A California king. Long, wide and offensively comfortable. He couldn’t remember the last time he had such a restful night’s sleep.
But his little slice of heaven was interrupted when he stretched out, absentmindedly sliding his hand underneath her pillow.
Something ice-cold brushed against his knuckles. A handgun. Small and grey.
He then heard the bathroom door unlock. His one-night stand was done freshening up.
Last night her horn-rimmed glasses screamed librarian, but this morning the gun under her pillow suggested something else entirely.
His pulse quickened.
Why was it there? And, more importantly, was she going to use it?
The Weekday One Hundred 