“So, what’s your name, Bunny?” His voice is low and gravely against my ear. “Shelby,” I say as I close my eyes and rest in his embrace. This man is seriously scrambling my brain and I don’t mind it one bit. “Shelby Shells Egg Shells by the Sink Side,” his lyrical rhyme, to the tune of “She Sells Seashells by the Sea Shore,” rings through my body, the baritone of his verse waking my core.
