Fiona heard me come in and stepped out of the bedroom. Our eyes met.
I didn't say a word. I pushed past her and walked straight into the bedroom.
Job was standing there, shirtless, wearing a pair of Fiona's pajama pants. They were too short and too tight on him. He was toweling off his hair, still damp from a shower he'd just taken.
In my master bathroom.
"Got your own husband thrown in a holding cell, then brought your assistant home. Fiona, you've really outdone yourself."
"Don't get the wrong idea. Job's clothes were dirty, and the hotel happened to be close to the house, so I brought him up to shower and change. That's all."
"You don't like other people touching your things, so I let him wear mine."
That matter-of-fact expression on her face, as if I were the one being unreasonable.
"You have germaphobia. Our clothes have to be washed separately. But now yours are on him. So the germaphobia only applies to me, is that it?"
Job kept up his sickening act. "Mr. Henson, please don't misunderstand. Director Prescott said she's giving me these pants. She won't be wearing them again."
"Did I ask you? My wife and I are talking. Stop butting in!"