Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(66)

As soon as it’s out, I want to commit seppuku with the metal letter opener in the pen cup next to the computer. I close my eyes and bang my head softly against my desk.

Cam lets me off the hook with an easy laugh. “Sure, lass.”

He doesn’t believe me. Thank God. Because what possible reason could I have to be writing sonnets about his eyes? There isn’t one. Not a rational one, anyway. It just . . . happened. I can’t be held responsible for the doings of my muse!

“Why’re you breathin’ funny?” asks Cam when I don’t say anything. “That pesky intestinal gas botherin’ you again? You want me to stop by the store and pick you up a few pairs of your charcoal panties?”

“Ha.” I swallow loudly, trying to get myself together.

“Wait.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t tell me you really did write me a sonnet.”

My groan is the sound of someone watching a casket being lowered into the ground.

“Lassie. You know what happens if you lie to me.”

God, that dark promise in his voice. Why the hell do I like that so much? “Yes, I know what happens, prancer. You’ll take me over your knee.”

“That’s right.”

“But . . . if I just don’t admit something, that’s not lying.”

“It’s a lie of omission. It is lyin’.”

“God, it’s like you’re looking for an excuse to spank me!”

“I’d like an excuse to do a lot of bad things to you, darlin’. You have no idea.”

The tone of his voice . . . oh my. Low, gruff, and deadly serious, it sets quite a few of my nerve endings atingle. Okay, all my nerve endings.

It must be all those stupid tingles that make me say what I say next.

“Like what?” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer, but his mercurial mood switches from dark and smoldering to light and bantering with the blink of an eye.

“Ach, wouldn’t you like to know! Don’t you have work to be doin’, you slacker?”

“Hey, you’re the one who called me.”

“Aye, I did. And now I’m gonna hang up. Don’t forget—pie tonight, darlin’.” His voice drops. “And I want it extra hot.”

Then he’s gone. I set the phone back in the cradle, surprised to see my hand trembling.





TWENTY-THREE

At six o’clock on the nose, Cam strolls into my apartment without knocking. I’m in the kitchen preparing—you guessed it—shepherd’s pie.

“Fair warnin’ to all the occupants of this house, Cameron McGregor is here!” he booms, closing the door behind him.

Mr. Bingley had been busily grooming himself on a kitchen chair, but when he feels the vibration of the door closing, he freezes, wide eyed, then flies into the living room with his tail poufed in excitement.

“Hullo, you wee ball-less bastard,” I hear Cam say affectionately from the living room. “Where’s your mum?”

“In here!”

In a few moments, Cam appears from around the corner of the living room with Mr. Bingley draped contentedly like a stole across his shoulders. “Lassie,” he declares, his chest puffed out, “what d’you think of my new fur coat?”

I shake my head in disbelief at the picture they make. “I think that animal is almost as in love with you as you are.”

“Aye. He’s a sensible lad. How was work?” He ambles over to the stove and sniffs at the steam rising from the pan of meat I’m browning.

I wave the cat’s tail out of my face. “Good. And weird. Michael left me an apology note on my desk with his cell phone number. Portia keeps glaring at me like she’s plotting my kidnapping and murder. And the girl who sits next to me won’t stop pestering me about the size of your junk. She’s convinced that picture on TMZ is proof that we’re boning.”

“We already had the talk about you disrespectin’ the family jewels by callin’ ’em ‘junk,’ darlin’.” He nudges me out of the way with his elbow so he can scoop a bit of meat from the pan with his fingers.

“Hey!” I slap his wrist. “You know I don’t like it when you do that!”

“It’s my dinner, lass. I’ll eat it how I want.” He eats the morsel, licks his lips, sighs in pleasure, then offers his hand to Mr. Bingley, who happily cleans the rest of the sauce from Cam’s fingers.

I roll my eyes and go back to stirring. “You shouldn’t eat undercooked meat, prancer. You’ll get salmonella.”

“Pfft. As if bacteria would dare to mess with me. I’ll have you know I never get sick.”

“Make yourself useful and set the table before I dump this pan over the top of your thick skull.”

“So you told her, right?”

I look at him. He’s smiling back at me, smug as can be. The cat has rested his head on Cam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. I could swear he’s smiling, too.

“Told who what?”

“Told the girl who sits next to you at work about the majesty and opulence of my family jewels.”

My cheeks prickle with heat. I turn my attention back to the pan. “No.”

“Why not? It’s not as if you don’t know.”