8
“Hey, Smurfette.” Luke grins and locks the door behind him. My skin under the three layers of foundation is raw and screaming at me about the abuse from alcohol prep pads, lemon, and olive oil. The ink is stubborn. Most of it washed out of my hair. The brown is again brown but the blond stripe courtesy of a wine-infused Gretchen playing beautician is now a weird greenish color. First-world problem.
“Gretchen came by for lunch. Said you had a rough day.” He hands me a small paper bag. Inside, fresh oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies. I shove my face into the opening and inhale.
“Mmm, these will make it all better.” I open his car door for him.
“Why, Miss Dandy, chivalry is not dead.”
“Actually, this handle—it jams. But, Sir Luke, I would’ve opened the door for you regardless. I’m a well-
