Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(65)

His silence lasts an uncomfortably long time. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

Why is he standing so still? “Which part?”

“Michael. He’s what you want?”

His eyes are hooded, inscrutable, just like the expression on his face.

“Yes.”

He nods, his eyes shuttering like shades over storm windows. “All right, lass, drink up. Let’s get goin’.”

We jog in silence. It’s horrible. All the light bantering is gone, all the easy conversation is dead and buried six feet under. I long to say something to make it better but don’t know exactly how it got so bad in the first place.

Back at the apartment, he leaves me at the door with a word of advice.

“If you talk to pretty boy today, don’t reassure him.”

“About what?”

“About anything. Me, the ‘other competition’ he mentioned, how your not-date went. Just play it off like none of it matters. It’ll drive him crazy. Okay?”

“Okay. And thanks.”

He stares at me, unsmiling. “You’re welcome.” He goes inside his apartment and closes the door.

I shower, dress, and head to work, my thoughts preoccupied with Cam and the look on his face when he asked me if I was sure Michael is what I want.




When I get to work, there’s a note on my desk, slipped under my keyboard so only one corner is showing. It’s in a sealed envelope with my name printed on the outside. Curious, I tear into it before even removing my coat.

I’m sorry I upset you. Last night didn’t go at all how I’d hoped. I hope you can forgive me for being such an ass. It’s been so long since I’ve dated, it seems I’ve forgotten how.

M.

His cell phone number is written beneath.

Exhaling a slow breath, I slip the note back into its envelope and put it into my handbag. Then I sit in my chair and stare at my dark computer screen, arguing with myself about whether or not to send Michael an email or give him a call.

Ultimately, I decide to follow Cam’s advice and play it off like it doesn’t matter. I bury myself in work for the next few hours, until my desk phone rings.

“Joellen Bixby speaking.”

“This mornin’ sucked.”

Cam’s voice is curt with tension, but I’m instantly relieved. “Last night, too. I couldn’t sleep.”

There’s a fraught pause, then he exhales. “Me neither.”

“Are you still mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you, lass,” he says quietly. “You bloody hardheaded woman.”

Thank God, we’re making up. I’m giddy. “Good, because if I had to listen to your music again, I’d throw myself out a window.”

He chuckles. “That’s a little dramatic, don’tcha think?”

“Plus I owe you two more home-cooked meals.”

“Is that right? You’ve been countin’?”

His voice is classic McGregor I-know-you’re-in-love-with-me smug. “So have you,” I shoot back playfully, “and don’t even try to deny it, prancer. My meat loaf is the best part of your day.”

“Aye, lass. Your loaf is almost as good as your pie.”

I smile, twirling the phone cord between my fingers. “Speaking of my pie, any requests for your last two meals?”

Cam’s voice changes, goes a little rough. “Well of course I want that pie, lassie. I love that pie. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

Heat flashes over my entire body. An image of his face when he broke the kiss on the couch floats into my head, and I squirm in my chair. A new subject is in order or I’ll need to change my panties.

“There’s a picture of us on the internet. A celebrity gossip site.”

He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, and you don’t have to be sorry. I think it’s raised my cred around the office. The girl who sits next to me is treating me like I’m Beyoncé. And a couple of the guys in accounting said hi to me on the elevator. I think next they’re going to ask me to get your autograph.”

Cam sighs. “It’s not me the guys from accounting are interested in, you wee daft bugger.”

That makes me feel good. If I had a mirror in front of me, I’d be preening into it, petting my hair like a horse’s mane. “You’re very good for my ego, you know that?”

He snorts. “Well, you’re shit for mine, so at least one of us is happy.”

He’s unhappy? I don’t want him to be unhappy, especially not because of me.

“Don’t forget I called you beautiful, prancer.” When he doesn’t respond, I hurry on, worried he’s thinking I was lying. “I meant it, too. You’re like this big, gorgeous, mountain of a man, who also happens to have a great sense of humor and an excellent vocabulary. You’re a catch.”

His continued silence terrifies me. Just when I’m about to ask him if he’s still there, he says, “Sounds like I deserve a sonnet. We’ll call it ‘Mountain Man.’ What rhymes with enormous muscles?”

I laugh, relieved I didn’t just stick my foot into my mouth. “I already wrote you one. But it wasn’t about your muscles, it was about your eyes.”