11
Holt didn’t make it home for bath or bedtime. It was nearing nine by the time he finally rolled up to the house. But the cake was finished, and it was damned fine work, if he did say so himself. He liked the challenge and precision of design. It gave him another use for the steady hands he’d so often turned to diffusing explosives.
He found Cayla on the sofa in the living room, a mostly empty glass of wine at her elbow and her e-reader in hand. Her bare toes had been painted a bright poppy red. Something about the sight of them made him smile. Maybe because the fact that she’d had time to do them meant the evening had gone smoothly. Her honey blonde hair was loose around her shoulders, and she seemed to be wearing—was that one of his button-down shirts?—with a pair of sleep shorts. Sh
