“No, I’m not done. For your information, I’m not moving out. We have a signed agreement that I’m staying here for another three weeks, so I’m fucking staying here for another three weeks. And I’m taking your dog with me when I leave because she deserves better. Jessica. Go to bed. Good girl. Who’s a good girl? Yes, Jessica’s a good girl. Good Jessica.”
The dog lumbers into my room, and I shut the door again.
But it’s not enough.
Howdarehe?
Is there anyone who wouldn’t be terrified out of their minds at hearing someone breaking into their house in the middle of the night?
He should’ve told me he was coming.
And he didn’t.
I fling the door open to find him right outside my bedroom.
Motherfucker. Does this door have a lock? It’d better have a lock.
“And one last thing.” I glare up at him with every ounce of fury that I have inside me. “Don’t touch my air fryer.”
This time, I slam the door when I shut it.
Jessica snorts.
Goddammit.
No lock.
Why doesn’t this bedroom door have a lock?
I can’t stay here.
There’s no lock.
A heavy sigh drifts through the door.
Awesome.
It’s not thick enough to block out the sound of a freakingsigh.
And I have to work tomorrow.
“I won’t touch your fucking air fryer,” he mutters.
The crutches clomp on the floor.
One clomp. Two clomps. Three clomps. Four clomps.
The hinges on his bedroom door creak.
There’s a stifledmotherfuckerthat I can only imagine is from finding half of the hallway bathroom supplies scattered over his bedroom floor, or possibly from the oversize boxes holding a new sink and a toilet and new tile for the bathroom floor, plus buckets with tools and grout and other stuff, since the plumber and I decided that if we didn’t hear otherwise, he’d start on fixing and renovating the bathroom this weekend.
Apparently he has Holt’s credit card number on file.
And also, he said he likes him well enough that he’d do this one for free if the credit card failed.
Guilt smacks me between the eyeballs.
Maybe Holtdidlose his phone.
