Yesterday Regan Pescoli was hot. Not in the sexual sense. Hot as in furious. As in consumed with rage. As in pissed as hell. Her hands gripped the wheel of her Jeep so tightly her knuckles bleached white, her jaw was set, and she glared through the windshield as if she could conjure up the image of the soulless bastard who'd sent her into this stratosphere of rage. "Bastard," she muttered as the county-issued Jeep's tires slid a bit on the icy incline. Her heart was racing and her cheeks were flushed despite the subfreezing temperature outside her vehicle. No one, not one person on this planet, could make her see red ... |
No comments:
Post a Comment