Chapter Seven
Joey
It"s eight in the morning when I pull into the driveway and start unloading a trunkload of boxes and bags. As quietly as I can, I haul them inside and close the front door behind me.
I slept like crap last night. Not because of my lip—that"s a lot better, though it"s still slightly swollen. It"s my brain that never recovered from what almost happened yesterday with Holt in the bathroom. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the touch of Holt"s thumb on my lip, his hand squeezing my hip, his face dipping low, close to mine.
I suppress a curse when I stumble over a guitar someone left in the entry hall. In short, I"m a walking bundle of nerves, sleep deprivation, and s****l frustration, and I can"t wait to unleash some wrath.
It appears got back just in time—the coffee
