Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(7)

“They’re clean,” he says innocently, licking his fingers. “In case you couldn’t tell, I just got out of the shower.” Then he winks at me.

Winks. The man has obviously had one too many concussions.

I snatch the pan off the stove and stand in the middle of the kitchen, clutching it by the handle and glaring at him. “Could you please leave now? And keep the music to a dull roar? Other people live in this building besides you, you know.”

He licks his lips and runs a hand through his wet hair, which makes all the muscles in his arm bulge. I wonder how often he’s practiced that move in front of a mirror, the preening peacock.

“You’re not gonna invite me over for dinner? I could help you fold your laundry.”

I ked help ye fold yer londray.

He says it with a twinkle in his eye, and I enjoy a brief but satisfying fantasy of smashing the pan against his thick, conceited skull. Jamie Fraser from Outlander, he’s not.

“I’m Cameron, by the way. I’m stayin’ at my cousin Kellen’s for—”

“I know,” I say, cutting him off. Why won’t he leave?

“And you are . . . ?”

“Joellen. Nice to meet you. Good-bye.”

He glances around my apartment. “What, you don’t want to introduce me to your boyfriend?”

“What I want is to finish my dinner and not have a wet, half-naked stranger with more muscles than manners standing in my kitchen.”

Cameron’s grin comes on in full, dazzling, I’m-so-irresistible mode. “So you’ve noticed my muscles. And you don’t have a boyfriend.”

For a moment, I’m stupefied. Is he flirting with me?

Then I realize no, he’s not flirting with me. He’s teasing me. Because obviously a woman like me—big, bespectacled, alone on a Saturday night with her cat and a basket full of granny panties—doesn’t have a boyfriend.

Mr. Bingley sits at Cameron’s feet, looking up at him like he wants to be picked up and snuggled. Traitor.

With as much dignity as I can muster, I draw myself up and square my shoulders. “If you’ll excuse me,” I say coolly, “I have a dinner date. You’re making me late for it.”

“Oh.” He looks flummoxed, as if the possibility I’m telling the truth about having a date is so outlandish he doesn’t know what to make of it. He probably thinks I’ve won a bachelor auction or something. “Well. Right, then. Have a good night.”

He turns and swaggers away without another word, leaving me staring at his perfect, retreating backside.

Why is life so unfair that it bestows all the beauty on the least deserving beasts?

Except Michael Maddox. He is beautiful both inside and out.

I put the pan on the stove and turn the heat back on, then shut the front door. But not before getting another wink from the Mountain, who’s closing his own door just as I’m closing mine. With perfect timing, he spins around, pulls off the towel from his hips, and drops it on the floor, so the last thing I see is a peekaboo shot of his naked ass as the door swings shut.

I’m too young for menopause, but boy is this hot flash a doozy.




Dinner with Mrs. Dinwiddle is an hour of listening to stories about her youth as I shovel food into my mouth and she drinks martini after martini and feeds the dogs right from her plate. Blessica, her caretaker, is about sixty but has the energy of a four-year-old. She bustles around the apartment cleaning things that don’t need to be cleaned, generally making me feel like a sloth in comparison. She’d never leave a pile of unfolded laundry on the sofa.

By the time I leave, Mrs. Dinwiddle is singing a slurred version of “Danny Boy” in honor of a young Irishman she had a scorching affair with when she was a girl, who drowned himself in the sea when his father refused to allow them to marry.

I’m not entirely sure that story is true, but I find it terribly romantic anyway.

Blessica helps Mrs. Dinwiddle to bed, then we do the dinner dishes, then I go home alone to my apartment, with the possibility of bumping into Michael again at work in the future the only thing to look forward to.

I’m unlocking my apartment door when I hear a long, low moan coming from behind me.

I turn and frown at Kellen’s closed door. The moan comes again, followed by a thud that shakes the doorframe. Then a man’s low voice starts to murmur indistinctly as the moans and thuds increase. I put two and two together when the moans take the shape of a name.

“Cam! Oh God, Cam, yes, yes, yes!”

No, no, no. He’s having sex with someone! Against the door!

Not only is this Scot a rude, boozy playboy with questionable exercise habits, he has sex standing up! Who does that?

Thud. Thud. Moan. Thud.

Apparently, he does.

Shocked, I stand with the dish of leftover shepherd’s pie and listen until the thuds and moans reach a thundering climax. The woman screams like an air-raid siren. Cam grunts some unintelligible words—something dirty, I’m sure, though I can’t make it out—and then makes a sound like a wolf growling. It raises all the hair on the back of my neck.

Then it’s quiet, and I feel like I need to take a shower. In bleach.

Ticked off that I’m now a two-time unwilling participant in the Mountain’s sexcapades, I holler across the hall, “She totally faked it!”