Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(23)

“I’m happy you find me so amusing.”

He abruptly stops laughing. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.”

Oh, sure. Fat is probably the word, right? I try out Portia’s Glare of Death on him. “You know, I was in a really good mood before I got home.”

“Because my roses worked. By the way, you’re welcome.”

My back teeth are in danger of shattering, I’m grinding them together so hard. But he has a point. “Well . . . yes. And thank you. How much do I owe you for that bouquet?”

“A week of shepherd’s pies. And/or loafs of meat, if this one turns out to be acceptable.”

He grins at the look of horror on my face, then shrugs. “It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what a Manhattan florist charges for one hundred roses, darlin’. But it’s up to you.”

One hundred roses? I do a quick mental calculation of what a dozen roses might cost retail, multiply it by eight, and wind up with a number so large it makes the blood drain from my face. And that’s not including tax and delivery.

But I’m quick to clarify terms because he’s a dirty deal changer. “That includes no music for a week, too, though, right?”

“Sure. But it also includes me eatin’ over here.”

I’m dumbfounded. “Here? Why here?”

He takes a moment to answer, then says with a bland expression, “I like your cat.”

I narrow my eyes and watch him idly scratch Mr. Bingley behind his ears. “Won’t that interfere with your naked poker parties and standing door sex with strangers?”

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “No, I’ll just move those to the mornin’s.”

I can tell he’s baiting me, which he seems to really love, so I keep my expression as bland as his and ignore it. “So to clarify, the deal is seven home-cooked meals, which you eat here, in exchange for payment on the roses and no loud music.”

He inclines his head, smiling slightly, which makes me suspicious.

“And that’s it?”

“I can throw in a daily viewin’ of the family jewels if you like.”

His voice is rich with suppressed laughter, and I want to hurl the meat loaf pan at his head. “No, thank you. But it occurs to me that we should discuss exactly how long it will take you to eat your meals here.”

He arches his brows. “You want a time limit, lass? That’s a trifle insultin’.”

“I just want to make sure you don’t end up sleeping on my couch.”

“What if you invite me to?”

I throw my hands in the air. “McGregor, honestly!”

“It’s a legitimate question. I’ve been told I’m irresistible often enough to believe it. You could very well wind up throwin’ yourself at me, darlin’, and then where would we be? Just clarifyin’, like you said.”

I close my eyes, inhale a slow, deep breath, and run my hands over my hair. When I open my eyes again, I find Cameron grinning at me.

I say, “Twenty minutes a night.”

The grin doesn’t budge. “I’m not a competitive eater, lass, you can’t expect me to shovel an entire pie down my throat in less than half an hour.”

“Fine. Thirty minutes.”

“One hour.”

“Forty-five minutes.”

He assesses the look on my face, my clenched fists, and my general impersonation of a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse and relents. “Forty-five minutes. Deal.”

I feel as if I’ve just negotiated peace in the Middle East. “Deal. Now sit there, and try not to be annoying while I make dinner.”

Low chuckling comes from behind me as I turn and head to the refrigerator again. I’m busy for several minutes—getting the ingredients together, mincing red bell peppers, blending moistened oats with the meat—until I feel a presence behind me and turn.

I let out a scream when I find Cameron standing not two feet away, watching me. “Jesus! You scared me half to death! What’re you doing?”

“Did you forget I was here, lass? Is your attention span that short?”

He’s laughing at me again, mirth shining in his eyes as his lips curl up at the outer edges. I yank a wooden spoon from a ceramic crock on the counter and slap his shoulder with it. “Get over there! Go sit down at the table, and stop looming!”

“Christ, you’re bossy,” he grouses, but he says it with warmth in his voice, so I can tell he actually likes it. Which works out well for both of us, because I can see a lot of beatings in his future if he keeps this up.

He lowers himself to a chair at my kitchen table, taking up all the space in the room in that irritating way he has. I throw a dish towel at him, which hits him in the face.

“Can you please cover yourself?”

“With this?” He holds the dish towel up to his broad torso. It covers about a quarter of it. When I frown, he chuckles. “Is the sight of my manly bare chest distracting you, sweetheart?”

I groan, rolling my eyes. “Forty-five minutes of this every night and I’ll go insane.”

“Aye. With lust.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“You can just call me Cam, darlin’. Though it’s accurate, God seems a wee bit formal.”