“What’s next?” Harry didn’t know the last time he’d felt so jazzed. Each of the fifty-pound sacks individually had almost done him in, yet now that they were unloaded and stacked in neat piles, he couldn’t wait to do more.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“I must have,” he collapsed back into the armchair and knocked back most of a cold bottle of water that felt so clear and good going down. Water never tasted like that in New Orleans. A cold bottle of water there was bitingly cold in contrast to the thick heat—more likely to give you stomach cramps than soothe a thirsty soul. And as soon as it was out of the refrigerator, it grew thick with condensation that then dripped onto silk ties and Ike Behar suits.
“You are going to be so sore tomorrow.”
He flexed and knew she was right, but it didn’t
