Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(49)

There’s a gentle knock on the dressing room door. “Is everything all right in there, miss? Do you need any different sizes?”

I open the door a crack and tentatively look out. “Um, would you happen to have any heels I can try on with this?”

The salesgirl looks me up and down. “Wow, that looks like it was made for you! What shoe size do you wear?”

I tell her, and she’s off. Less than a minute later, she’s back, bearing a pair of strappy gold heels.

“I’ll break my leg in those,” I say doubtfully, noting the height of the heel.

“Honey, if you’re gonna go for it, go for broke. Metaphorically speaking.”

She has a point. I pull off my shoes and socks and step into the heels, then inspect my reflection once again. Then I pull the elastic out of my hair and comb it out with my fingers so it floats over my shoulders and down my back.

“Your boyfriend’s gonna love it,” the salesgirl says, grinning.

“Oh, he’s not my—”

But she’s already dragging me out of the dressing room, no doubt dreaming of the commission she’ll make if she can convince us to take the dress.

Cam’s standing right outside the entrance to the dressing rooms, his back turned to us, his arms folded over his chest.

When the salesgirl calls, “Here she is!” he looks over his shoulder. Then he jerks all the way around, his eyes big and his jaw unhinged.

He drags his gaze up and down my body, says faintly, “Holy shit,” and sinks into a nearby chair.





SEVENTEEN

My first instinct is to cover myself with my hands. Whatever’s causing that stunned look on his face, it must be really bad. But then it dawns on me that his expression isn’t one of disgust.

“Is it . . . okay?”

He swallows. His blink seems to last an unnaturally long time. He clears his throat and offers a curt, “Yup.”

“Yup? That’s it?” I look down at myself, regretting the heels. Maybe I look slutty. Maybe there’s too much boob showing. Oh God, maybe I was wrong about the color—

“Joellen.”

Cam’s sharp tone yanks me out of my head and back into reality. “Huh?” I stare at him, wringing my hands.

Slowly and softly, holding my gaze as he enunciates every word, he says, “You. Look. Sexy. As. Fuck.”

My face floods with heat. I look bashfully at the floor while the salesgirl claps happily, squealing in delight.

“Right? I told her the same thing! I mean, not exactly the same thing”—she laughs, a braying noise—“but you know what I mean. She looks fantastic!”

I peek up at Cam from under my lashes. His hands are curled around the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles are white.

This is very confusing. “So . . . um . . . you think Michael will like it?”

At the mention of Michael’s name, the salesgirl’s happy squeals die a quick death. She eyeballs Cam, then makes a hasty retreat when she sees the thunderclouds gathering over his head.

“Excuse me, folks, there’s someone who needs my help . . .”

She’s gone. After an excruciating moment of silence, Cam says evenly, “Aye. He’ll like it.”

“Are you mad again?”

“Don’t be silly, lass. Why would I be mad?”

He stares at me, his jaw set and his brows lowered, looking like he’s about to blow a gasket.

“It’s just that . . . you seem a little mad.”

He grinds his teeth together and draws a long, slow breath through his nose. “I’m. Not. Bloody. Mad.”

Oh boy. He’s super mad. I better go change. Without another word, I spin around and flee to the safety of my dressing room, where I slam the door behind me and collapse into the chair, right on top of my handbag.

I sit there for a minute, trying to figure out exactly what just happened, when I hear Cam’s low voice right outside the door.

“Lass.”

“Yeah?”

“Try the black one, too.”

I chew my fingernail. “Maybe we should just go—”

“Try the black one, too, woman!” he snaps. His footsteps stomp off.

“You’re not the boss of me,” I mutter, frowning at the door.

From the dressing room next to me comes a woman’s voice. “I’d sure let him be the boss of me, sister!”

I sigh and give up all hope of understanding anything. Then I change out of the red dress and into the black one and present myself for inspection once again.

One finger tapping a slow staccato rhythm against the arm of his chair, Cam takes his time perusing my figure. His eyes investigate every inch of me, every curve and bump and awkward bulge. It’s so embarrassing, I cover my face with my hands.

“Stop hidin’, lass. You’re not ten years old.”

“Ugh.”

“Look at me.”

I gather my courage and look at him, but I’m still squirming.

“What’s wrong?”

“You’re making me self-conscious.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like you’re about to puke!”

He stares at me for a long time in cavernous, terrible silence, his eyes black, his brows drawn together, that spastic muscle in his jaw jumping around like crazy. “Lass.”