Handing out cheeseburgers and change is not an especially taxing job, and work for Henry the next day just kind of slides by. His usual distractions—the occasional sexy Air Canada pilot, the occasional sexy Cathay Pacific 747—barely blip on his radar. He can’t hardly think about anything but the wad of underwear at the bottom of his backpack, can’t hardly see around the specter of the bulldog in his mind’s eye. No matter what he’s looking at, what he sees are the gray-blue eyes that undressed him; the electrifying arch of the heavy caterpillar brow that made him feel as though he’d been flung to the floor and f****d in center of the food court. He remembers his chiseled cheeks, his square chin, the way they advertised a thick blue five o’clock shadow, even freshly-razored. Hell, how could
