to Tyrone was, “I don’t own a miniskirt.”
He just shook his head. “Me and some of the girls are taking you shopping the minute we get back to LA. Jeans, then. You got any tight ones?”
Actually, she did. When she was sitting on a camera boom, she couldn’t afford to catch her clothing on the lift or wiring. While she rooted around in a drawer for a pair of clean jeggings, Tyrone rooted around in her closet. She pulled on her pants, and he held out a pair of slouchy ankle boots to her.
“We’re getting you some proper heels when we get back to L.A., too,” Tyrone announced as she stomped into the soft leather boots. He looped a narrow, sparkly scarf casually around her neck and stepped back to survey his work. “Mmm-hmm, now we’re talkin’,” he declared, wagging his chin and wearing a bitch, please face.
“Okay, Marilyn. Go have yourself the mother of all hot flings.”
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