Jill took in his appearance, and Colby’s own: bare feet, grey trousers, a tidy purple button-down, calmness about Jason if not the question about to be, well, in question. He knew what she’d be recalling; he knew about the last time he’d called her to come over when a man had been involved.
He said, “I’m fine, we’re fine, everything’s fantastic, would you like coffee? Or pistachio cake? Jason said I needed to eat more and we were both curious about that entry on the room service menu and now we have rather a lot of cake. We’ve also got cinnamon trail mix, apparently. It keeps turning up.”
Jason had ordered the cake after they’d got back. Had also ordered Colby—with affection—to lie down and accept a backrub and some bruise-soothing lotion and at least a partial dose of painkillers. Colby
