Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(50)

“What?”

“What you know about men wouldn’t fill a teaspoon.”

I cross my arms over my chest and stare right back at him, lifting my chin in a fake show of bravery. “I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales heavily, closing his eyes. He mutters, “For the love of all that’s holy, this woman.”

“Excuse me, sir, did you ask to see me?”

A smiling man in a suit stands to my right, looking expectantly at Cam. The saleslady hovers nervously a few feet behind him.

Cam rises to his feet. “Aye. Let’s talk over there.”

They walk away, and I run back into the dressing room, nearly breaking my ankle on the way as I stumble over an invisible imperfection in the carpet.

No, my brain helpfully reminds me, that’s just your big feet.

Now I remember why I hate shopping.




In the cab on the way home, Cam is silent. I try several times to make conversation, but when he only halfheartedly responds, I give up and take to staring out the window instead.

I ended up buying the red dress. It’s folded on the seat between us in a garment bag, probably just as confused as I am as to why everyone’s so tense.

On the ride up the elevator, I thank Cam for all his help. He seems to think that’s really funny, but I have no idea why.

When I ask him if he’d like to have dinner with Mrs. Dinwiddle and me—because it’s our long-standing tradition on Saturday night—he politely declines, saying he’s made plans to meet someone in the Village.

I’m stupidly deflated by that news but tell him with a smile that I hope his date is fun.

The look he gives me in response could freeze magma.

When he quietly closes his apartment door after I bid him good-bye, I’m left wondering what I did wrong, replaying the whole day over and over in my mind.

I don’t know what happened, but I’m determined whatever it is, I’m going to fix it.




Dinner with Mrs. Dinwiddle is a blur. On my way out the door, she gives me a bag full of beauty products and tells me I must use the hot oil conditioner on my hair or she’ll make me babysit Fee, Fi, and Fo when she goes to visit her sister in Cornwall in the spring. I agree quickly, because although her dogs are cute, they’re also psychotic.

I sleep fitfully and don’t dream. I’m awake before the alarm goes off at 4:30 a.m., surprised by how eager I am to get my daily jog in. It’s still hell, of course, but even though my body aches afterward, my head is clearer and it’s helping me lose weight.

If someone had told me a few weeks ago I’d actually be enjoying exercise, I’d have told him to seek psychiatric help, but here we are.

Thanks to Cam.

But he doesn’t knock on my door at five, or five minutes past, or ten minutes past. By quarter past, I’m worried.

“What do you think, Mr. Bingley? Should I go over there?”

Mr. Bingley is mute on the matter, deciding it’s more important to groom his tail than provide an answer, so I decide for myself and head over to Cam’s.

When I find his apartment door standing ajar, my heart slams into fifth gear.

“Cam?” I knock on the door, which causes it to swing open a few more inches.

Only one light is on, in the kitchen, but it’s enough to see that a pair of jeans lies discarded in the entry beside one big black boot. Its companion is several feet away, kicked under a bench. I poke my head inside the apartment and call out his name again but get no reply. I do, however, spot one of the dining room chairs on its side and a glass smashed on the floor beneath the table.

Now I start to freak out. Was he robbed? Kidnapped? Ambushed? Is he lying in a pool of his own blood on the bathroom floor?

Breathless, I barge inside, frantically calling his name. I get no answer. His bedroom door is open. I push through it, throwing it open so hard it hits the wall.

Then I skid to a halt, horrified.

Cam is sprawled on his back on the bed, his arms and legs flung out, his eyes closed, his chest moving up and down in a slow, even rhythm. He’s asleep.

He’s also naked.

He’s naked!

I whirl around with a gasp, clapping my hand over my mouth, so mortified my face burns with heat. I take a moment to breathe, trying desperately to wipe my mind of the image of his big tattooed nude body from my head, without success.

It’s all I can see. The image is burned into my retinas and will haunt me until the day I die.

My God. No wonder the man is so popular with women. He should be starring in his own reality show about the life of a colossally well-endowed bachelor.

I take a few steps away on tiptoe, until I’m caught.

“Lass.”

His voice is thick with sleep. Paired with the scalding hot image in my head, it nearly trips me. Hormones I didn’t even know I have are throwing some kind of rave party in my lady parts, complete with pounding music, flashing lights, and laser beams.

Shaking, I whisper, “Um.”

Behind me, sheets rustle. I can’t move. I’m frozen. I’ve become a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife when she looked back at Sodom.

Cam clears his throat. It’s the single most masculine sound I’ve heard in my existence on the planet.

“Lass. You’re in my bedroom.”