Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(77)

“Missish? Is that even a word?”

Cam looks smug. “Oh, the fancy editor lady hasn’t heard of it?”

When I continue to glare at him, he relents. “It means demure. Squeamish. Prudish.”

“You’re calling me a prude?”

Mischief glints in his eyes. “No man who’s ever kissed you would call you a prude, darlin’. What I’m sayin’ is that you’re highly sensitive about your looks. One misplaced word and you’ll be locked in your room makin’ a list of all the ways you think you’re ugly.”

I have to take a moment to absorb that.

The first sentence might’ve been an incredible compliment, or he could’ve meant there are far worse adjectives than prude that men who’ve kissed me would use to describe me. Like ghastly or sickening, for example.

Then there’s his observation that I’m sensitive about my looks. Though I probably wouldn’t lock myself in my room to make a list of all the ways I’m ugly, I can easily see myself doing it at the kitchen table. In fact, I’m sure there’s a piece of paper somewhere in my apartment titled Things to Improve On that itemizes “cankles” and “weird moles” among my shortcomings.

Which means Cameron McGregor has my number. If I’m being honest with myself, he has from the start.

“Don’t break your brain overanalyzin’ that, Joellen,” says Cam drily.

“I can’t help it. My brain is set to think things to death.”

He quirks his lips. “You don’t say?”

I close my eyes, sigh, and hear him chuckle.

“All right. Here’s what I think about you ditchin’ your glasses.”

I open my eyes and wait for him to continue, chewing my thumbnail in nervousness.

“I don’t think you should do it.”

Am I relieved? Or disappointed? Annoyed? Lord, the man twists me up like a pretzel. “I have contact lenses, but I never wear them because they make my eyes red.”

“Thank you for sharin’,” he drawls. “Ask me why I don’t think you should get rid of your glasses.”

“Why don’t you think I should get rid of my glasses?”

“Because they make you look smart, and sexy, and like you don’t give a fuck, which is also sexy.”

“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. He called me sexy again. This is becoming a thing.

“I wasn’t finished.”

That sounds fairly ominous, so I start to chew my thumbnail with renewed vigor.

“The main reason I don’t think you should get rid of them is because you prefer them. If you didn’t, you’d wear your contacts or get laser surgery. But you like your glasses, so that’s what you should wear.”

“But . . . don’t most guys think they’re dorky?”

“The number of fucks you should give about what men think of how you look is zero, lass. Every choice you make about your appearance should be about what makes you feel good, not what makes some random lad—or your mother—think you’re cute. Don’t set aside your preferences for anyone.”

He’s deadly serious, all traces of teasing gone. I’m not sure how to respond to this sudden change of mood, but he’s not finished talking.

“And another thing. Learn to stop saying ‘Sorry,’ and say ‘Don’t interrupt me.’ Learn to say ‘No’ and ‘None of your business.’ Learn to be unapologetic for who you are and what you like and the opinions you hold. I know you think that if other people considered you beautiful, all your problems would be solved, but you’d just have different problems. And they’d all still revolve around the fact that deep down, you don’t think you’re good enough. That’s a lie you learned, and you can unlearn it, but it has to start with you. You have to decide to accept yourself. It’s cliché, but you really do have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.”

He pauses to inhale a slow breath, his eyes burning. When he speaks again, his voice is low.

“My mother was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but she killed herself over a man who wasn’t even worthy to breathe the same air she did. Total fucking waste. All because she didn’t think she was good enough. A lie life pounded into her that she never unlearned.”

“You’re talking about Sir Gladstone?”

Now his tone turns brutally bitter. “Aye. That worthless piece of shit. Thought he could run roughshod over anyone because he was rich. He treated his house staff like slaves, allowing them no voices or power, giving them no appreciation. Unless you were pretty, and then you got the kind of attention a broken soul can confuse with love. He used her for years, until a younger housemaid came along. Then he acted like he never knew my mother. She was replaced, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I saw the whole thing comin’, but she’d never hear a word spoken against him. She thought because he came into her room a few nights a week and let me play rugby with his spoiled fucking children, that meant he loved her. But he didn’t. And when she found out, it killed her. She went up to the roof and threw herself off without even tellin’ me good-bye.”

My face is crumpling. I can feel it, along with my heart thumping and my throat squeezing shut. “Oh, Cam. I’m so sorry.”