Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(45)

Cam jerks back when he sees me. “Sweet mother Mary! What the hell happened to you?”

I grumble, “Mrs. Dinwiddle happened to me.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

“Ha. Go away—your voice hurts.” I try to shut the door, but Cam pushes it open and barges inside because he’s a pushy, obnoxious pain in my butt.

I shuffle away from him, waving a hand over my shoulder. “Do me a favor and feed the cat. I’m hungover. I’m going back to bed.”

“For how long?”

“Forever.”

“What about our workout?”

Bleary eyed, I turn around and stare at him. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m in no condition to exercise, prancer.”

He inspects my appearance, fighting a smile. “You have a point. It might be dangerous to allow you in public—you’ll frighten the children.”

I can’t be insulted, because it’s a legitimate observation. “Cat food’s on the third shelf in the pantry.” Without waiting for an answer, I head to the bedroom and crawl back into bed.

I hear Cam moving around in the kitchen, opening and closing the pantry door, murmuring to Mr. Bingley. Then he’s in my bathroom, running the water in the sink.

“What’re you doing?” I mumble with my eyes closed, irritated by his presence.

The edge of the mattress dips with his weight. He presses a cool wet cloth to my forehead. “Gettin’ this shit off your face.”

He starts to gently wipe the makeup off my skin as I lie there wondering if it’s weird that I’m enjoying it.

“Stop frownin’. I’m doin’ you a solid here, lass. I think your poor cat is traumatized from seein’ you like this.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddle had good intentions.”

“Or she secretly hates you.”

That makes me smile. “I’m glad to hear you don’t think it was an improvement.”

The washcloth pauses, then goes back to work under my jaw. “You don’t need makeup.”

I snort because he’s being ridiculous. “News alert: you need to see an optometrist. I don’t normally wear makeup, but I definitely should. My bare skin has caused many a man nightmares.”

Cam’s sigh is gentle and also disgusted. “You’ve got a head full o’ bullshit, lass. Your skin is beautiful.”

Beautiful? No, he can’t mean that. He’s screwing with me again. He feels pity. I’m so pitiful he’s forced to make up a lie to distract me from my pitifulness.

His voice turns dry. “Do you always freak out when someone pays you a compliment?”

“I’m not freaking out.”

“Oh, no? Then why did your entire body go stiff? And your eyes are rollin’ around under your eyelids. You look like you’re gettin’ electric shock therapy.” He returns to the bathroom and runs the water again, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable on the bed.

No one has ever told me I have beautiful skin. No one has ever told me I have beautiful anything. Well, there is Dr. Sternberg, my dentist, who always tells me how lucky I am to have such naturally straight teeth, but in the same breath he usually suggests a whitening product, so he can’t be counted.

When the mattress dips again, I crack open an eye and look at Cam. “Do you really think I have beautiful skin?”

He makes a face like I’m being an idiot. A bloody idiot, I’m sure he’d say. “You don’t even have pores.”

“But I’m so pasty.”

“Ha! You wanna see pasty, come to Scotland.”

“Oh. So that explains it.”

He looks at me warily. “I don’t know what kind of demented BS is about to leave your mouth, lass, but lemme just say this. Your skin isn’t the only beautiful thing about you. If you weren’t such a wee numpty, you’d realize what a braw bird you are.”

My other eye opens, and now I’m gazing up at him, wishing I had a translator handy. “Um . . . thanks?”

“Close your eyes,” he demands, sounding mad. “I’ve gotta get all the goop off your lashes.”

“I think you just pull those off. Be gentle—there was glue involved.”

He mutters, “Jesus.” It sounds like Jayzus and makes me giggle.

Cam carefully peels the fake eyelashes from my eyelids, making noises of disgust while he’s doing it. When he’s done with that and satisfied he’s gotten most of the goopy foundation off my skin, he says, “You didn’t eat last night, did you?”

I roll away from him onto my side and bury my face in the pillow.

His huge gust of a sigh stirs my hair. “All right, lass. I’m gonna make you somethin’ to drink, and then I’ll let you sleep.”

He rises and leaves. I don’t know how long he’s gone because I drift back to sleep, but then he’s there again, gently shaking me awake by my shoulder. I roll over to find him holding out a glass of poisonous-looking amber liquid.

“What’s that?” I ask groggily.

“Homemade hangover cure. Drink it all, sleep for a few hours, and you’ll be right as rain.”

I lift to an elbow, take the drink from his hand, and chug it, coughing at the end because it’s so vile it makes my eyes water. “What the hell is this?”