Page 68 of Catnip, Claws, and Chaos

Instead of him tensing or retreating, Logan's expression softens. “I'm certainly planning to try.”

Later that afternoon,I barricade myself in the bathroom, determined to transform from a disaster zone to a desirable date. Logan promised to take me to his favorite restaurant tonight, likely to ensure I remain a safe distance from any cooking implements.

I lay out my arsenal of beauty products across the counter: shaving cream, razor, tweezers, and a charcoal face mask Kate gave me last Christmas that I've never found the courage to use. The packaging promises todetoxify, purify, and rejuvenatewith activated charcoal and some herbs whose names contain more syllables than should legally exist in a single word.

Twenty minutes later, I stand before the mirror in mismatched underwear. Black, slimy stuff covers my face, and cucumber slices balance precariously on my eyes. One eye per time or I wouldn't be able to have one leg propped on the counter as I tackle the winter pelt I accumulated on my calves.

Concentration furrows my brow as I navigate the razor around my ankle bone, determined to avoid bloodshed. The bathroom door swings open without warning.

“Emily, have you seen my—” Logan's words die mid-sentence.

I shriek, cucumber slices launching like projectiles. My foot slips from its perch, and I almost face-plant on the floor, when strong hands steady me before gravity claims another victim.

“Jesus Christ!” My heart hammers against my ribs. “Hasn't anyone taught you to knock?”

Logan stares at me. His lips are pressed together but twitch suspiciously at the corners. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like?” I snatch a towel, attempting to salvage some dignity while standing there with half-shaved legs and a face covered in drying black sludge. “I'm performing an ancient ritual to summon the gods of beauty.”

He bites his lower lip. “Is that what this is?”

“Don't you dare laugh at me, Logan Price.” I brandish my razor like a tiny sword. “This happens when you invite a woman to live with you. Sometimes, we morph into bog creatures in the bathroom. It's the circle of life.”

The laughter breaks free, deep and rich, rumbling from his chest. “You look like you face-planted into a tar pit.”

“It's activated charcoal!” I protest. “It's supposed to extract impurities or some magic beauty bullshit. Kate swears by it.”

“And the cucumbers?”

“For puffiness!” I retrieve one fallen slice from the floor, displaying it like evidence. “Haven't you seen any movie featuring a spa scene?”

Logan steps closer, still chuckling, and wipes his thumb at a spot where the mask crumbles from my cheek. “You know you're stunning without all this, right?”

Warmth spreads through my chest at his words, but I roll my eyes to mask the effect he has on me. “Says the man who hasn't witnessed my legs in their natural state. Trust me, all of this benefits you more than me.”

“I disagree.” His hands find my waist. “There's something incredibly sexy about a woman comfortable enough to let me see her like this.”

“Covered in black goo with half-shaved legs? You have weird turn-ons, Dr. Price.”

His smile turns wicked, transforming his face from merely handsome to devastating. “Want me to show you my other unusual preferences?”

Before I can formulate a clever response, his mouth claims mine. Logic insists I must taste like activated charcoal and cucumber, since I ate a slice or ten before putting it on my eyes. Yet he kisses me like I'm a feast he's been starving for. His hands slide lower, cupping my ass and pulling me flush against him.

“Your face will be black too,” I warn between kisses.

“Worth it,” he murmurs against my lips.

Needless to say, I ditch my beauty routine in the end.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Emily

My eyes pop open, and I jump out of bed, putting my hand over my mouth. I race to the bathroom and reach the toilet just in time.

“Emily?” Logan's voice drifts from the bedroom, but I'm too busy emptying what feels like every organ I've ever possessed to answer him. The metallic taste of bile burns my throat as I heave again. My fingers are white-knuckled around the porcelain that's become my only friend in this moment of betrayal by my body.

Two muscular calves enter my peripheral vision. Morning light catches the fine golden hairs there, making them look almost ethereal against the stark white tile. I groan and hunch deeper over the toilet bowl, with my hair hanging like a curtain around my face.

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