Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(28)

Cam must see something in my eyes, because his own sharpen. He leans closer, his lips parted, a vein throbbing in his neck.

The phone rings.

I jump, sucking in a startled breath, and almost laugh hysterically with relief but manage to swallow it. I jerk away from Cam and fall onto the phone on the kitchen wall like it’s a life vest. Into it I bark, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey,” says my mother. “Why are you shouting?”

“Oh, sorry, uh . . . I have my music on a little loud.”

From behind me, Cam chuckles. Because my mother has supersonic hearing the X-Men would be proud of, she picks up on the sound right away.

“Who’s that? Is someone there with you?”

Avoiding looking at Cam, I stare at the oven, willing my galloping heart to slow down. “Just my neighbor.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddle?”

This conversation is about to turn into an FBI interrogation, so I head to the wine rack next to the counter and select a bottle of red. As I’m getting the corkscrew from a drawer, I say, “No, he’s a new neighbor.”

With the weight of the four thousand unborn grandchildren she so desperately wants, my mother repeats, “He?”

I fumble for a few moments with the corkscrew, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while trying to cut off the foil on the bottle without slicing off a finger, until Cam takes the bottle from me with a look like Calm down, nutjob.

He gets the bottle open faster than I can gulp down a calming breath and starts to rummage through my cupboards for a wineglass. I point at the right one and say to my mother, “Don’t start knitting baby booties yet, mother. He’s gay.”

Cam chuckles again, this time louder. “Tell her my name and see what she says about me bein’ gay.”

I hiss, “Shut up!”

My mother asks, “What did he say? What’s going on over there?”

Why do I feel twelve years old all of a sudden? “My neighbor’s just giving me some decorating advice.”

“Oh, how nice! Maybe he can help you with your wardrobe, too, sweetie.”

Cam holds out the glass of wine he’s poured for me, and I guzzle it like it’s a competition. Then—bastard!—he wrests the phone from my hand.

“Hullo, Mrs. Bixby. This is Cameron McGregor. Your daughter and I are in love.”

Wine sprays from my mouth like a geyser, coating the kitchen counter and my chin.

I leap at him, grabbing for the phone, but he bats me away as easily as if I were a puppy. “Aye,” he says into the phone, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “That Cameron McGregor.” He listens for a moment as I continue to wrestle with him for control of the phone and fail miserably. “Oh, your husband’s a big fan?” he drawls, smirking at me. “That’s great to hear. Is he home? I’d love to talk to him.”

“Give me the phone, you big ape! Give it to me!”

Cam holds me at arm’s length with some ninja moves as I twist and turn, desperate to grab the phone from his hand, to no avail. It’s like fighting the wind. In a few seconds I’m dizzy from spinning around so much and have to put a hand to my forehead as I try to catch my breath.

Then Cam starts to talk to my father, and I give up. I collapse into a chair at the table and hide my head under my arms, hoping for the best.

“Hullo, sir. Aye, your wife was just telling me—yessir, it’s really me.”

My groan is long, low, and miserable.

“No, no, nothin’ permanent. My cousin and I traded flats for the holidays. I needed a change of scenery, you could say . . .” Cam listens for a while, then his voice darkens. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sir.”

Curious about his tone, I lift my head and look at him, but he turns his back on me, bending to peer into the oven at the meat loaf. “Aye, it was a bang-up season. No injuries, touch wood.” He nods, listening. “You get the matches on cable?” More nodding, a few grunts of acknowledgment. “You can count on it, sir.”

Then he laughs at something my father has said and turns to look at me. “So I’m discoverin’.” His smile fades as he listens again. “Actually I know several lads who think she’s quite—” Another few moments of listening, then Cam’s face turns red. He says stiffly, “I don’t know about your other daughter, sir, but this one’s a belter.” Another pause. “It means ‘fantastic.’ Have yourself a good night.”

He stalks over to me, thrusts the phone in my face, and pins me with a furious glare. “Five o’clock tomorrow mornin’, lass,” he says through gritted teeth. “Trainin’ starts. If you’re not ready, I’ll kick down the door and drag you out of bed myself.”

I watch, mystified, as he strides away, launches himself through the living room, and disappears.

“What about your meat loaf?” I holler after him.

My only answer is the sound of his slammed apartment door.





TEN

“I can’t believe that was really Cameron McGregor!” my father enthuses as the echo of a slamming door reverberates through my apartment. “Wait’ll I tell the guys at the club—they’ll totally flip out. Epic.”

Because my parents are Los Angeles natives, uttering words like epic to describe a two-minute telephone conversation with a stranger is par for the course. Pretty much everyone I grew up with in our small beach community takes great liberties with the English language, as do their parents, who practice yoga and get Botox and eat disgusting things like kale salads and generally act as if aging is something that only happens to people less in tune with the healing energy of the cosmos.