“He’ll be happy you’re back,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Definitely. I spoke to him a few weeks ago, the day the flowers first showed up. He’s not fond of your replacement.”
“Probably because my replacement won’t open mayonnaise jars, reset the microwave clock after a power failure, or look for Mr. Booty Boots.”
“Another elderly tenant?”
“See. That’s number nineteen, you’re corny joke grin. And no, Mr. Booty Boots is Marilyn’s cat.”
“People adore you.”
“They might not, if they know.”
I took Z’s hand. “I still do. Let’s go tell him. Shoot.” This time, my phone interrupted our kiss, our reunion kiss. “My boss.” I was hoping to get in as many kisses as happy faces, maybe the sad ones, too. “Yes?”
Frasier wondered where I was.
“The sad faces were chalk,” I told him. “I’m sure they’re gone.”
“
