Afterward, we sneak downstairs and creep toward the front hall. And just when I think I’ve successfully dodged a bullet, Shane steps out of the kitchen. Fuck. His dark eyes take in Gigi’s disheveled hair. My boxers. The scratch marks on my chest. And his lips twitch in humor. “Late night?” he inquires. Her cheeks are visibly red even in the darkness of the hall. “You didn’t see this,” she begs softly. “Please.” Shane appears as if he’s about to make a joke, but I give him a hard look, and he offers an assurance instead. “I saw nothing.”
