Eight
The next morning, Carey woke feeling like he’d been hit by a train.
Too much alcohol, too much emotion.
And a kiss that’d knocked his socks off.
He wallowed on the bed, trying not to think about it, but the memory of Jase, the heat of his body so close, his lips on his…
Carey groaned.
Why had he pushed it? They’d gotten carried away on the dance floor, sure, but by storming off like that, by letting his confusion and jealousy get the better of him, he’d almost lit the match that could’ve ended up destroying the most important relationship of his life.
Slamming his pillow down over his face, he groaned again. If he’d just let the dance run its course, like Layla had—“Whew, that man can move! I think I came a little bit out there.”—they could’ve chalked it up to an alcohol buzz,
