“What, right now?”

“Yeah, my secretary, Lois, is . . .” He huffed out a breath, ran his hands through his hair, not for the first time given that it was sticking up every which way. “She’s out of commission for a while. Maybe longer than a while. I need you to step in while the agency finds an appropriate replacement.”

“Okay.” Sarah pushed to her feet and stretched out the ache in her lower back as she plopped the blackened sponge in the bowl of soapy water and pulled off her yellow rubber gloves. “I’ll be ready in ten.”

“Ten? Where’s your purse, Timbuktu?”

Sarah could feel her eyes narrow. She was not in the mood for any of his bullshit. Had spent Sunday freaking out, cutting, dyeing and then redyeing her hair, trying to come up with a new look to keep her safe. Invisible. She hadn’t gotten into bed until after three in the morning, and even then sleep hadn’t come until the night sky started to lighten and the early birds had begun to sing. “Look . . .” It took everything she had to keep her tone civil. “I am willing to come to your office and bail you out in your time of need. But if you think I am going to show up in a professional capacity dressed like this . . . you are sorely mistaken.”

“You look fine.”

“Seriously?”

Mick stopped pacing, raked his gaze down the length of her. She forced herself not to squirm. Yes, she looked like something the cat dragged in. Big deal. His oven had needed cleaning. Besides, her brain worked better when her hands were busy, and she needed to figure out what to do next. A puzzled look crossed Mick’s face, as if he was only now noticing how grimy she was. His gaze rose to her face, continued upward. His eyes widened. “What the hell did you do to your hair?” He said it accusingly, as if her hair were part of his domain.

Sarah crossed her arms so she wouldn’t be tempted to strangle him and lifted her chin. So, perhaps the “midnight brown” hair color had turned hers black. Instead of the various subtle tones shown on the box, the dye had erased all nuance and left her hair looking like mud. Adding insult to injury, the bob cut she’d attempted looked nothing like supermodel Kaia Gerber’s hair. No. Sarah had been unable to cut the hair in an even line. Kept tweaking—aka hacking away—but it just made things worse. Worse and waaay shorter than she had planned. Finally, when her arms were literally shaking with fatigue, she’d laid her scissors down in defeat, crawled into bed, wrapped her arms around Charlie’s warm, furry body, and had a good cry.