He doesn’t believe me. Thank God. Because what possible reason could I have to be writing sonnets about his eyes? There isn’t one. Not a rational one, anyway. It just . . . happened. I can’t be held responsible for the doings of my muse!
“Why’re you breathin’ funny?” asks Cam when I don’t say anything. “That pesky intestinal gas botherin’ you again? You want me to stop by the store and pick you up a few pairs of your charcoal panties?”
“Ha.” I swallow loudly, trying to get myself together.
“Wait.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t tell me you really did write me a sonnet.”
My groan is the sound of someone watching a casket being lowered into the ground.
“Lassie. You know what happens if you lie to me.”
God, that dark promise in his voice. Why the hell do I like that so much? “Yes, I know
