Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(40)

I’m opening my apartment door when I hear Cam’s voice. It’s muffled behind his own door but still easily discernible.

“Because I don’t bloody want to come back early, that’s why!”

I pause, my ears perked, curiosity overwhelming me.

Heavy footsteps stomp across the floor one way, then turn around and go back the other. “My fucking attorney is supposed to be handling that!” he roars. “He said I wouldn’t have to appear in court until the seventeenth of next month!”

Oh boy. That doesn’t sound good.

Trying to be quiet, I turn the key in the lock and open my door. I don’t want Cam to think I was spying on him and get called a Peeping Tom again, so it’s my intention to sneak in, mouselike, but Mr. Bingley has other ideas.

“RRROOOOWWW!” he shrieks, caterwauling like I’ve stepped on his tail.

“Shh!” I hiss, waving a hand at him. “I’ll feed you in one second!”

But it’s too late. The door across the hall is already opening.

Staring at me, Cam thunders into the phone in his hand, “I’ve gotta fucking go! I’ll call you back later!”

He stabs his finger against the screen to end the call, tosses the phone over his shoulder so it lands with a clatter on the floor, then stands there staring at me, breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down and his eyes wild.

“Hey there, prancer. Bad day?” I let him seethe silently for a few seconds. “You want to talk about it?”

“No!”

“Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Have a nice evening.”

I assume he won’t want to be social tonight due to the severe thunderstorm boiling over his head, but he puts that notion to rest by slamming his door, striding across the hall, and pushing past me into my apartment.

“Sure, c’mon in, make yourself at home,” I say drily, watching him drop onto my sofa. “Always a pleasure to have an angry three-hundred-pound gorilla in the house.”

He rests his head on the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is subdued. “Sorry, lass. Just lemme cool off for a second.”

Mr. Bingley reminds me in no uncertain terms of his displeasure at being made to wait for his dinner and trots into the kitchen with his tail held high. I close the door, wondering how I became a meal slave to these two high-maintenance males.

I drop my handbag on the console, shuck off my coat and scarf and drape them over a chair, and take the wine into the kitchen, where I feed the cat and then go on a hunt for the bottle opener and a good crystal wineglass. It’s hidden behind all the other crappy, mismatched glasses in a cupboard. I spend a while wrestling with the cork until it pops out, then I call over my shoulder, “You want a glass of wine?”

“Cameron McGregor doesn’t drink wine.”

I scream, because the bastard has appeared from thin air and now stands right beside me.

“McGregor! Quit doing that!”

He looks faintly amused. “It’s not my fault you’re as deaf as your cat, lass.”

“I’m not deaf at all. You’re just unnaturally stealthy!”

He chuckles, and I’m relieved to see a few of the thunderclouds are dissipating. “That’s true. Ninjalike, I am.”

“Don’t talk backward like Yoda. You’re too muscular to pull it off.”

“Aha! You’re finally admittin’ to yourself what a handsome, burly devil I am!”

“Here we go.” I smile and shake my head, then pour myself a glass of cab. I take a nice long swig, swallow, and sigh happily.

Which is when I notice Cam looking me up and down.

“What?”

“You’re wearin’ a dress. And heels.”

“Congratulations on your astonishing powers of observation.”

He doesn’t laugh. “You look . . .”

When he fails to complete the sentence, my face flushes. “Like a person in a dress? Why thank you, what a spectacular compliment.”

His gaze flashes up to mine. “Great, I was gonna say . . . you look really great.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but he gives no indication that he’s making a joke.

I swear this dress has magical powers. I might wear it every day from now on. “Thanks. So, if you don’t drink wine, what do you drink?”

“Beer. But dark beer. Lager, ale, nothin’ you can see through.”

“Because real men don’t drink sissy, pale-colored beer.”

“Exactly. I knew you thought I was a real man.”

“The jury’s still out, pal. You wear an awful lot of skirts. I’m afraid I might find you raiding my closet one of these nights. But if you need a friend to talk to about it, I’m down. I’ll even let you try on my bras.”

We grin at each other. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Today he’s wearing an actual outfit, composed of white T-shirt, black boots, and those faded blue jeans slung low on his hips. With all the tattoos on his biceps, his shaggy hair, and the dark scruff on his jaw, he looks like he could be anything from an outlaw biker to a rock star.

I might be able to see the appeal that had all those women in the supermarket drooling.

“What’s that look you’re wearin’, lass? Your face is funny. You havin’ an episode of intestinal gas?”