“This better be good,” I grumble, rubbing at my sleep-crusted eyes and throwing the front door open. My eyes widen, and a small squeak escapes my lips. Fuck. This'll teach me to check the peephole for, like, murderers and stuff. That is, murderers and tatted rock star boys. “Whoa there, Working Girl, are you rocking duckie pj's?” Zayd asks, throwing out this devilish little grin as he pinches the shoulder of my pajamas and then leans in for a kiss.
