Page 33 of Holding On To Good

Nothing.

Leery of breaking that no touching rule once again, especially when she was passed out, he pressed the tips of two fingers against her shoulder in the quickest, lightest poke known to man. “Willow, wake up.”

She sighed and opened her eyes. Blinked, then rolled her head to the side to look at him.

And she smiled. “Urban.”

It was one of the ways he dreamed about her looking at him, her gaze soft, her smile knowing. As if she could easily see what was inside his head.

It was one of the ways he dreamed of her saying his name, her tone husky and inviting, as if giving him permission to do all the things he wanted to do with her. To her.

Used to, he amended. The way he used to dream about her.

Dreams he’d stopped having long ago.

If only for his own goddamn peace of mind.

“Let’s get you inside,” he said, his voice gruff.

She frowned at him, and Jesus help him, it was adorable as hell. “Someone’s a grumpy bear tonight.”

That was him. A riled-up, semi-pissed-off, semi-horny, fully grumpy bear.

He pressed the release button on her seat belt and climbed out, her bag in his hand—he’d get the rest of her stuff later. By the time he opened her door, she’d untangled herself from the belt and was sitting up.

“Come on,” he said, helping her out of the truck. The stones on her walkway were smooth and flat, so he didn’t have to carry her again, but his hopes of not touching her at all died after she veered into her mailbox.

Taking a hold of her upper arm, he guided her up the walkway then helped her climb the three wide brick steps that led to her door. She was still swaying, so he tipped her against the side of the house next to the door and, once satisfied she wasn’t going to fall over, started digging through her bag.

“If you wanted money,” she said. “You could’ve just ak-sed. Ak… You could’ve just told me. Friends don’t mug friends. It’s not nice.”

“I’m looking for your key,” he said, still searching, sifting through item after item—pens, pencils, lipsticks, wallet, phone, plus a couple of tampons, some receipts and a tack hammer.

He kneeled and dumped the contents onto the top step, going through them one by one.

No keys.

“You dumped my purse,” Willow said.

“I’m looking for your keys,” he told her again.

“Why didn’t you say so? I don’t keep my house key in there.”

His fingers tightened around the tube of lipstick he held. “You don’t?”

She shook her head slowly as if not wanting to make any sudden moves. “It’s too hard to find it when I want it.”

“No shit,” he mumbled, throwing everything back into the bag. He stood. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

Maybe he should just kick the door in. A broken foot couldn’t be more painful than this. “Your house key.”

“I keep it in my pocket.”

He skimmed his gaze over her, from the top of her tousled hair to the tips of her bare feet. “What pocket?”

She slid her hand across her hip as if she had on her usual jeans and not a tight, flowery dress. Pursed her lips. “I don’t have a pocket.” She leaned toward him, like a turtle poking its head out of its shell, her shoulders still pressed back against the door and whispered, “I had to put it in a different spot.”

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