Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(75)

I furrow my brow. “Excuse me?”

“Portia’s gay.”

I gape at the cat, who stares back at me like he’s contemplating whether or not to trot over and hork up a hairball on my shoe. “Gay? Portia’s gay?”

“A lesbian, yes. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

Apparently the list of things I don’t know is long and illustrious. “I had no idea! How do you know?”

“I’ve met her girlfriend. They’ve been together for years. Portia and my wife serve together on the board of a national literacy organization. We’ve seen them socially many times.”

I’m glad I’m sitting down, because if I were standing I might have already collapsed and cracked my skull open on the floor.

Portia is gay. Which means she isn’t in love with Michael. Which means my theory about why she’s always been a bitch to me is so far off the mark, it’s not even in the same neighborhood.

“Wow. I honestly had no clue. I wonder why she never brought her girlfriend to any of the holiday parties or summer picnics?”

There’s a short pause. “I think she was concerned how it would be viewed by the staff.”

“What do you mean, ‘viewed’? You think she’s worried she’ll be discriminated against?”

“Well, naturally.”

“I don’t understand. Why ‘naturally’? I know a dozen gay people at Maddox who are out, and no one gives them grief. The company culture is very inclusive, but even if it weren’t, we have written policies against discrimination. And there’s federal law—”

“No one in a position of authority is openly gay in the company.”

The curtness of his tone gives me pause. “That’s true,” I say slowly, trying to put my finger on what I’m missing. Why does he sound annoyed?

When Michael speaks again, his voice is back to normal. “I’ve encouraged her to take a leadership role in that regard, of course, but she doesn’t feel comfortable. And it isn’t my place to insist. I respect her wishes to keep her private life private.”

“Yes, of course, if she’s not comfortable—”

“But enough about Portia,” Michael interrupts. “Let’s talk about you. Have you been working out? Because I noticed you seem to be looking a bit tighter of late.”

So this is what I have to look forward to when I hit menopause. This hot flash could ignite the entire kitchen. In the space of a few heartbeats, I’m flushed and drenched in sweat.

“Yes, I have been working out,” I admit sheepishly. “That’s the project I told you Cam was helping me with. I decided to start exercising and eating better, and you know, he’s a professional athlete, so.”

“That’s great, Joellen!” I can’t tell if his enthusiasm is because he likes the idea of me working out or because he’s relieved to finally discover the basis of my relationship with Cam. “I’m very happy for you. I love to work out, too. Maybe we could work out together! Do you like squash?”

“Oh, sure . . . I love squash.” I really hope he’s talking about the vegetable.

“Great! When I get back from London, I’ll take you to my club.”

“You’re going to London?”

“Yes. I leave tomorrow. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I haven’t had the chance. I’ve got meetings with some of our European distributors, but I’ll be back on Saturday the twenty-third.”

Suddenly I’m filled with cold dismay. “That’s the day of the office holiday party. Are you still going to make it?”

His voice warms. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Oh God. This feels like a sign. “Okay. Um . . . maybe we can email while you’re gone? You know, just to keep in touch?”

“I’d like that,” he murmurs. “I’d like that very much. And Joellen?”

“Yes?”

“I’m so glad we finally got to talk.”

I whisper, “Me too.”

Mr. Bingley, tired of waiting for his dinner, makes a noise like he’s being skinned alive. I laugh like a crazy person, feeling high and loose and dangerously happy, like Icarus flying too close to the sun.

But I won’t think of what happened to that idiot. I end the call and feed my demanding animal, thinking only of how many days until I see Michael again and how many pounds lighter I’ll be.

Skinny body, skinny heart, skinny love be damned, I’ve got a skinny entrance to make into a holiday party, and God help the fool who tries to stand in my way.





TWENTY-SIX

I’m deep into an internet search of how to play squash when Cam bursts through the front door with a big bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in cellophane and tissue paper. He sees me at the coffee table on my laptop and grins.

“You’re lookin’ me up again, aren’t you, lass? Tch. It’s becomin’ an obsession!”

“Get over yourself, prancer. There’s a whole big world out there that doesn’t involve you. I’m trying to find out how to play squash. Who’re the flowers for?”

He looks left, right, then behind him. “Is there someone else who lives in this apartment?”

Surprised and touched, I stand. “They’re for me? Really?”