Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(59)

“His music. You said he was disturbing you with his music.”

“Oh. Right. That. Yes, we made up.” That sounds too lovey-dovey, like a lovers’ reconciliation, so I quickly amend it. “We called a truce, I mean. And then, uh, he needed help shopping for his, uh, girlfriend. In Scotland. For a Christmas present.”

For the love of God, Joellen, just stick your entire leg in your mouth and get it over with!

Michael adjusts his tie, yanking at it as if it’s strangling him. He’s in a beautifully fitted navy suit, his skin glows with health under the florescent lights, his face is clean shaven, and his hair is perfect. Everything about him is so perfect.

Too perfect?

Disturbed by my betrayal, I stumble on nothing but quickly right myself.

“Meet me after work for a drink.”

Now I almost fall flat on my face.

“Six o’clock. The Liquid Kitty on Fifth.”

He’s oblivious to my sudden catatonia. Not waiting for a response, he makes a right turn abruptly and stalks off down another corridor, leaving me gaping after him.

Is this a date? Did Michael Maddox just ask me on a date?

Before I can faint into a gelatinous pile of limbs, I glimpse Portia headed toward me. My heart sinks. It’s too late to run away, because we’ve made eye contact, so I pretend I’m coming back from some nonexistent meeting and stride forward with a plastered-on smile and a purposeful walk.

She cuts me off just as I’m turning a corner, stopping in front of me so my path is blocked.

She rests her hand on my forearm and digs her fingers in. “Be careful,” she says softly, blue eyes glittering. “Be very careful, Joellen.”

Before I can answer, she’s gone, clicking away on five-inch heels, leaving me wondering why her words felt less like an enemy’s threat and more like a comrade’s warning.




I spend the rest of the day in terror, wearing out my antiperspirant and feeling as if I might keel over and die at any moment. My adrenal glands are hysterically pumping stress hormones into my veins, and it takes an enormous amount of self-control not to let loose the lunatic scream throbbing inside my chest.

By the time I get home, I’m a mess.

“I’ve only got thirty minutes to get ready,” I tell the cat breathlessly, slapping cat food into a dish. “What should I wear? Should I shave my legs?” Mr. Bingley stares at me with a judgy face. “You’re right, that’s just inviting trouble. But wait—I want trouble, don’t I? This is Michael Maddox we’re talking about here. I want all the trouble I can get!” The cat’s eyes narrow to slits. “No, you’re right, play it cool, don’t be overeager, focus on the long run. If I shag him in the bathroom of a bar called the Liquid Kitty the first time we go out, we’ll never be able to tell anyone our first date story.”

It’s a testament to my crazed state of mind that Michael and I are already married with children and giving each other sly glances over dinner as we tell the rehearsed lie we’ve made up when some nosy relative wants to hear about our first date.

I shower, dress, and attempt to blow-dry my hair but end up winding it into a messy bun because my hands are shaking too hard to keep the dryer steady. I apply a coat of the mascara Mrs. Dinwiddle gifted me in her bag of beauty goodies, then consider applying lipstick but decide it will probably only end up all over my front teeth, making me look like I’ve eaten a crayon. I put the tube away and slick on a coat of clear lip gloss instead.

Then I look at myself in the mirror.

My color is high. My eyes are wild. Rebellious little tufts of hair have escaped from the bun and float all around my face like fuzzy clouds. I look like I’ve recently escaped from a mental institution.

“Screw it,” I mutter. “This is how I look. If Michael doesn’t like it, he can suck an egg.”

Cam’s positive body image rhetoric must be having some effect, because a few weeks ago those words would’ve been heresy.

I don’t have enough time to take the subway uptown, so I hail a cab. I do deep-breathing exercises during the ride, which does nothing but make the cabbie look worried. By the time he drops me off in front of the Liquid Kitty, I’m teetering on the edge of hysteria.

This is a moment I’ve dreamed of for a decade. Ten years I’ve been in love with Michael Maddox. Ten years I’ve pined and daydreamed and longed for him to notice me, and now here I am, standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar where he asked me to meet him for a drink.

Well, technically ordered me to meet him, but this isn’t the time to split hairs.

A doorman in hat and tails opens the door for me, nodding solemnly as I pass. I find myself in a dark anteroom lit by a garish red chandelier that throws prisms of scarlet light over the plain black walls. The effect has a startling resemblance to dripping blood.

It seems the Liquid Kitty is, in fact, a portal to hell.

“Good evening,” says a voice to my right. I nearly jump out of my skin.

“Oh. Hello.”

A tall, bald man with linebacker’s shoulders wearing a tuxedo has materialized from behind a black velvet curtain. His gaze flicks over me, quickly assessing. “Are you here to meet a member?”

I looked up the address on my phone but didn’t realize this was a membership club. I thought it was just a regular old bar. Silly me. “Um . . . Michael Maddox?”