Melt for You (Page 37)

Now his voice is warm with laughter. “I’ve got a sheet wrapped around me, lass, you can stop hidin’ now.”

I shake my head. “I’m too busy plotting my disappearance. Do you think Jane Smith is a good name for an assumed identity?”

He chuckles. I can smell him, dear Lord. Gorgeous, sleepy male in his physical prime—if bottled and marketed to the female population, it would make billions.

“Too obvious,” he says. “You should go with somethin’ more exotic. Like Beatrix. Or Seraphina. Yeah, Seraphina Snufflebottom.” He taps my shoulder.

I peek at him through my fingers. He’s smiling, his eyes half-lidded, his hair mussed, a scruff of beard darkening his jaw. That faint sound I hear is my ovaries moaning.

“I wasn’t robbed, Seraphina.”

“No kidding.”

He rubs a fist into one of his eyes, which is both childlike and adorable. “Had too much to drink last night. Must’ve passed out. It’s a bit of a blur.”

I notice that his bathroom door is closed, but the light is on inside, and that strikes me as odd. Why would the door be closed? He was so drunk he couldn’t be bothered to close the front door . . .

A few things come together at once, adding up to something awful.

Cam had a date last night. He had too much to drink last night. He slept naked . . . because he wasn’t alone.

Sweet Jesus, there’s a woman in McGregor’s bathroom.

I feel sick. I don’t know why, but I do. Without another word, I turn and leave the room, my hand over my mouth and my heart pounding.

“Where are you goin’ in such a rush, Seraphina?”

“For a run. See you. Sorry again, it was an accident. I’m just a . . . I’m such a . . .”

Idiot. Moron. Fool.

I bolt from his apartment, take the stairs to the first floor two at a time, and run out into the cold, dark morning as fast as I can, not stopping to catch my breath until the building is far, far behind me and the icy wind has leached the last of the heat from my cheeks.

EIGHTEEN

I run until my thigh muscles are screaming, then limp back home in the cold and dark, determined to put this whole silly episode behind me.

I need to be mature about this. I’m thirty-six, not sixteen. Walking in on him sleeping was an accident, not the end of the world. Seeing him naked is not the end of the world. Certainly him having a woman spend the night isn’t the end of the world, nor is it any of my business. I’ll just apologize sincerely once more, and we’ll be done with it. It will never be mentioned again.

By the time I get home, I feel better. Until I see the note taped to my door.

My dear Miss Snufflebottom,

You’re upset. Why? I know it’s not because you got an eyeful of my majestic manhood, though that would cause any sane woman to lose her marbles.

If you lie to me, I swear I’ll make good on my threat to take you over my knee.

Yours until the sun flames out and all life on earth is extinguished,

Prancer

I knew I shouldn’t have told him I write sonnets.

I crush the note in my fist and go inside, slamming the door behind me. I hurl the note into the wastebasket under the console and start muttering to myself like a madwoman as I go into the kitchen to feed the cat.

“Oh, you’ll take me over your knee, will you? Hmpf. I’m sure it’s a popular spot. I hope you’ve got some industrial-strength sanitizer ready, because there’s no way I’m going over your knee without it! Good luck with that, buddy! Wait. What am I talking about? I’m not going over your knee at all! You dang man whore!”

I stop and huff out an aggravated breath, shaking my head at myself for being judgmental. Live and let live, that’s my personal motto. It’s none of my business what two consenting adults do together, even if it does involve tetanus shots and antibacterial creams.

“Not that I can really blame you,” I continue, flustered. “You’re single, you’re young, you’re famous, you’re . . . big.” My face reddens. “Why shouldn’t you take advantage of your situation? In all fairness, why shouldn’t you sleep around? I mean, If I had men throwing themselves into my path every three feet, I’m sure I’d be a whore, too!”

“Oh really?” a voice behind me drawls.

I scream, leap into the air, and spin around, dropping the can of cat food in the process.

Cam sits at my kitchen table with a lazy smile on his face and the cat in his lap.

I thunder, “WHAT THE HELL, MCGREGOR?”

His gaze piercing, he replies calmly, “You thought I had a woman in my bathroom earlier, didn’t you?”

My heart gallops so hard I can’t catch my breath. I start to splutter and shake, furious but also—again—horrifically embarrassed. “You . . . you jerk! You can’t just waltz in here unannounced any time you like! This is my home! My private home!”

“As I recall, you waltzed into my place unannounced only a few hours ago. At least you’re clothed.”

His smile is smug, and I want to kill him. “Get out!”

“No.”

“Yes!” I stamp my foot and point at the door. “Out!”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t budge an inch. “A question for you, Miss Snufflebottom: Why would you care if I did have a woman in my bathroom?”

“I wouldn’t! I didn’t! I don’t!”

His steady gaze never wavers from mine. He says softly, “What did I tell you about lyin’ to me?”

He stands up, and my heart stops. When he takes a step forward, I take one back and put my hand out. As if that will help anything.

“Cam. Stop. Whatever you’re thinking—”

“You know exactly what I’m thinkin’, lass.” His eyes are alight, his lips tipped up at the corners.

What happens inside my body when I hear the tone of his voice and see that look in his eyes is indescribable. I want to throw something sharp and heavy at him, but at the same time I’d like that something to be me.

When he takes another step toward me, I skitter away into the corner, panting. “Cut it out! This isn’t funny!”

“I’d stop if I thought you were really scared.” His eyes burn as he takes another step. “Are you scared, lass? Tell the truth.”

Panicking, I make a sound like a door that needs its hinges greased.

He chuckles. “That wasn’t a yes.”

He gets right up into my face, braces his arms on the counter on either side of me, and stares into my eyes. I shrink away as far as I can until the back of my head thunks into the cupboard. He’s so close, I’m certain I can hear his heart beating.

After a moment when he doesn’t do anything, I whisper, “I actually am pretty scared.”

He glances at my mouth before his eyes flick back up to meet mine. “But not one hundred percent scared.”

I close my eyes and swallow. “What’s your point?”

His warm breath brushes my ear, raising gooseflesh on my arms. “My point is . . . what’s the other percentage?”

I bite my lip to catch the groan threatening to break from my chest and swallow again. “Twelve.”

“Twelve?”

I hear laughter in his voice, so I open my eyes. When I find him grinning, I snap. “Yes, twelve! Satisfied?”

His grin quickly fades, and his voice turns husky. “No, lass. Not at all. Not yet.” He moistens his lips, then sinks his teeth into the bottom one.