3
A month later, Mike was no wiser as Violetta oozed out of his bed and into the shower.
He kept a room off the back of his office: king-size bed, a luxury bath in one corner, and in the other a small but well-appointed kitchen from which he could produce an espresso, a BLT, or Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon with equal ease. He’d learned to cook at his mom’s knee and had discovered that helping Sister Mary Pat in the orphanage’s kitchen kept him clear of much of the bullying that ran rampant down the halls. For a couple years he’d dated mostly chefs just to spend time in their kitchens. Well, not only that.
He should get up and join Violetta in the shower. He could see her watching him without watching him through the glass partition and decided that today he’d simply enjoy the view. H
