Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(34)

“I’ll bet you fifty dollars he uses a pore-reducing mask and slathers on expensive antiaging skin cream before bed every night.”

“Can I just point out at this juncture in the conversation that these observations are ridiculous coming from a man who apparently doesn’t believe in clothing himself from the waist up?”

I gesture to his chest, which is—as usual—bare. His legs are clad in a pair of faded blue jeans, slung low on his hips so the V of his abdominal muscles acts like a neon sign pointing toward the bulge in his crotch.

By now I’ve mastered the art of noticing his bulge without looking directly at it, a Jedi-level skill.

He brushes off my pesky logic with a hand wave and one of his classic Cameron McGregor self-love statements. “It’s impossible to find shirts that fit all these muscles.”

I shake my head. “Dude, you lift the definition of egomaniac to new heights.”

He grins at me. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“That’s what you think.”

I laugh again because the only other option is crying. “Moving on. Dinner’s in an hour. It will be better than my loaf and my pie. And one more thing, Tarzan. Wear a shirt.” I turn and head to my apartment, shaking my head at what he says next.

“I could, but you’ll probably only end up tearin’ it off me at the end of the night, lassie. Waste of a perfectly good shirt.”

He closes his door, chuckling. I go inside, smiling because I’ve had such a fantastic day and I’m about to make the Mountain a meal that will blow his socks off.

I don’t take the time to wonder why the second part makes me almost as happy as the first.





TWELVE

The moan coming from across the table would do a porn star proud.

“Sweet Jesus. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. That’s so bloody good. Ach, it’s like a party in my mouth. Like an orgy in my mouth! If I died at this moment, I’d be happy, because I would’ve finally discovered the meanin’ of life.”

Trying not to be too pleased by Cam’s extravagant praise, I allow myself a small smile. “The meaning of life is rigatoni carbonara?”

“No, lass. The meanin’ of life is rigatoni carbonara with homemade garlic bread, black-truffle gnocchi, and a weird fruity salad.”

“It’s a fennel, orange, mint, red chicory, pomegranate, balsamic, and extra virgin olive oil salad, not a ‘weird’ salad.”

Eyes closed, Cam waves his fork in the air like he’s the pope performing a blessing at mass. “Details. My point is that it’s pure braw. Pedro.”

“What’s ‘braw’ and who’s Pedro?”

Cam opens his eyes, and they’re sparkling with laughter. “It means ‘amazin’.’”

“You could’ve just said that.”

“I did!” He shovels another forkful of rigatoni into his mouth and winks at me as he chews.

“I’m glad you like it. But don’t expect this for the remainder of your bribery meals, because today we’re celebrating.”

“Oh yeah?” he says around a mouthful. “What’re we celebratin’?”

“I got a raise.”

Cam stops chewing.

“And there’s an associate editor position open, which the HR director encouraged me to apply for.” I beam at Cam as he swallows his mouthful of food.

It’s a moment before he answers. “Congratulations, lass. You deserve the raise, I’m sure.”

There’s something funny in his voice that gets my hackles up. “Why does that feel like one of those backhanded compliments I get on blind dates, like ‘It’s great that you’re not obsessed with how you look’?”

Cam takes a swallow of water from his glass before answering. When he does, he keeps his gaze on his plate of food. “Just seems a little coincidental is all.”

“How is it coincidental? I applied for the raise a month ago!”

His gaze flashes up to mine. “Uh-huh. And you’re gettin’ it the week pretty boy replaced your chair and I sent you roses.”

“God, you’re a buzzkill.”

“Just pointin’ it out. What’s the deal with the position that’s open?”

The memory of Ruth’s face when Michael stuck his head in her office gives me a moment’s pause, as does the odd way she cut him off when he was talking about Maria. At the time I was too busy being thrilled to notice how strange it was, but now . . .

“The girl who had the job left suddenly.”

As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s a mistake. Cam’s brows fly up. He leans back into his chair and pins me with a pointed look.

“McGregor, your imagination is almost as overactive as mine. There’s no conspiracy here, you big lug! It’s just an open position! People leave their jobs all the time!”

He stares at me without blinking. “Do they?”

The urge to smash his plate over his head is strong, but I’m still in too good a mood to go for it. “So this is interesting. I’m discovering new aspects to your personality every day. Giant ego, check. Fetish for tight leg wear and bad music, check. Ingrained suspicion of good luck and active paranoia, check.”