A growl rumbles through Cam’s chest, so violent and animalistic sounding it raises the hair on my arms to gooseflesh.

It scares the crap out of the photographer, too. He leaps into motion, sprinting off down the aisle, bumping into people as he flees.

Cam lets loose a stream of obscenities under his breath that could peel the paint from the walls.

“Was that—”

“Aye. C’mon.”

Holding my arm, Cam steers me away from the aisle and through the dress department, to the dressing rooms located in the back. A young female sales associate is there, helping shoppers into rooms. Her eyes widen when she spots us coming.

“She needs a room,” Cam growls, “and I need to speak to your manager.”

Neither of us dares to disobey him. In his current state, he’s too intimidating to refuse. The girl quickly ushers me into a dressing room, then I’m alone with my shaking hands and knotted stomach, wondering what he’s going to do.

And what would’ve happened if the photographer hadn’t been there.

Was he about to kiss me?

“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!”