Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(10)

I would literally kill a small child right now for the power of invisibility.

“You seem as out of sorts as I am,” says Michael with a melancholy smile. “I hope your Saturday was better than mine.”

I freeze. Ohmigod. Was that an invitation to talk about his personal life? Is he asking me about my personal life? What do I do? What should I say?

After a few moments, when it becomes clear I’m unable to act like a functioning adult, Michael’s smile falters. “Well, I’ll let you get to it.”

When he turns to leave, I blurt, “Yes!”

Startled again, Michael looks back at me with wide eyes. “Sorry?”

I make myself a promise that if I can just get through the next sixty seconds without acting like an insane asylum escapee, I’ll treat myself to dinner at the Italian place down the street from my apartment, a bottle of wine and all.

“I meant, yes, I’m out of sorts.” I say this robotically, concentrating on making my lips form the right sounds while my hormones are doing five-hundred-mile-per-hour laps around my nervous system in Formula One racing mode. “I haven’t been sleeping well the last few nights. I have a new neighbor who’s apparently trying to turn the rest of us in the building deaf with his music. I didn’t realize stereos could be used as torture devices.”

The tiny lines around Michael’s blue eyes crinkle charmingly. My heart palpitations are so extreme, I stand there and try not to die.

“I had a neighbor like that once.”

I can’t picture anyone inhuman enough to disturb this beautiful creature in his home, which is probably a golden castle in the clouds staffed by cherubs and unicorns. “What did you do?”

A dimple flashes in his cheek, and all my hormones abandon their mad dash around my veins and collapse into a sighing pile at Michael’s feet.

“I went over to his house, explained that he was disturbing me, and asked him to stop.”

“And that worked?”

“No, that actually made it worse. So then I beat him up.” He laughs at my shocked expression. “I’m kidding. I made a noise complaint to the police, and they took care of it.”

Because all my concentration has switched from forming words to battling the urge to lean in and sniff Michael’s neck, when I try to smile I end up weirdly baring my teeth instead.

“That’s probably what you should do,” says Michael, eyeing me warily. I’m sure he’s wondering if he’s going to need something sharp to defend himself with.

Dear Jesus, just take me. Please just kill me now.

“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Overcome with the urge to slam my face over and over onto my desk, I nod like a bobblehead. “But he lives right across the hall from me, and I wouldn’t want to have to see him after that. He’d know it was me who snitched on him because I’ve already confronted him about it.”

A small, adorable crease forms between Michael’s eyebrows. “Are you worried he’ll retaliate? Is this guy some kind of thug?”

I know it’s only my imagination that makes Michael’s expression and tone of voice seem concerned, but my heart doesn’t care. It begins to beat wildly against my rib cage like it’s attempting to break out of prison.

My rabid badger smile makes a reappearance. “Well, he is a rugby player! Who knows what the guy is capable of!”

Joellen, you’re as useless as snake mittens.

But Michael seems to find truth in my ridiculous statement, because his eyes widen in alarm. “Good God, you live next to a rugby man? That’s like living next to a silverback gorilla! Definitely don’t confront him again, Joellen. Let the authorities handle it.”

“Really?”

He nods vigorously. “Believe me, I had my share of run-ins with the daft buggers when I was at Oxford. They’re animals. Animals who’re in love with themselves. Rugby players take the term egomaniac to a whole new level.”

I find myself nodding my head, too. “Yeah, that basically describes Cameron McGregor in a nutshell.”

Michael’s brows shoot up. “Your neighbor is Cameron McGregor?”

Why does he look so horrified? “Um, yes?”

“The captain of the Scotland national union team, the Red Devils? That Cameron McGregor?”

“Honestly, I have no idea what team he plays for—”

“Six foot six, messy brown hair, built like a skyscraper, covered in tattoos?”

“That sounds like him, yes.”

Michael pulls a face. “Christ. You might want to move.”

My heart sinks. “Oh God. That sounds bad.”

“I don’t know how closely you follow sports, but your neighbor is all over the papers, and usually not for his performance on the pitch. Bar fights, sex scandals, being drunk and disorderly in public . . . McGregor’s temper is almost as notorious as his women. The UK gossip rags call him Prince Pantydropper because of the sheer number of his conquests.”

Michael wrinkles his nose as he says the nickname, proving beyond a doubt that he’s a gentleman of the first order. Only a truly fine man of exceptional character would look down on the ability to cause a horde of women to drop their drawers.

“He’s well on his way to earning that title on this side of the pond, too,” I grumble, thinking of stand-up sex and strip poker parties. I’m afraid of what I’ll go home to tonight. The kiddie pool Jell-O wrestling match suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. I sigh, shaking my head. “I hope I don’t run into him in the hallway again.”