Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(36)

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. But I’d never make someone else feel bad about themselves because they didn’t conform to my idea of perfection.”

“And that’s what you’re suggesting my family did to me?”

“Didn’t they?”

I’m so mad my whole body shakes. Making things worse is that he’s right. “I think your forty-five minutes are up.”

I stand, take my plate to the sink, and dump the rest of my food into it. I throw the plate on top of the uneaten food and blink hard, trying to clear my eyes of the water pooling in them.

“Joellen—”

“Stop. Not another word. You can let yourself out.”

There’s a long, heavy silence behind me. Then Cam sighs. I hear his chair scrape back from the table as he rises. “Are we still on for the mornin’?”

I count to ten before I answer so my voice doesn’t shake. “Yes.”

“Okay,” he says, his voice softer. “Good.” He takes a few steps away but pauses before he gets to the door. “For what it’s worth, lass . . . they’re wrong.”

I close my eyes. A lone tear squeezes out beneath an eyelid and tracks down my cheek. Then my front door opens and closes, and I’m alone with Mr. Bingley twining around my ankles and the realization that I’m not the only one who’s peeked behind a curtain.

If I’ve seen the real Cameron McGregor, he’s seen right through Joellen Bixby, too.




That night I don’t sleep. Cam’s words swirl around in my head like a tornado, kicking up all kinds of nasty, ancient dirt. I hate myself for getting so affected by his simple observation and worry that if he can see me so clearly, everyone else must, too.

But when I think about it, I realize he’s the only one who’s looking.

In the morning, it’s awkward.

“Hi,” he says in a subdued voice, dwarfing my doorway when I open to his knock. He’s got his hands shoved into the front pockets of a black hoodie, the hood drawn down over his forehead, a pair of black sweats and black athletic shoes completing the look.

“Hi. This is the least skin I’ve ever seen of yours. Are you feeling okay?”

His lips twitch, but he smiles using only his eyes. “If you want, I can take off my shirt. It’ll cut at least five minutes off your warm-up time.”

“There he is. Good morning, prancer.”

“Mornin’, dragon lady.” He reaches around his waist and produces a plastic bottle of the green goo he fed me yesterday morning. When I take it, he looks relieved, like he was expecting a fight.

“Wait.” I stare at the bottle in my hand, then look up at Cam with furrowed brows. “Where did this come from?”

“My blender.”

“You have a blender in the back of your pants?”

“It was in my waistband.”

That gives me pause. “You thought it was a good idea to carry a bottle of liquid in your waistband for a five-foot walk across a hall? Are both your hands broken?”

He makes jazz hands at me, breaking into the smile he’s been trying to hold back. “The hands are fully operational, lass. In case you’ve a mind to give a lad a tactile tour of your majestic lady parts, as you’d put it.”

“Please tell me you’re wearing underwear and that this bottle wasn’t, like, resting on your butt crack.”

With a straight face, he says, “Aye, lass, you caught me. It’s a bottle of butt crack juice. Drink up, it’s full o’ vitamins.”

“Vitamins?”

My imagination starts to run wild. I once read a cookbook titled Natural Harvest written by a man who thought every dish could be improved by adding a certain “natural” ingredient produced only by a pair of male testicles. The photo accompanying the recipe for Slightly Saltier Caviar haunts me to this day.

“Just drink the bloody thing, lass. It’s juiced veggies and protein powder!”

I close the apartment door behind me and shove my keys into the little zippered pocket on my fleece vest. “Fine. But if this tastes suspiciously salty, I’m kicking your ass.” I open the bottle and sniff the contents, listening to the Mountain chuckle.

“The only salty thing in this hallway is you, darlin’.”

His voice is as warm as his gaze when I meet it over the bottle. He shaved today, but somehow his usual scruff suits him better. He’s not the kind of guy who should be buffed to a shine, manscaped and manicured, pretty. All his rough edges combine to make something more interesting. More . . .

Masculine.

I guzzle the green goo and wipe my hand across my mouth when I’m finished, looking away because my face is suddenly flaming.

Cam cocks his head. “Uh-oh. You must’ve had a dirty thought about pretty boy Michael. Your face just turned to beet.”

When I answer with only a smile and a stiff nod, Cam chuckles again. “A little early in the mornin’ to be feelin’ frisky, innit, sweetheart?”

Hearing him call me sweetheart makes my face go even hotter, and now I’d like to kick my own ass for being a dope.

“Let’s get started,” I tell him, a little too sharply.

He’s amused by my sudden shift in manner. “Okay, okay, no need to get testy.”