“The aroma of fried catfish would have enticed her if it hadn’t been mingled with the smell of someone cooking up the swamp—likely a turtle—in the adjacent building. She woke up late, on the floor and tangled in the top sheet. The image of a man choking on black coffee in the back of his van thundered like a tribal drum in her head. “I am seriously going to start taking sleeping pills,” she said to the water-stained ceiling. “The only good thing I saw all night was the damn dog.” “Wh...at damn dog?” Mitchell didn’t knock or apologize for his unannounced intrusion. He simply strolled in with a mochaccino latte for her, a black coffee for him and a pair of beignets that smelled like heaven compared to the swamp-stench still lurking in her memory. She regarded him from the floor. “Half-zipped jeans and no shoes or shirt isn’t dressed, Mitchell.” “Neither is a twisted sheet with nothing under it.”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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