“Sunshine –”

“What about me?” I asked, taking my hands from around his neck and planting them on my h*ps while I pul ed my head away from his.

Hank grinned.

I forgot how great his grin was (wel , not real y, but you know what I mean).

“Let’s go home and I’l convince you,” he suggested.

Good grief.

I had a feeling he could do that.

Stubborn to the last I replied, “We’l go to your place, get my stuff and go to Tex’s.”

Hank shook his head.

“Tex won’t let you move in with him. We’ve talked, he agrees,” Hank told me.

“Then I’l move in with Indy and Lee for awhile.” Hank responded immediately. “Lee won’t let you.” I knew that was true.

“Al y –” I started.

“She loses her Christmas present, she lets you move in with her.”

“You give good Christmas presents?” I asked, curious for more than one reason.

“Concert tickets. Every year.”

Damn.

Al y was out.

“Daisy.” I tried.

His body started shaking with laughter but this time he didn’t bother to answer.

I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Hank Nightingale…”

He pushed me back into the books, his mouth came to mine and he said softly, “Roxie, move in with me.” Good God.

My heart squeezed and my stomach melted.

I guessed he wasn’t going to back out.

I thought about it (wel , not real y, but I pretended to think about it).

Then I sighed.

“Oh, al right,” I said.

He kissed me again.

So, it wasn’t the conversation to end al conversations.

Whatever.

* * * * *

We went back to the front of the store.

I decided to get it over with immediately.

“I’m moving in with Hank,” I announced.

There was general merriment and a good deal of ribbing, mostly at my expense.

I scowled at everyone and nabbed my latte.

“One for the road?” Uncle Tex asked, correctly assuming we weren’t going to hang around.

“Yeah,” Hank said, wrapping an arm around my neck.

Uncle Tex started to make Hank a coffee and I stood, plastered against Hank’s side and felt the ugly scar on that secret, private place inside me that had been ripped apart and then mended. Wel … it just disappeared.

Gone.

“A month,” Duke said, interrupting my thoughts. Duke’s arms were crossed on his big chest, his gravel y voice sounded almost (but not quite) happy. “A month of pure bliss. No bul ets flying. No kidnappings. No dead bodies.

No cars explodin’. No cat fights in Chinese restaurants. No shoot-outs at the Society Party OK Corral. No visits to the hospital. Absolute, f**kin’ bliss.”

He barely finished his last word when we heard a squeal of tires.

Everyone’s gaze swung to look out the big plate glass window.

We saw a shiny, cherry-condition, red Camaro, circa 1983, braking, its tail flipping so that it was facing the wrong way on Broadway and it shuddered to a halt.

No sooner had it stopped then the driver’s side door was thrown open and a woman got out.

She had gleaming, thick, black hair, pul ed back in a long ponytail. She was wearing a skintight black turtleneck, mushroom-colored cords and a kickass black belt.

She was stunning.

She walked to the front of the Camaro, her hand going to the back waistband of her cords and she whipped out a gun.

Hank tensed at my side and the room went utterly stil except for a wicked undercurrent of energy.

She pul ed the gun up in front of her and held it like Hank, natural, casual, in two hands, arms cocked, head slightly to the side.

The traffic was stopped at the red light on Broadway.

She advanced, like a woman without a care in the world, down the middle of the wide, normal y busy street toward a man who had alighted from a different car.

He too, had a gun pointed at her.

She halted.

They faced off.

“Jules!” he shouted.

At the cal of what was likely her name, her arms moved slightly, to the left and down. Without apparently aiming, she fired, twice.

And she took out the two front tires of his car.

“Holy crap,” Indy breathed.

“Righteous,” Al y whispered.

“Fuckin’ Jules!” the man yel ed and started running toward her.

She whipped around, ponytail flying, and ran back to her car, throwing the gun into the passenger seat. She got in and started reversing on a smoky squeal of tires, leaving the man in her dust.

Al our heads fol owed her as the car twisted viciously around to face the right way again and she took off like a rocket.

The man with the gun turned toward Fortnum’s and started running and kept going, right passed Fortnum’s down the side street.

“Stay here,” Hank said to me, his hand was in his back pocket, pul ing out his phone. Then he moved to the door.

The place was a flurry of activity.

The Hot Boy Brigade was on the move. Out of Fortnum’s they went, disbursing with barely a word to each other, instinctively knowing what they were doing.

I noticed it was Vance, on his Harley, who shot off in the direction of “Jules”.

Indy turned to me and said on a grin, “Welcome home.”