When he stepped into Rory’s house that evening, he was greeted with a kiss, a hug, and the smell of potatoes and beef roasting.
“Hmm, this is nice,” he said.
“Could you get used to this?”
“I think maybe I could.”
Rory lightly punched his shoulder. “Only think maybe?”
Bond smiled as he grabbed him in a bear hug, sealed with an open mouth kiss that he hoped could blow Rory’s kilt hose off…if he’d been wearing them. He was not. He was dressed in loose jersey sweats and a faded Delta Force sweatshirt.
Laughing, Rory pulled away with, “I yield.”
Bond was filling bowls with lettuce and other salad fixings when he told Rory his patient had confirmed he’d heard Weatherton and a woman arguing the weekend the surgeon had said he’d be in the valley.
“That’s worth checking out,” Rory said and
