Chapter 12
Tom was busy at the stove frying up chicken for dinner when someone rang his doorbell. “Now, who can that be, I wonder?” he asked himself, grinning.
Of course he knew who it was at the door. He and Jack had been seeing each other for about six months now—six of the happiest months of his life, once he’d managed to get his head out of his butt.
Still, he made a production of turning down the flame under the frying pan and wiping his hands on a dish towel before he strolled to the door. He moved aside the curtain that covered the window in the door and peered out. Then he opened the door.
“As I live an’ breathe!” he declared, thickening his Georgia accent. “If it ain’t Jack Jackson, an’ in the flesh! What can I do for you, Mister Jackson?”
The smile that warmed Jack’s blue ey
