The redhead pointed him to a chair at a sewing machine, then whisked back to the shop while he admired the departing view. She might be too high-end and too married for his taste, but that didn’t mean he was dead.
At the same instant a tall woman swooped in from the next room with her arms full of a gaudy mish-mash of fabric. Some of it looked like it had been graffitied all over, like girls used to do to their notebooks when he’d gone to high school. Now Lana stored all her school stuff in her tablet computer and he couldn’t even check the outsides of her notebooks for doodles of boys’ names.
She’d gone on dates; group dates, but even she called them dates. It had taken him a lot of careful prodding to discover that “hanging out” was a bunch of people and that a “date” meant little more
