Page 59 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
I’m awakened by pounding on my front door.
“Ow.” There’s pounding inside my skull, too. I lift a hand to my head, wincing when I touch my forehead because even that slight pressure hurts. The clock on the nightstand reads five minutes after five in the morning. I wonder if there’s an emergency and the building is being evacuated.
More pounding, then the doorbell rings. I swat Mr. Bingley’s tail away from my face and attempt to sit up. The room swims woozily, and I clutch my stomach, groaning.
“Joellen! Are you in there? Open up!”
Oh God. It’s Cam. I’m late for our morning run.
I’d rather die than go on our morning run.
I shuffle out of bed, fighting nausea, and pad out of the bedroom in my bare feet. When the cat meows for his breakfast, it’s like steel spikes being driven through my skull. It takes all my strength just to pull the door open.
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.
