When the mattress dips again, I crack open an eye and look at Cam. “Do you really think I have beautiful skin?”

He makes a face like I’m being an idiot. A bloody idiot, I’m sure he’d say. “You don’t even have pores.”

“But I’m so pasty.”

“Ha! You wanna see pasty, come to Scotland.”

“Oh. So that explains it.”

He looks at me warily. “I don’t know what kind of demented BS is about to leave your mouth, lass, but lemme just say this. Your skin isn’t the only beautiful thing about you. If you weren’t such a wee numpty, you’d realize what a braw bird you are.”

My other eye opens, and now I’m gazing up at him, wishing I had a translator handy. “Um . . . thanks?”

“Close your eyes,” he demands, sounding mad. “I’ve gotta get all the goop off your lashes.”

“I think you just pull those off. Be gentle—there was glue involved.”

He mutters, “Jesus.” It sounds like Jayzus and makes me giggle.

Cam carefully peels the fake eyelashes from my eyelids, making noises of disgust while he’s doing it. When he’s done with that and satisfied he’s gotten most of the goopy foundation off my skin, he says, “You didn’t eat last night, did you?”

I roll away from him onto my side and bury my face in the pillow.

His huge gust of a sigh stirs my hair. “All right, lass. I’m gonna make you somethin’ to drink, and then I’ll let you sleep.”

He rises and leaves. I don’t know how long he’s gone because I drift back to sleep, but then he’s there again, gently shaking me awake by my shoulder. I roll over to find him holding out a glass of poisonous-looking amber liquid.

“What’s that?” I ask groggily.

“Homemade hangover cure. Drink it all, sleep for a few hours, and you’ll be right as rain.”

I lift to an elbow, take the drink from his hand, and chug it, coughing at the end because it’s so vile it makes my eyes water. “What the hell is this?”

He winks at me. “Butt crack juice. Sourced fresh this mornin’.”

The faint taste of bile rises up in the back of my throat, hot and acidic. I slap my hand over my mouth.

Cam throws his head back and laughs. He takes the glass from my hand and rises from the bed, looking down at me with a huge grin. “I’ll see you later, lassie. Sweet dreams.”

I fall asleep within moments, smiling.

SIXTEEN

In green and gold and brown they’re lit,

Composed of dazzling color,

With sparks and laughter and lively wit

They move me like no other

Eyes in a face I’ve ever seen.

So starkly seductive they are,

A gaze straight from a lovely dream

With a shine like a brilliant star.

And lashes long and curved and dark

As soot and devils’ souls,

All my resistance is a lark,

These knees are weak as a newborn foal’s.

I beg of you, my burning Sun,

With this poor heart you’ll soon be done.

When I open my eyes, it’s light outside, and my head is perfectly clear. I sit up carefully, worried the room is about to spin, but everything stays stable. I feel no trace of headache or nausea.

I run to my desk, pull out my sonnet book, and quickly scribble down the words in my head.

When I’m done, I read it aloud, then frown at the first line. “It should say blue. Michael’s eyes are blue.” I scratch out the words green, gold, and brown, and insert cobalt, azure, and sapphire.

It feels wrong. And clunky. Too many syllables, too embellished, too much. So I rewrite the original line again, above the one I’ve scratched out, and stare at it.

Green, gold, and brown equals hazel. In my sleep, I composed a sonnet about hazel eyes. “He put something funny in that drink,” I accuse the book.

“What’s that?”

I slam the book shut with a strangled little scream because Cam is standing at my bedroom door. “Nothing! What are you doing here?”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Watchin’ ESPN with the cat. Why’re you shoutin’?” His gaze drops to my sonnet book.

I shout, “I’m not shouting!” and throw the book into the top drawer of my desk, slamming it closed so hard the whole desk shakes.

“Uh-huh. That didn’t look guilty at all.”

His smile is like acid on my nerves. I jump up from the chair, smooth my hands over my hair, and try to compose myself. “I thought you left.”

“You thought wrong.”

He’s still looking at the drawer I threw the sonnet book into, so I move in front of it, crossing my arms over my chest. He glances at me, his smile growing wider.

“Okay, I’ll let it go. For now. How’d you sleep?”

“Fine. Amazing, actually. I shouldn’t feel this good after all that wine. What was in your homemade potion?”

“It’s a secret. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

When I just stand there staring at him, he relents. “Ginger, raw honey, flaxseed, red pepper flakes, lemon juice, B vitamins, other stuff. Whips up in the blender in no time.”

“You’re quite the blender master, aren’t you?”

“It was my mum’s recipe. They all are.” A cloud passes over his face. He looks away, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“What time is it?” I ask, to change the obviously unwelcome subject.

He drags a hand through his hair and shakes his head like he’s shaking off a bad memory. “Ten. You got anything planned for today?”

“Nope.”

“Good. We’re goin’ shoppin’.” He turns around and disappears, and now I’m worried.

“Shopping?” I hurry after him into the living room. “We already bought enough food for a month—”

“Not for food, lass. For a dress for the holiday party.”

When I stand there blinking at him in surprise, he shrugs. “Unless you don’t want a man’s opinion on the matter. I’m sure whatever you pick will be nice.”

I think of what I wore to the last holiday party and cringe. I thought ruffles would help hide my girth, but in photos I looked like a demented pirate who’d consumed his entire crew. “I mean, if you don’t have anything better to do, that would be great.”

His eyes—damn hazel eyes!—burn right through me. “I don’t have anything better to do.”

Now I’m feeling shy. Also weirdly guilty and ashamed, like he caught me masturbating or something. “Um. Okay. I need to take a shower.”

“I’ll go change out of my sweats. How much time d’you need?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“That’s it?”

“Why do you look so surprised?”

“Nothin’. Just in my experience women usually take a lot longer than that to get ready.”

Right. In his “experience” with women, which, if made into book form, would encompass several thousand pornographic volumes.

Inspecting my face, Cam says, “You’ve got that intestinal gas look again, darlin’.”

“I’ll knock on your door when I’m ready.” Scowling, I go back into my bedroom and close the door firmly behind me, pushing aside my curiosity at why I’m suddenly so mad.

It must be because he called me darling.