6
I’m tempted to take off my glasses and rub the lenses clean with my shirt. That is how hard it is to believe the scene in front of me.
Holt isn’t passed out on the floor. He sits at a desk, bent over some forms that look an awful lot like paperwork. His usually messy hair has been brushed and pulled back into a neat ponytail. And though he is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, the same as last night, it doesn’t look as if he picked these clothes up from off the floor. In fact, there are no clothes on the floor, and his bed is made so neatly, it could be the star feature in an ad for a luxury hotel room.
I take a step back, because I was obviously mistaken. Holt is fine and I am the silly one for coming here to check on him.
“Sylvie?”
I cringe at the sound of Holt’s voice, and wonder on a
