Page 68 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Shaking, I whisper, “Um.”
Behind me, sheets rustle. I can’t move. I’m frozen. I’ve become a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife when she looked back at Sodom.
Cam clears his throat. It’s the single most masculine sound I’ve heard in my existence on the planet.
“Lass. You’re in my bedroom.”
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 . . .”
