A few days later, Jack was standing in front of the mirror, buttoning up a riding shirt. “Harriet Periwinkle has invited you over for brunch,” he said offhandedly, glancing at my reflection in the bed behind him.
“Harriet who?” I asked lazily, stifling a yawn. A look at my phone revealed that it had just gone past seven.
“You know her. Her husband owns the stables over by the lake. That’s where I’m heading to right now.” Jack paused, running a comb through his neatly-cut mousy-brown hair. “He has a delightful thoroughbred that I –”
“Spare me,” I muttered, receiving a sharp look. I sighed. “I have to supervise the plumber, remember?” Supervise his dík, that is.
“Speaking of which,” Jack said, glancing at the open door of the bathroom, “how long is this supposed to take? I’m tired of the
