My hand flails, catches the backrest. My palm is slick with sweat. Or shock. Or both.
I look down.
Oh.
I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.
A white shirt that swallows me whole. Soft. Expensive-feeling. Like if luxury and cotton had a baby. And… boxers?
No. Sweat shorts. Drawstring. Barely staying on my hips.
My cheeks flame.
I shoot a glance toward the armrest. There, folded neatly, are my bra, work blouse, and skirt. Stained, crumpled, but… handled.
Handled.
“Oh, myGod!” My voice cracks. “Did you—? Did youchangeme?”
He doesn’t look up. Just plates something that smells criminally good. “You’re welcome.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“Also not a no.”
Heat rushes to my face. Neck to hairline. “Youundressedme?”
“I took off your bloody clothes before you stained my furniture. You want them back with brain matter still on them?”
I make a strangled sound.
“Right.” He drops a fork onto the plate. “Next time I’ll leave you face-down on the floor in your crime-scene chic. Very dignified.”
I clutch the shirt around me tighter, as if that’ll save my pride. It won’t.
Because now that the adrenaline’s wearing off, I’m hyper-aware of three things:
I’m starving.
I’m in a place I haveno businessbeing.
He’s the most terrifying, gorgeous man I’ve ever seen… and I think hekilled someone.
My mouth moves before my brain catches up.
“Who are you?” I ask. My voice barely makes it.
