“Are you going crazy, Joellen?” I whisper to my reflection. In the mirror I’m all wild eyes and flushed cheeks, a startled bird poised for flight. “Get it together. Your imagination is running away with you again.”
But I didn’t imagine it when I thought Michael was about to kiss me . . .
With a groan of exasperation, I throw my handbag onto the chair in the corner, hang the dresses on the bar on the wall, and tear off my coat. I spend too long wrestling myself out of my clothes because I’m flustered, and by the time I’m standing there in my underwear, I’m out of breath.
“Stupid,” I mutter, yanking the red dress off its hanger. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. One man shows you some attention, and now you think they all want you. Cam was not going to kiss you! And he probably paid that guy in the leather jacket to stare at you, because he’s nice!”
I pull down the zipper that runs the length of one side of the dress, and step into it, noting absently that it’s my size. Lucky guess. “Be grateful the poor guy’s helping you out, for Pete’s sake, and stop acting like such a dimwit!”
I shove my arms into the sleeves of the dress, get my boobs into position in the bodice, then zip everything up and, with a huff, straighten and look at myself.
“Oh.” That’s pretty much all I can come up with.
I turn slowly left, then right. The dress isn’t something I would have ever chosen for myself, but—somehow, miraculously—it works with my figure. It worships my figure.
The bodice is cut into a low V, exposing an acre of cleavage. Around the waist, the fabric is shirred to one side, gathered with a small, sparkly thingy like a brooch. The fit is tight but slimming, cut so well there are no gaps or puckers, no unsightly bulges, just a lot of softly draping scarlet fabric that swings attractively as I move.
Even the color is flattering. It makes my pale skin brighter, my mousy hair warmer, lends my green eyes a mysterious, fiery tint.
“You should definitely wear more red,” I tell my reflection, who agrees with an enthusiastic nod.
There’s a gentle knock on the dressing room door. “Is everything all right in there, miss? Do you need any different sizes?”
I open the door a crack and tentatively look out. “Um, would you happen to have any heels I can try on with this?”
The salesgirl looks me up and down. “Wow, that looks like it was made for you! What shoe size do you wear?”
I tell her, and she’s off. Less than a minute later, she’s back, bearing a pair of strappy gold heels.
“I’ll break my leg in those,” I say doubtfully, noting the height of the heel.
“Honey, if you’re gonna go for it, go for broke. Metaphorically speaking.”
She has a point. I pull off my shoes and socks and step into the heels, then inspect my reflection once again. Then I pull the elastic out of my hair and comb it out with my fingers so it floats over my shoulders and down my back.
“Your boyfriend’s gonna love it,” the salesgirl says, grinning.
“Oh, he’s not my—”
But she’s already dragging me out of the dressing room, no doubt dreaming of the commission she’ll make if she can convince us to take the dress.
Cam’s standing right outside the entrance to the dressing rooms, his back turned to us, his arms folded over his chest.
When the salesgirl calls, “Here she is!” he looks over his shoulder. Then he jerks all the way around, his eyes big and his jaw unhinged.
He drags his gaze up and down my body, says faintly, “Holy shit,” and sinks into a nearby chair.
SEVENTEEN
My first instinct is to cover myself with my hands. Whatever’s causing that stunned look on his face, it must be really bad. But then it dawns on me that his expression isn’t one of disgust.
“Is it . . . okay?”
He swallows. His blink seems to last an unnaturally long time. He clears his throat and offers a curt, “Yup.”
“Yup? That’s it?” I look down at myself, regretting the heels. Maybe I look slutty. Maybe there’s too much boob showing. Oh God, maybe I was wrong about the color—
“Joellen.”
Cam’s sharp tone yanks me out of my head and back into reality. “Huh?” I stare at him, wringing my hands.
Slowly and softly, holding my gaze as he enunciates every word, he says, “You. Look. Sexy. As. Fuck.”
My face floods with heat. I look bashfully at the floor while the salesgirl claps happily, squealing in delight.
“Right? I told her the same thing! I mean, not exactly the same thing”—she laughs, a braying noise—“but you know what I mean. She looks fantastic!”
I peek up at Cam from under my lashes. His hands are curled around the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles are white.
This is very confusing. “So . . . um . . . you think Michael will like it?”
At the mention of Michael’s name, the salesgirl’s happy squeals die a quick death. She eyeballs Cam, then makes a hasty retreat when she sees the thunderclouds gathering over his head.
“Excuse me, folks, there’s someone who needs my help . . .”
She’s gone. After an excruciating moment of silence, Cam says evenly, “Aye. He’ll like it.”
“Are you mad again?”
“Don’t be silly, lass. Why would I be mad?”
He stares at me, his jaw set and his brows lowered, looking like he’s about to blow a gasket.
“It’s just that . . . you seem a little mad.”
He grinds his teeth together and draws a long, slow breath through his nose. “I’m. Not. Bloody. Mad.”
Oh boy. He’s super mad. I better go change. Without another word, I spin around and flee to the safety of my dressing room, where I slam the door behind me and collapse into the chair, right on top of my handbag.
I sit there for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what just happened, when I hear Cam’s low voice right outside the door.
“Lass.”
“Yeah?”
“Try the black one, too.”
I chew my fingernail. “Maybe we should just go—”
“Try the black one, too, woman!” he snaps. His footsteps stomp off.
“You’re not the boss of me,” I mutter, frowning at the door.
From the dressing room next to me comes a woman’s voice. “I’d sure let him be the boss of me, sister!”
I sigh and give up all hope of understanding anything. Then I change out of the red dress and into the black one and present myself for inspection once again.
One finger tapping a slow staccato rhythm against the arm of his chair, Cam takes his time perusing my figure. His eyes investigate every inch of me, every curve and bump and awkward bulge. It’s so embarrassing, I cover my face with my hands.
“Stop hidin’, lass. You’re not ten years old.”
“Ugh.”
“Look at me.”
I gather my courage and look at him, but I’m still squirming.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re making me self-conscious.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like you’re about to puke!”
He stares at me for a long time in cavernous, terrible silence, his eyes black, his brows drawn together, that spastic muscle in his jaw jumping around like crazy. “Lass.”
“What?”
“What you know about men wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.”
I cross my arms over my chest and stare right back at him, lifting my chin in a fake show of bravery. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily, closing his eyes. He mutters, “For the love of all that’s holy, this woman.”
“Excuse me, sir, did you ask to see me?”
A smiling man in a suit stands to my right, looking expectantly at Cam. The saleslady hovers nervously a few feet behind him.
Cam rises to his feet. “Aye. Let’s talk over there.”
They
walk away, and I run back into the dressing room, nearly breaking my ankle on the way as I stumble over an invisible imperfection in the carpet.
No, my brain helpfully reminds me, that’s just your big feet.
Now I remember why I hate shopping.
In the cab on the way home, Cam is silent. I try several times to make conversation, but when he only halfheartedly responds, I give up and take to staring out the window instead.
I ended up buying the red dress. It’s folded on the seat between us in a garment bag, probably just as confused as I am as to why everyone’s so tense.
On the ride up the elevator, I thank Cam for all his help. He seems to think that’s really funny, but I have no idea why.
When I ask him if he’d like to have dinner with Mrs. Dinwiddle and me—because it’s our long-standing tradition on Saturday night—he politely declines, saying he’s made plans to meet someone in the Village.
I’m stupidly deflated by that news but tell him with a smile that I hope his date is fun.
The look he gives me in response could freeze magma.
When he quietly closes his apartment door after I bid him good-bye, I’m left wondering what I did wrong, replaying the whole day over and over in my mind.
I don’t know what happened, but I’m determined whatever it is, I’m going to fix it.
Dinner with Mrs. Dinwiddle is a blur. On my way out the door, she gives me a bag full of beauty products and tells me I must use the hot oil conditioner on my hair or she’ll make me babysit Fee, Fi, and Fo when she goes to visit her sister in Cornwall in the spring. I agree quickly, because although her dogs are cute, they’re also psychotic.
I sleep fitfully and don’t dream. I’m awake before the alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., surprised by how eager I am to get my daily jog in. It’s still hell, of course, but even though my body aches afterward, my head is clearer and it’s helping me lose weight.
If someone had told me a few weeks ago I’d actually be enjoying exercise, I’d have told him to seek psychiatric help, but here we are.
Thanks to Cam.
But he doesn’t knock on my door at five, or five minutes past, or ten minutes past. By quarter past, I’m worried.
“What do you think, Mr. Bingley? Should I go over there?”
Mr. Bingley is mute on the matter, deciding it’s more important to groom his tail than provide an answer, so I decide for myself and head over to Cam’s.
When I find his apartment door standing ajar, my heart slams into fifth gear.
“Cam?” I knock on the door, which causes it to swing open a few more inches.
Only one light is on, in the kitchen, but it’s enough to see that a pair of jeans lies discarded in the entry beside one big black boot. Its companion is several feet away, kicked under a bench. I poke my head inside the apartment and call out his name again but get no reply. I do, however, spot one of the dining room chairs on its side and a glass smashed on the floor beneath the table.
Now I start to freak out. Was he robbed? Kidnapped? Ambushed? Is he lying in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor?
Breathless, I barge inside, frantically calling his name. I get no answer. His bedroom door is open. I push through it, throwing it open so hard it hits the wall.
Then I skid to a halt, horrified.
Cam is sprawled on his back on the bed, his arms and legs flung out, his eyes closed, his chest moving up and down in a slow, even rhythm. He’s asleep.
He’s also naked.
He’s naked!
I whirl around with a gasp, clapping my hand over my mouth, so mortified my face burns with heat. I take a moment to breathe, trying desperately to wipe my mind of the image of his big tattooed nude body from my head, without success.
It’s all I can see. The image is burned into my retinas and will haunt me until the day I die.
My God. No wonder the man is so popular with women. He should be starring in his own reality show about the life of a colossally well-endowed bachelor.
I take a few steps away on tiptoe, until I’m caught.
“Lass.”
His voice is thick with sleep. Paired with the scalding hot image in my head, it nearly trips me. Hormones I didn’t even know I have are throwing some kind of rave party in my lady parts, complete with pounding music, flashing lights, and laser beams.
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 . . .”
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!”
“Oh really?” a voice behind me drawls.
Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2) Page 15