16
It was two-thirty in the afternoon when I pulled up to Roger’s house, still driving a rental car. Nope—eastern time zone again. Make that three-thirty. A car I didn’t recognize was parked out front. Knock or doorbell, I wondered, my feet scuffing across the brick drive. But I’d forgotten that Roger has a magical door. It swung inward just as I stepped on the front mat.
“Roger—” I began. But it wasn’t Roger. It was a woman. An unmistakably womanly woman. I stood, dumbfounded, staring at the generous breasts that occupied the space where Roger’s chest should be. It didn’t help that they were just about at my eye level.
“Ms. Brennan, please come in,” she said, and my gaze was finally drawn up to her face. She wore subtle makeup, and her light brown hair framed her face with a simple pix
