She follows, quietly doing the same with her own work boots, but I feel her eyes stray to me every so often. I hate that she’s curious about me, even though I’m a fucking dickhead. There’s nothing good that can come of being interested in the darkness that lies beneath the surface of Colt Wilder. Layla seems to have rebounded well enough after that first night—we collected her things from her snow-bound car, which I’ll get onto towing down to the shop once the road is finally clear—and I haven’t wanted to pry any further as to why things overwhelmed her the way they did.
