Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(24)

I make a sound of exasperation that contains a lot of snarling fricatives and go back to assembling the meat loaf.

Cam is quiet until I put the loaf into the oven and set the timer. Then he says, “So. Pretty boy. Tell me.”

The thought of Michael’s expression when he looked at the roses on my desk brings a smile to my face. I wash my hands in the sink, dry them, then lean against the counter with my arms folded over my chest and meet Cam’s gaze. “It was brilliant. He came over first thing in the morning to see about the chair he ordered me, and there’s this huge bouquet on my—”

“What chair?”

I’m startled by the force of his question. “Oh. He thought my office chair was broken because I was being my usual clumsy self and . . .” The way Cam’s face darkens when I call myself clumsy makes me quickly rewind. “I mean, he thought my chair was broken and ordered me another one.”

“This was before he saw the roses?”

“Yeah. This was during the conversation I had with him on Sunday, when I found out he was getting divorced.”

“When you say he thought it was broken, that makes it sound like it wasn’t actually broken.”

“It wasn’t. It’s hard to explain without getting you mad, because I’ll have to describe what happened, and honestly I don’t see any way around that without mentioning that I’m clumsy.”

Cam gazes at me steadily. “Huh.”

“What d’you mean, ‘huh’?”

“There’s two parts to it.”

“There’s two parts to a one-syllable word?”

“To the explanation.”

“Why do I feel like I should be sitting for this?”

Cam motions to the chair across from him, which I sink into, weirdly nervous about what he might say.

Drumming his fingers on the table, Cam says, “Part one is the interestin’ fact that pretty boy ordered you a new office chair.”

I chew my lip with worry. “Why is that interesting?”

“Interestin’ that he noticed. Interestin’ that he took the initiative. Interestin’ that he made it happen so fast. Interestin’ that he dropped by to make sure it was done. All of it made even more interestin’ because you’re of the opinion he doesn’t know you exist.”

I lean forward, my eyes wide. “That’s what I thought!”

“What did he do when he saw the flowers?”

“He sort of . . . glared at them, like he wanted to throw them away.”

A muscle flexes in Cam’s jaw, but he’s silent.

“What’s part two?”

“That you care if I get mad when you’re too hard on yourself.”

I wave that away because I want to get back to Michael. “So, what do you think it all means?”

“I think it means he likes you.”

Though I’m thrilled by the possibility that what he’s saying might be true, I know it’s not reality. “Much as I’d love to believe that, I can’t.”

“Maybe you should take my word for it, lass.”

“This from the man wearing nothing but a plaid skirt who insists I’m desperate to have his babies.”

Cam’s smile comes on slow and heated. “Aye. And what bonny wee bairns they’d be, too. Pretty little devils with their mum’s salty tongue.”

“Being around you is slightly exhausting, McGregor.”

“Only slightly? I’m takin’ that as a compliment, lass.”

I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Weakly at first, but then I give in to the hysteria I’ve been holding back all day, brought on by my morning encounter with Michael, and laugh with gusto, my head thrown back, pounding a fist on the table.

“You see?” Cam sounds smug. “You’re mad about me. Only a woman in love can laugh like that.”

Wiping tears from my eyes, I try to catch my breath. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby, weren’t you?”

“Not as a baby,” he answers softly, the smile fading from his face. “That came later.”

That statement shoots my laughter from the air like clay birds. I stare at him―he’s suddenly serious, his jaw tense―and wonder if I’m supposed to pretend he didn’t say anything or take it as an opening to delve into his personal life. And if I want to open this particular can of worms.

“I can hear the gears turnin’, lass,” he says, watching my face. “Don’t break your brain—just go ahead and ask.”

“Um. Sheesh. I don’t know where to start.” After a moment, I ask tentatively, “You . . . had a rough childhood?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t googled me.”

“Of course I haven’t googled you! Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m Cameron McGregor, that’s why.”

I have to blink at his casual delivery, like he takes it for granted that every person who comes into contact with him rushes to the internet immediately after they meet to discover all the intimate details of his background.

If I thought he had a big ego before, now I think it’s positively colossal. “Okay, not to be mean, but I literally had never heard of you until you moved into my building.”