Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(27)



“Ha! Me adopting an exercise routine is about as likely as you suddenly developing humility and fashion sense.” I stand, cross to the oven, and impatiently tap the timer, convinced it’s not working.

“How much weight do you wanna lose by the party?” he demands, sweeping his gaze over my figure.

I shoot him a sour look. “A literal ton. And if you can add in glowing skin and a pair of boobs that don’t look like something out of National Geographic, lengthen my legs by a few inches, and generally reduce my resemblance to the ogress Princess Fiona from Shrek, you’re on.”

I’m too busy assessing the state of the cooking meat loaf through the glass window of the oven to notice the yawning silence, but after a while it dawns on me that Cam isn’t saying anything, which can only be bad news.

I glance over at him and find what I know I’ll find: Cam doing his best impersonation of Wolverine.

I straighten and sigh, shaking my head. “Please don’t bristle at me, McGregor.”

He enunciates each word slowly, as if he’s biting them off with his teeth. “Who. Told. You. You’re. Ugly.”

“Every mirror I’ve ever looked into.”

Wrong answer. Wolverine goes full mutant mode. It’s lucky he’s not wearing a shirt, because it would be ripped to shreds by his sudden angry expansion.

“Stop, McGregor. Just stop. I know how I look.”

“Maybe you need new glasses.”

That pisses me off. I hate it when well-meaning people try to make me feel better about my looks.

My cheeks flaming with heat, I say quietly, “Don’t you dare pity me or patronize me. And don’t bullshit me, either. I own mirrors, and a scale, and have a younger sister who’s won enough beauty contests that I know what pretty is supposed to look like. And I’m not it. Which is fine—I’m not feeling sorry for myself. But when someone like you who’s physically gifted tries to be kind about my appearance, it comes off as really disingenuous and honestly kind of cruel.”

Because I’m upset and my throat has tightened, my voice breaks over the last word. I hate how vulnerable I sound, how it must be so obvious to him that I’m upset, so I turn away, folding my arms protectively over my chest and hiding my flaming face.

From across the kitchen comes Cam’s low voice. “I don’t pity you, Joellen. And I’m a lot of things, but a bullshitter isn’t one of ’em.”

When I shake my head, huffing out a hard breath through my nose, Cam demands, “Look at me.”

“I’m too mad to look at you. Now be quiet before I take the meat loaf out of the oven and shove it up your stuck-up butt.”

There’s a pause, then Cam chuckles. “Y’know, lass, in some cultures when a woman constantly threatens a man with violence, it’s a sure sign she likes him.”

I’m overcome with sudden fatigue and scrub my hands over my face. “You’re relentless. Also that’s a totally made-up fact.”

“I’m sure I read it somewhere, but here’s a fact that isn’t made up. If you wanna look different for pretty boy, I’m your best shot.”

I slant him a sideways glare.

He meets it with an expression of total confidence, his smile the very definition of smug. “I was a runt as a boy, lass. The incredibly delectable body you see before you is self-made, forged from nothin’ but will.”

Ignoring my exasperated sigh, he makes a motion with his hand to indicate his form. “This majestic display of manhood didn’t just happen. Cameron McGregor wasn’t carved by Michelangelo’s hand like the David. He was carved by his own. I’m sure you’ll agree, the results are even more spectacular.”

“Sorry, I think I just vomited a little in my mouth. What were you saying?”

Holding my gaze, Cam rises from his chair and comes to stand right in front of me. “Gimme your hand.”

Leery, I back away several inches. “If you’re thinking of giving me a tactile tour of other parts of your majestic manhood, you can go jump off a cliff.”

He grabs my hand and flattens it over his stomach before I can react. His skin is hot and soft, the muscles beneath are corded and as unyielding as steel, and the blood suffusing my cheeks is in imminent danger of leaking straight through my pores.

Pressing his big hand over mine, he says in a thick voice, “When it comes to the body, I know what I’m doin’, lass. Gimme a chance to show you what I mean. I promise you’ll be satisfied.”

When he gazes deep into my eyes, I discover I’m having trouble breathing.

Here’s the thing: I know I have an overactive imagination. I’m prone to flights of fancy, have arguments in my head with people that last for days, could daydream myself into old age if I’m not careful. But I know to the marrow of my bones that the low rumble of heat in Cameron’s voice—the absolute conviction behind the words I promise you’ll be satisfied—is more than his usual Broadway show.

He’s telling the truth . . . and he’s not talking about an exercise program.

My uterus comes alive like a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza, exploding with heat and color, the “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing over loudspeakers, bleachers full of screaming fans jumping up and down. Cam’s gaze is locked to mine like a tractor beam. I suddenly understand what romance novels are talking about when they refer to the heroine as having weak knees, because mine are rubberized. I’m about to melt into a liquid pool at his feet.

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