CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I hate banquets. I hate any occasion that requires wearing a dress. Lately, when I go to court, I’ve been getting by with pantsuits, depending on whether the judge is able to handle such a radical concept. I’d managed to scrape up a decent form-fitting navy knit number that ended a few inches above the knee.
I checked myself in the mirror, adjusted one leg of my tights and swore. “We should be having fun, not going to some stuffy-ass banquet,” I muttered.
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