Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(19)

I’m saved from certain death by a uniformed delivery man carrying an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. He stops at the cubicle next to mine. “Is there a Joellen Bixby around here?”

“Right there.” Shasta, the girl who sits at the next desk, stands and points at me accusingly over the top of the cubicle wall like she’s an informant for the Nazis.

The delivery guy ambles past Portia, inadvertently swatting her with foliage, and deposits the vase on my desk with a relieved sigh. It’s so huge it takes up almost all the available square footage.

“Man, that sucker’s heavy. Sign here, please.” He thrusts a clipboard into my face while pointing at a signature line on a routing slip.

My hands shake so badly I’m barely able to manage my signature.

Could it be? Could Michael have sent me flowers?

The delivery guy walks off, whistling, while Portia, Shasta, and I stare in disbelief at the roses.

“Well, who’s it from?” demands Shasta.

I swallow, pluck the little white envelope from its plastic holder, and open it, my heartbeat like thunder in my ears.

Your pie is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.

Sweet. Succulent. Melting on my tongue.

I want more. Tonight.

Oh, that cocky son of a—

“So what does it say?” asks Shasta too loudly, making me wonder what her problem is while simultaneously realizing that everyone in the cubicles around me is looking curiously in my direction.

Portia snatches the card from my hand, then reads aloud, “Your pie is the most delicious . . .”

She trails off into silence, her eyes growing wide.

Hearing muffled giggles, I remove the card from her fingers, tear it into bits, and toss it into the wastebasket. I turn stiffly back to Portia and say through gritted teeth, “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

I know it’s only my fury at Cameron that makes my voice so hard, but Portia seems to think it’s directed at her. Her chin lifts. She sniffs, sends me an outraged glare, then turns on her heel and stalks off, trailing smoke from her nostrils.

“Dude,” says Shasta, watching her go. “That was awesome.” She looks at me and grins. “High five, bitch!”

In a daze, I slap palms with Shasta, who has spoken more words to me in the past three minutes than she has in the past two years since she’s been sitting next to me.

My desk phone rings. I snatch it up, grateful for a legitimate escape from my new bestie. “Joellen Bixby speaking.”

“Wow, your professional-workin’-lady voice is hot. You ever think of goin’ into the phone-sex-operator field? You’d make a killing.”

“You!”

The low rumble of a laugh comes over the line. “Aye, it’s me, lass, your favorite neighbor.”

“The prancer.”

“Ha! No, the exquisite physical specimen of a man you’ve been’ dreamin’ about since we met.”

I balk, shocked that Cam somehow guessed that, but realize he’s joking before I blurt something stupid like How did you know? “Very funny. What do you want? And how did you know where I work?”

“I asked Mrs. Dinwiddle. Did you get the flowers?”

I glance at the colossal bouquet of roses leering at me from two feet away. “Yes. And your charming note. Shakespeare you’re not, my friend.”

“Oh ho! So we’re friends now!”

“No. I’d still like to push you into traffic. Why’re you calling me?”

“To discuss phase one of Operation Pretty Boy.”

I collapse into my chair and sigh. “Give me a slight break, would you?”

He breezes right past that request. “I’ve already kicked things into gear with the flowers. If you’re on his radar at all, that’ll pique his interest.”

“Pique? Did Cameron McGregor just use the word pique in a sentence?”

He chuckles. “You’ll be happy to know, darlin’, that Cameron McGregor has an exceptional vocabulary. Extraordinary, anomalous, remarkable, and preternaturally unprecedented.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and make a face at it. When I listen again, he’s still talking.

“. . . men are competitive by nature. If he likes you even a little, knowin’ another man is sniffin’ around will arouse his instinct for—”

“Sniffing around? How romantic.”

“Quit bustin’ my balls, lass. I’m helpin’ you get your heart’s desire. A little gratitude would be nice.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re interested.”

He pauses just long enough to make my ears perk up. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Yikes. That sounds scary.”

“Maybe I just want you to keep givin’ me that sweet, sweet pie of yours, lass. You ever think of that?”

His voice is warm with teasing laughter, and he’s lucky he’s not standing in front of me, because I’ve got a brand-new pair of scissors in my top drawer that would look lovely protruding from his eye socket.

“It’s too bad you got stuck in puberty, McGregor—you might’ve been a productive member of society one day.”

“Oh, I’m plenty productive, lass.”

“Name one way you’re productive that doesn’t involve the amount of sperm you produce. I’ll wait.”