Eight
Boomer Edison’s office was so awash with paper and technology, Dani almost couldn’t find him. She found a shock of orange hair moving in the mass and used it to home in on where he’d hunkered down, typing at two of three computers. A third whirred with the effort of making a printer spew pages in a continuous feed. Except for bifocals perched on the tip of his nose that gave him a vaguely mad scientist air, he looked like a football player who’d taken a wrong turn on his way to the field. His tee shirt even sported a number: infinity.
He didn’t fit into Dani’s notion of a computer whiz. But then, she no longer fit anyone’s idea of a romance writer. Meat’s Mama had played fairy biker “motha,” but instead of taffeta and glass slippers, Dani now sported black Army boots, shiny black l
