Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(72)

He gazes at me for a beat. “Not everyone.”

The waiter returns with our drinks: a water for me and a beer for Cam. He takes our food order and leaves, then Cam mercifully changes the subject.

“Pretty boy’s gonna ask you what the deal is with us, first thing he can.”

“I’ve already told him we’re just friends.”

“You’re gonna have to tell him again. But don’t get drawn into a long discussion about it. Wave your hand like you just did at me, and change the subject. If he insists, tell him that I’m not your type.” His voice darkens. “It won’t take much convincin’ for him to believe it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Cam takes a long swig of his beer, then looks out the window. “Because no matter how much money I have, I’m still just a jobby to him.”

“Jobby?”

“Trash. Unworthy to even be in his presence, much less earn the attention of a woman he fancies.”

I wonder how much of his opinion of Michael is due to his own experience living in Sir Gladstone’s home. I wonder how it was for him, growing up without a father. Knowing his father killed himself, knowing he beat his mother so badly she went into premature labor.

Whatever my parents’ faults, I always felt safe. Maybe not understood or completely accepted, but safe. Cared for. Wanted. I can’t imagine the kind of demons Cam has had to live with his entire life.

“Spit it out, lass.”

I glance up and find Cam watching me closely.

When I squirm a little under his intense gaze, he says softly, “I already told you, you can ask me anything.”

I busy myself with fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth because it feels too nosy to look at him. Or maybe I’m just a coward. It’s difficult for me to witness other people’s pain, and I think the conversation is about to take a very personal turn.

“I owe you an apology for assuming your life was all butterflies and rainbows. It makes me feel crappy that you probably get that a lot. Assumptions about who you are. Judgments.”

Cam’s fingers drum the tablecloth. “Thank you. But that wasn’t a question.”

How does he know I want to ask him something? Probably the same way he knows most other things: he’s observant.

I want to ask him if he’s happy. I want to ask him if he has any real friends. If that’s what he meant when he said we’d never be friends—because everyone wants something from him, including me.

How can I honestly claim to want to be his friend? A true friendship isn’t based on what you think you can get out of it. It’s based on respecting someone enough to let him be who he really is. A true friend is someone who says “I’m here for you” and proves it.

It dawns on me that Cam is probably the best friend I’ve ever had.

Cam says sharply, “Lass.”

My eyes sting. I shake my head, drawing a deep breath in an attempt to calm my emotions. “Give me a minute,” I croak, and take a long drink from my water glass. After a few moments of rapid eye blinking and air gulping, I find the strength to meet his worried gaze. If only my voice had the decency not to wobble.

“I think you’re an amazing person. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. This whole Michael project . . . it means a lot. I don’t take your help for granted. And I’m sorry for all the stupid things I’ve said to you, all the times I’ve been sarcastic or flippant. I wasn’t trying to be mean. I was just . . .”

“You were just bein’ yourself,” Cam finishes quietly when I struggle to find the right words.

When I nod, miserable to admit it, he smiles at me. “You can quit beatin’ yourself up now, lass. I know you appreciate me. And I love that sharp tongue of yours. I love that you feel comfortable enough with me to give me a good dressin’ down. I need that, y’know. Someone to stick a pin in my balloon when it gets too inflated.”

I produce a shaky laugh. “Your balloon must have a lot more pinpricks since you met me.”

He laughs, too, a soft and satisfied sound. “Aye. But a real friend is someone who stabs you in the front.”

“That’s Oscar Wilde.”

“Don’t look so surprised, lass. I’ve read Oscar Wilde. You didn’t think I was just another pretty face, did you?”

We share a smile across the checkered tablecloth. “So, we are friends.”

He shakes his head, chuckling. “Why is it so important to you this relationship has a title?”

Because the alternative to friends is either enemies or lovers.

I smile tightly but don’t answer, knowing in my heart of hearts that I’d rather die than be enemies with this man.

So if we’re not friends or enemies, that leaves only one other choice.





TWENTY-FIVE

Cam and I enjoy a long lunch, talking nonstop about everything and nothing. He gives me more advice about Michael, I pepper him with questions about Scotland, he informs me we’re moving our workouts from strictly cardio to adding strength training, I tell him I’ve lost another few pounds. We’re at the restaurant for almost two hours.

In the back of my head, I tell myself Portia gave me permission to take a long lunch, but the reality is that I’m reluctant to get back to the office. I’m having too good a time. I keep dragging my feet, asking Cam question after question until he laughs at me and asks if I’m writing an unauthorized biography.