Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(21)

When Michael is silent in the wake of my theatrical performance, I’m convinced I’ve made a colossal fool of myself. But when I glance up at him, he’s staring at the roses with a new expression.

An expression, if I’m not mistaken, like he wants to pick up the bouquet and smash it against the wall.

Michael looks at the roses. I look at Shasta. Shasta retreats into the safety of her cubicle, sinking slowly into her chair, eyeballing me like What the actual fuck? until her head disappears beneath the wall.

“I guess it didn’t turn out to be such a bad weekend for you after all.”

In response to Michael’s terse statement, I simply smile. Mona Lisa. Mona Lisa. Mona-effing-Lisa!

“Let me get rid of this for you, kiddo.” Denny breaks the weird tension as he grabs my old chair and rolls it out of my cubicle. He rolls the new one in with a triumphant, “Ta-da!”

“Thank you. That’s great. It looks very . . . ergonomic.”

You don’t have the brains God gave a flea, Joellen.

Then, right after my own voice in my head, Cam’s voice intrudes, full of disappointment under the brogue. Dinnae tell ye te stop that, lass?

I smother the thought before it can go any further, because the last thing in the world I need is the Mountain ganging up on me, too.

While Michael and I stand in awkward silence, Denny packs up the old chair in the box, tapes it shut, and loads it back onto the dolly. When he’s finished, he turns to me with a grin.

“Did I tell you the one about Bill Gates farting in the Apple store?”

“That will be all, Denny, thank you.”

Michael’s quiet but firm voice puts the brakes on the next phase of Denny’s joke, which I’m sure has something to do with the Apple store having no Windows.

Denny says, “Oh yes, of course. Sorry, Mr. Maddox. I’ll be off now.”

He’s gone with my old chair in seconds flat, leaving Michael and I staring at each other with the stupid bouquet of roses ogling us both. I wonder if McGregor has a listening device or a camera hidden in the foliage and decide I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Um, thanks for the chair. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Joellen. I want to make sure you’re well taken care of.”

Why does his voice sound so husky?

My eyes flash up to his, our gazes lock, and the heat in his eyes makes me feel like I’m channeling starlight and lightning bolts through my veins. A peep of surprise—maybe hysteria—slips past my lips.

After a rough throat clearing, Michael smooths a hand down the lapel of his jacket. “Well. I’m back to work. Have a good day.”

Before I can answer, he turns on his heel and strides away.

I watch him go, hope and confusion and longing churning in my gut, until Shasta says in a stage whisper, “Did someone drug my coffee, or was he flirting with you?”

I throw myself over the wall that separates us and stare down at her, crouched in her chair where she has obviously been eavesdropping, and stick out my arm. “Pinch me. I’m dreaming.”

Smiling, Shasta shakes her head. “Bitch, I’ll do more than pinch you. If Michael Maddox has the hots for you, I’ll punch you right in the face.”

Today is officially the best day of my life.





EIGHT

I float through the rest of the day on a hormonal high, smiling like a crazy person. I’m not even bothered when I encounter Portia in the ladies’ room, washing her hands at the sink, and she gifts me her trademark Glare of Death in the mirror.

Nothing can touch me. I’m invincible. I’m coated in love Teflon.

I’m also not disturbed when I get off the elevator on my floor in my apartment building and rap music blaring from down the hall instantly causes me to lose 5 percent of my hearing.

I pound on the Mountain’s door, still smiling.

When he opens up, my smile falters for a moment but then snaps back into place like it’s magnetized. “Cool skirt, prancer. You look groovy in plaid. When’re you going to invest in some shirts? You do realize it’s winter, right?”

He heaves a huge sigh and looks at the ceiling, as if hoping for divine intervention. “It’s a kilt, lass.”

Of course I know that, but I enjoy giving him the business because it obviously irks him to have his kilt disrespected by calling it a skirt. “What’s the difference?”

“What you wear underneath.”

When I cock a brow, he smiles. “Ask me what I’m wearin’ underneath.”

“I feel like this is a trick to get me to look at your junk.”

He looks insulted. “My ‘junk’? Cameron McGregor doesn’t have ‘junk.’ He has family jewels, thank you very much.”

I bypass the ridiculous way he refers to himself in the third person. “Yeah, well your family jewels can stay safely under your skirt, buddy, because I’m in too good a mood to deal with a random penis sighting, thank you very much.”

He lifts the edge of his kilt a few inches and grins, waggling his eyebrows. “You sure? It’s a life-changin’ event, I promise you, lass.”

I snort. “No doubt, but I don’t have the cash to bankroll the long and expensive relationship with a psychotherapist that seeing you naked would necessitate.”