Chapter Twelve
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes the next morning was Martin, but I had to blink once or twice to reassure myself that it was him.
While I’d slept — been comatose, to be more precise — he’d gotten rid of the perpetual black suit, black tie, and white shirt, and had changed into a dark gray sweater over a white T-shirt and a pair of faded Levi’s. He looked so different in this getup that I even shook my head, wondering if I was dreaming.
A good kind of dream this time. Who knew the man would look so good in a pair of jeans?
“Okay, where’s Martin Jones, and what have you done with him?”
He actually laughed, a real laugh with nothing forced about it. For the first time, I noticed he held a glazed stoneware mug in one hand. Wisps of steam curled up from it.
“I s
