Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(51)

He doesn’t sound angry or even particularly surprised. Meanwhile, I’m glowing with humiliation and would trade my soul to erase the last sixty seconds of my life.

“I . . . uh . . . shit. I’m so sorry. I thought you were robbed.”

“Robbed?”

“Oh God. I’m such an idiot. I’m going now.”

He growls, “Stay where you are.” When the mattress squeaks, I almost faint.

The picture in my head . . . holy Christmas. I’ll need hypnotherapy. I’ll need brainwashing. I’ll need to join the witness protection program and assume another identity, because there’s no way I’ll be able to continue with my life as is, pretending I haven’t seen What I Have Seen.

I put both hands over my face and emit a miserable groan. Through my fingers, I see bare feet and legs approach, trailing a bed sheet. The feet stop in front of me.

“Why would you think I was robbed?”

The sleep is still in his voice, making it deeper and rumbly. Combined with that accent, it’s devastating.

“Your door was open. There was some clothing on the floor . . . a smashed glass . . .”

I can’t go on. I simply cannot speak another word. In a life full of embarrassing moments, this one wins Olympic gold.

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!”