she wore a look of genuine curiosity. “Did you cut it to keep it from getting stuck in machinery? I wondered the same thing about your rings and bracelets.”

Huh. She’d actually devoted brain cells to those irrelevant questions? “No. I take my jewelry off when I’m working with table saws and the like, and I always used to tie my hair back. But I decided to cut it off because …” Oh, this was going to sound stupid as hell. Why was he evenconsideringtelling her?

She canted her head to the other side and lifted a brow, signaling she was waiting for his answer.

“I’m starting to work with some high-rollers, and I want to be taken seriously.” He swiped at the back of his neck, feeling more exposed than before.

Instead of laughing at him as he’d expected, she pursed her lips. “I deal with bigwigs every day. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

“Uh, thanks.” Had they actually just exchanged dialogue that didn’t carry even a hint of snark in it? Progress.

The smirk had disappeared from Joy’s face, but the raised eyebrows were in play. “I guess this makes us even? I mean, that book cover and Lacey’s notebooks.”

“I don’t know. One of us still hasn’t confessed to having an alter ego.”

She raised a hand, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and sighed. “My pen name is Lacey Dewinter. I write steamy contemporary romance, and I have self-published four books. None of them will make me famous. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

“I can go along with that, but I have a question of my own.”

Her posture had eased, her arms loosely folded across her chest, but now they tightened as if she was bracing herself for war. One hip jutted out. “And that would be?” Her tone dripped with suspicion.

“The other night, at the bar”—he pointed at the journals—“you were writing, and I caught a glimpse of some words that seemed … kinda racy.”

“Define ‘racy.’”

“Engorged?” He waggled his eyebrows at her, quite pleased with himself when she visibly squirmed.

“Balloons can be engorged with water.”

“Nice try. Seriously, were you writing a scene? And don’t you find that distracting to do in the middle of a noisy bar?”

She seemed to shake off whatever embarrassment she might have felt. “Iwaswriting a scene, and to tell the truth, the noise helps me focus. Left to its own devices, my brain wanders and gets itself lost. Frequently. Also, I’m inspired in places like the tavern because for every face you see, there’s a story behind it. A story waiting to be told.” As the last bit unfolded, her speech became more impassioned, her eyes danced with excitement, and her entire body seemed to relax. Obviously, this was her jam, and it transformed her into someone almost … likable. The intrigue that had tugged at him before skyrocketed. Had he just found a key to unlock part of Joy Holiday’s vault? He had little time to contemplate it.

“Yo! Where is everybody?” Cully burst into the room. His stoned-out eyes went to Charlie first, moved to Joy, skittered over the book in her hand, and finally landed on the stack of journals. “Hey, what are we up to, boys and girls?”

Charlie glanced at Joy, who stood as straight as a flagpole, and whose eyes were as big as round electrical blanks. The book had disappeared behind her back.Yeah, that’s not obvious at all.Of course, with as stoned as Cully appeared, these finer details would soon be MIA in his baked brain.

“We were talking books. Cully, let’s let Joy get back to what she was doing. I’ve got stuff to go over with you.”

“Yeah, sure.” He swiped at his runny nose.

Great. What else was the idiot high on?

Charlie walked him out to the backyard. If there was going to be a scene, he didn’t want it happening in front of the shop, where tourists milled about.

“You done being sick? You’re sniffling like you have a cold.”

“Yeah, I’m good.” He sniffed again. “What did you want to tell me?”

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