“I won’t ask you why you got home so late,” she said as she padded across the thick den carpet on bare feet. He swept the newspaper onto the floor just as she was climbing onto his lap.
“My pink panties were in the wash,” she whispered in his ear.
“That’s too bad,” he whispered back.
Her tanned legs hung over the edge of the chair, her arm around his neck. He slipped his hand inside his old letterman’s jacket and she stirred slightly, settling in all warm and soft and then suddenly she sat up and looked at him.
“Is that a chunk of pumpkin pulp in your hair?”
She plucked a clump of orange goo from his head and held in the palm of her hand. He took it and tossed it onto the discarded newspaper at his feet.
“Travis McGee is too busy righting wrongs to be worried about little things like
