Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(100)

I’m gasping for air, drowning in emotion, unable to continue because what I’m feeling is so big. Somehow the feeling morphs and swells until it sounds like music. Loud, strangely irritating music.

Rap music?

With wide eyes, I gaze at Mrs. Dinwiddle. “Can you hear that?”

She looks insulted. “I’m not deaf, my dear! Of course I can hear it!”

The box of earrings clenched in my fist, I move slowly past Mrs. Dinwiddle into the living room. My apartment door is still open, like I left it, and from the hallway comes the distinct thump of bass, overlaid with truly awful lyrics sung by a man who sounds as if smoking crack and swallowing razor blades are his favorite hobbies.

Got yo BACK, muthafucka

I be WITH ya, muthafucka

We be gangstas, muthafucka, for LIFE!

In a daze, I cross the hallway and try Kellen’s apartment door. It’s locked. I knock, but there’s no answer, so I go back inside my apartment and get the key Cam gave me, which I’ve been keeping in a little dish on the kitchen counter.

It turns in the lock, the knob twists in my hand, and the door swings open. And there he is, standing right inside like he’s been waiting for me. Like he’s been waiting for me this entire time.

He’s barefoot and barechested, of course, wearing only a kilt and his signature grin. He says, “Can I help you, lass?”

Cannae help ye, lass?

That’s the first thing he ever said to me. I remember what I thought, standing exactly where I am now, staring at this beautiful mountain of a man. My mountain. My prancer. The man who made me believe in miracles, and in myself.

Dear God, he’s a Scotsman. A huge, half-naked Scotsman in a kilt. Smiling at me like he knows all my secrets, what color my panties are, and that I’m curious what it would be like to have a man pull my hair during sex.

My voice raw and shaking with emotion, I say, “I was just wondering what the difference is between a kilt and a skirt.”

Those hazel eyes blazing, he steps forward, takes my wrist, and pulls me against him. Into my ear, he whispers, “What you wear underneath. Ask me what I’m wearin’ underneath.”

I wind my arms around his shoulders, hug him as tightly as I can, and smile. “I feel like this is a trick to get me to look at your junk.”

“Aye,” says Cam. He swings me up into his arms. “It is.” Over my shoulder, he tips his chin up at Mrs. Dinwiddle, who’s watching us from my doorway, vigorously fanning herself with her silk Chinese fan.

Cam kicks the door shut with his foot and heads toward the bedroom. I kiss him all over his face and neck, thrilled and disbelieving that he’s here. He’s here. “You’re supposed to be on a flight to Scotland, prancer.”

“We’re supposed to be on a flight to Scotland, lass.”

He takes us down to the bed, and I’m still kissing him, holding his face, ignoring the water leaking from the corners of my eyes, because I feel like I’m flying. “I was just packing, I was coming to meet you, I went into work and realized I’m an idiot and I didn’t want to be without you, so I rushed home and then Mrs. Dinwiddle told me everything—you’re in cahoots with Mrs. Dinwiddle!—but I was rushing to pack and then I heard your stupid music, and oh—”

He stops my breathless babbling with a kiss—deep, hot, and hungry. When we finally come up for air, we’re both breathing hard.

His voice is low and gruff when he says, “I told my coach I needed another week to get the woman I love to fall in love with me.”

“Oh.” The woman I love. I feel the beat of my heart in every part of my body. “What did he say?”

“That I was a bloody idiot and if I wasn’t back in two days, I was off the team.”

He kisses me again, and I’m melting, but I’m also panicking because Cam can’t get kicked off his team due to me. “Wait!” I push him away. We stare at each other, nose to nose. “I got the promotion. They fired Michael. Portia isn’t a lesbian.”

He crinkles his forehead.

“Never mind. Listen—I have a very serious question to ask you. Our entire relationship could hinge on how you answer.”

Deeper forehead crinkles. “So no pressure, then. Shoot.”

Looking deep into his beautiful hazel eyes, I ask solemnly, “What flavors of ice cream do you have at your house?”

His eyes do this crazy thing where they soften but somehow also get hotter, and they do it now, burning me up with everything he’s feeling, all that Mountain Man love.

“I have all the flavors, lass,” he says, chuckling. “This is Cameron McGregor we’re talkin’ about. I’ve got every goddamn flavor you need.”

He kisses me to prove it, his mouth declaring his love without words, his body hot and hard over mine.

“We’re going to miss the flight,” I whisper, arching as he moves his mouth to my neck.

“What about your job?” His hands are opening the buttons on my blouse, and his lips are following.

“I’m in a good bargaining position to get them to let me work from home.”

When he lifts his head and looks at me, cocking an eyebrow, I grin at him. “I’ll tell you about it later. Now are we going to try to catch this flight or what?”

His grin comes on slow and sexy. “No, lass. We’ll get the next one. We’ve got more important things to do right now.”