If the atmosphere around Dorian had been visible, it would have been one of those nasty blackish-greenish-yellow shades like a partially-healed bruise.
By the time I materialize in the parking lot beside his Range Rover, he's most of the way up the staircase to his second-story apartment. His gorgeous arms clutch around a large cardboard box, opened from the wrong end so that the curvy blue arrow logo, usually vaguely reminiscent of a smile, instead looks like a frown.
Which matches the dark scowl on his face.
Oh joy.
Up the stairs, Dorian braces with the box between his body and the door, his head dipped as he finagles with his keys. It takes him another few seconds before the lock gives and he catches the box as the door swings open.
