Bob walked out of LAX to one of the waiting Town Cars, pulling his phone out of his pocket before he sat down inside.
The driver put up the privacy screen and pulled out into traffic. Bob dialed a familiar number.
“I’m leaving the airport. Be at my door,” he said, and hung up.
When he reached the floor of his apartment, she was there, wearing a trench coat and over-the-knee boots.
“Who do you think you are, hanging up on me?”
“You still came.” He switched his bag to his left hand and unlocked the door.
A little more from Book 3. Comments welcome.