Page 77 of Going Deep
“Who are you cursing at?”
He jerked around at the husky voice, panic rising when he saw Ginger. She was smiling sleepily, wrapped in his bathrobe, her hair still sticking up and a pillow crease on her cheek. She shuffled towards him, then slipped her arms around his waist and pressed a soft kiss to his bare chest with a little hum of delight.
His arms went around her waist. “Simon.”
She tilted her head back, blinking at him out of heavy eyes. “Why?”
“Because he was being an ass,” he answered truthfully.
“Oh. Okay,” she said, and laid her head back on his chest.
She was heavy against him, still half asleep, and he relaxed, grateful he’d followed his instincts and engaged his earpiece. If she’d heard more than his final curse, it didn’t seem to have triggered any suspicions. “I thought you’d sleep longer. I was going to bring you breakfast in bed.”
“That’s nice,” she mumbled.
“Why don’t you go climb back in?” he suggested. “I’ll bring it to you when it’s done.”
“’Kay,” she mumbled, and with a last, sleepy smile, shuffled back to the bedroom.
He watched her go, told himself firmly that the warm glow inside him was absolutely new relationship energy, then got out the bacon.
“I need wine,” Ginger declared and dropped into her chair. “Lots and lots of wine.”
Anna patted her hand and settled into the chair beside her. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“It was torture,” Ginger said and gazed desperately at the approaching server. “Can I have lots and lots of wine?”
“We’ll need a bottle with three glasses,” Lola told the server, and rattled off something in French.
“Is that white or red?” Ginger demanded when the server left.
“Do you care?”
“Not even a little bit.” Ginger snatched a breadstick from the bowl the server had left in the middle of the table. “Shopping is exhausting. I never want to do that again.”
“Shopping, or shopping for an interview outfit?” Anna wanted to know.
“Yes.”
“Relax,” Lola told her. “You’re going to look great.”
“I agree,” Anna chimed in. “The outfit’s a killer.”
“I know it is,” Ginger agreed, finishing the breadstick and choosing another. “And still, I can hear my mother’s voice telling me it’s unprofessional to wear pants to an interview.”
“Is she stuck in the eighties?”
“Let me put it this way. She would also demand I wear tan pantyhose.”
Anna wrinkled her nose. “Oh, no.”
“Trust me, the pants are great,” Lola said. “No pantyhose required.”
“Thank God. I hate those things.”
“So say we all.”
“Have you heard anything more about the job itself?” Anna wanted to know.
