Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(52)

“Oh really?” a voice behind me drawls.

I scream, leap into the air, and spin around, dropping the can of cat food in the process.

Cam sits at my kitchen table with a lazy smile on his face and the cat in his lap.

I thunder, “WHAT THE HELL, MCGREGOR?”

His gaze piercing, he replies calmly, “You thought I had a woman in my bathroom earlier, didn’t you?”

My heart gallops so hard I can’t catch my breath. I start to splutter and shake, furious but also—again—horrifically embarrassed. “You . . . you jerk! You can’t just waltz in here unannounced any time you like! This is my home! My private home!”

“As I recall, you waltzed into my place unannounced only a few hours ago. At least you’re clothed.”

His smile is smug, and I want to kill him. “Get out!”

“No.”

“Yes!” I stamp my foot and point at the door. “Out!”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t budge an inch. “A question for you, Miss Snufflebottom: Why would you care if I did have a woman in my bathroom?”

“I wouldn’t! I didn’t! I don’t!”

His steady gaze never wavers from mine. He says softly, “What did I tell you about lyin’ to me?”

He stands up, and my heart stops. When he takes a step forward, I take one back and put my hand out. As if that will help anything.

“Cam. Stop. Whatever you’re thinking—”

“You know exactly what I’m thinkin’, lass.” His eyes are alight, his lips tipped up at the corners.

What happens inside my body when I hear the tone of his voice and see that look in his eyes is indescribable. I want to throw something sharp and heavy at him, but at the same time I’d like that something to be me.

When he takes another step toward me, I skitter away into the corner, panting. “Cut it out! This isn’t funny!”

“I’d stop if I thought you were really scared.” His eyes burn as he takes another step. “Are you scared, lass? Tell the truth.”

Panicking, I make a sound like a door that needs its hinges greased.

He chuckles. “That wasn’t a yes.”

He gets right up into my face, braces his arms on the counter on either side of me, and stares into my eyes. I shrink away as far as I can until the back of my head thunks into the cupboard. He’s so close, I’m certain I can hear his heart beating.

After a moment when he doesn’t do anything, I whisper, “I actually am pretty scared.”

He glances at my mouth before his eyes flick back up to meet mine. “But not one hundred percent scared.”

I close my eyes and swallow. “What’s your point?”

His warm breath brushes my ear, raising gooseflesh on my arms. “My point is . . . what’s the other percentage?”

I bite my lip to catch the groan threatening to break from my chest and swallow again. “Twelve.”

“Twelve?”

I hear laughter in his voice, so I open my eyes. When I find him grinning, I snap. “Yes, twelve! Satisfied?”

His grin quickly fades, and his voice turns husky. “No, lass. Not at all. Not yet.” He moistens his lips, then sinks his teeth into the bottom one.

Daaaaaammmmn, says my uterus, fanning itself.

Just when I think my knees will give out and I’ll slither to the floor, Cam pushes away from me and strolls out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I had a meetin’ with one o’ my attorneys last night, lass. I came home alone. Not that you care, right?”

The front door slams, and he’s gone.

It’s a good thing Mr. Bingley is deaf, because my scream of frustration would scare the bejesus out of him.




I spend the remainder of the day inside with the door locked. I check it three times just to make sure. I do laundry, clean the apartment, fiddle with some of the beauty products Mrs. Dinwiddle gave me, and try to keep Cameron McGregor out of my head.

Irritating space invader that he is, he doesn’t comply, so I’m stuck with a smug, imaginary Cam inside my brain, lounging naked on a mattress with one leg swinging slowly back and forth off the side.

At six o’clock on the nose, rap music blasts through the walls.

Prince Pantydropper is summoning his dinner.

Muttering made-up voodoo curses, I bang around the kitchen until I’ve got something for him to eat. When I knock on his door, the music lowers instantly.

“Hullo, lassie,” he says when he opens up. “What brings you by?” He grins, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest so his biceps bulge out everywhere, just as insufferably smug as he is.

Resisting the urge to kick him in the shin, I smile instead. “I haven’t forgotten our bargain.” I lift the platter I’m holding. “Pasta primavera with a garden salad. Here you go.”

He looks at the platter, then back up at me. “Here I go? Here I go where?”

My smile turns brittle. “Take your food, prancer.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Our deal was that you make me food and I eat it over at your place. Forty-five minutes, remember?” He swings his door open wider, and the rap music swells out louder into the hall. “Or would you prefer to spend your evenin’ with my good friend Ol’ Dirty Bastard?”