Page 69 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
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 si
xteen. 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?”
