Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(48)

It’s so obvious what he wants me to say, but I know if I come right out and tell him he’s beautiful, I’ll never hear the end of it. Also, the building could explode if his ego gets any larger, so I just shrug and drift away again.

Cam surprises me by taking my arm and gently pulling me into his chest. “So what you’re sayin’ is that you think I’m beautiful?”

I aim for a breezy, nonchalant tone that doesn’t give away the sudden thumping of my heart. “Well . . . you’re not entirely unfortunate looking.”

He’s serious and intent, gazing at me with laserlike focus, not a hint of a smile in his eyes or on his face. “It’s a yes-or-no question, Joellen. So—yes or no?”

Heat begins to creep up my neck. “You know exactly how you look, McGregor.”

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, lass. I dunno how I look to you.”

The roughness of his voice surprises me, as does the intensity burning in his eyes. Has all my ribbing hurt his feelings?

I’m breathless with shame when I realize that all the times I’ve been sarcastic with him might have been taken at face value. Not everyone appreciates a sharp tongue, or that its owner is usually just a big scaredy-cat who uses sarcasm as a shield.

Oh my God. I’m such a dick. A spiteful, petty little dick who’s made a man feel bad about himself.

Looking into his eyes, I say quietly, “To me you look like a man everyone underestimates, objectifies, and misjudges because of his appearance. To me you look like a man who’s thoughtful, insightful, and kind, but hopes no one will notice because it will be mistaken for weakness. To me you look like a man who hides his pain behind smiles and buries it in women and tries everything he can to forget whatever’s hurting him but can’t because he’s got a soft heart that scars easily, but no one has ever looked close enough to see.”

A look of anguish crosses his face. His fingers curl into my arm. He swallows, hard, a muscle in his jaw flexing.

A sudden pop of noise and a flash of light make us both turn.

There’s a man with a camera standing across the aisle. It’s one of those cameras with the long lenses and the big flash box—the kind the paparazzi use.

A growl rumbles through Cam’s chest, so violent and animalistic sounding it raises the hair on my arms to gooseflesh.

It scares the crap out of the photographer, too. He leaps into motion, sprinting off down the aisle, bumping into people as he flees.

Cam lets loose a stream of obscenities under his breath that could peel the paint from the walls.

“Was that—”

“Aye. C’mon.”

Holding my arm, Cam steers me away from the aisle and through the dress department, to the dressing rooms located in the back. A young female sales associate is there, helping shoppers into rooms. Her eyes widen when she spots us coming.

“She needs a room,” Cam growls, “and I need to speak to your manager.”

Neither of us dares to disobey him. In his current state, he’s too intimidating to refuse. The girl quickly ushers me into a dressing room, then I’m alone with my shaking hands and knotted stomach, wondering what he’s going to do.

And what would’ve happened if the photographer hadn’t been there.

Was he about to kiss me?

“Are you going crazy, Joellen?” I whisper to my reflection. In the mirror I’m all wild eyes and flushed cheeks, a startled bird poised for flight. “Get it together. Your imagination is running away with you again.”

But I didn’t imagine it when I thought Michael was about to kiss me . . .

With a groan of exasperation, I throw my handbag onto the chair in the corner, hang the dresses on the bar on the wall, and tear off my coat. I spend too long wrestling myself out of my clothes because I’m flustered, and by the time I’m standing there in my underwear, I’m out of breath.

“Stupid,” I mutter, yanking the red dress off its hanger. “Stupid, stupid, stupid. One man shows you some attention, and now you think they all want you. Cam was not going to kiss you! And he probably paid that guy in the leather jacket to stare at you, because he’s nice!”

I pull down the zipper that runs the length of one side of the dress, and step into it, noting absently that it’s my size. Lucky guess. “Be grateful the poor guy’s helping you out, for Pete’s sake, and stop acting like such a dimwit!”

I shove my arms into the sleeves of the dress, get my boobs into position in the bodice, then zip everything up and, with a huff, straighten and look at myself.

“Oh.” That’s pretty much all I can come up with.

I turn slowly left, then right. The dress isn’t something I would have ever chosen for myself, but—somehow, miraculously—it works with my figure. It worships my figure.

The bodice is cut into a low V, exposing an acre of cleavage. Around the waist, the fabric is shirred to one side, gathered with a small, sparkly thingy like a brooch. The fit is tight but slimming, cut so well there are no gaps or puckers, no unsightly bulges, just a lot of softly draping scarlet fabric that swings attractively as I move.

Even the color is flattering. It makes my pale skin brighter, my mousy hair warmer, lends my green eyes a mysterious, fiery tint.

“You should definitely wear more red,” I tell my reflection, who agrees with an enthusiastic nod.