Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(80)

“I admire that for such a big, manly man, you have very open ideas about gender-specific clothing.”

He scoffs. “Whoever made that rule that pink is only for girls is dumb. I’ll have you know, pink is very flatterin’ to my complexion.”

It actually is, but I don’t have time for this conversation. “Moving on—I got the promotion! You’re looking at the newest associate editor at Maddox Publishing!” I jump up and down in glee, doing a little skipping dance and waving my hands like a drugged-out mime.

“Really? That’s fantastic, lass! Good for you! You just found out?”

“Yes, Michael emailed me the news! I’m not supposed to tell anyone until after the first of the year when they make the formal announcement, but I had to tell you. Oh God, wait until my mother hears—she’ll freak out!”

“You told me before you told your mum?”

I stop jumping up and down and make a face at him. “Why do I feel like that’s going to be followed with a lecture about how much I’m in love with you, but I just don’t realize it yet?”

“Because you are, and you don’t.” He closes his door and ambles past me. “This calls for a celebration. You have any of that dark beer you bought for me left?”

He disappears into my apartment. I follow him, shaking my head at the picture he makes. No matter what he’s wearing—or isn’t wearing—the man doesn’t have an ounce of self-consciousness. “Your ego is your superpower, you know that, prancer?”

Cam flops onto my sofa, lies back, and crosses his legs at the ankle. He looks like an MMA wrestler wearing his daughter’s princess robe. “Oh, no, lass, that’s not my superpower.” He winks at me, grinning.

“You’re never gonna let me forget I saw you naked, are you?”

“I’ll forget it as soon as you do. So no, never.”

Ignoring him, I go into the kitchen, fish a beer from the fridge, pop the top off it, and pour it into a glass. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and head back into the living room. I give Cam his beer, then sit at the end of the sofa near his feet, crossing my legs under me.

“Why aren’t you dressed for bed yet?” He eyes my jeans and T-shirt. “It’s almost ten o’clock on a school night. You need your sleep.”

That makes me smile. “You’ll make a good dad someday, you know that? You’re bossy in a very sweet way.”

When he arches his brows at the compliment, I hold up a hand. “Not in love with you. Just making an observation.”

“Well, thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

“You have tons of time. What are you, early thirties?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t find out during your investigative research.” With an arm under his head, he takes a drink from his beer, watching me.

“Ugh. I only looked you up that one time, and I didn’t pay attention to your birth date. So—are you going to tell me, or is it a state secret?”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

I’m floored. He seems so much older. More mature. Twenty-nine is practically a baby! Suddenly I feel like Methuselah, nearly a thousand years old and counting.

“Uh-oh,” he says drily, examining my pinched expression. “She’s thinkin’. No good can come of this.”

I blow out a breath too hard, which causes my lips to flap in a truly unattractive way. But I don’t care, because it’s Cam, and he’s seen me at my worst. “I remember twenty-nine. It was actually harder than thirty. Once I was over that hump, I accepted I’d never be young again.”

“Everything’s relative, lass. There’s a sixty-year-old grandma out there who’d give her eyeteeth to be thirty-six again.”

“Oh, thank you for that pearl of wisdom. How comforting to know the elderly are jealous of me.”

“Sixty isn’t elderly!”

“Dude. Seriously. If the average life expectancy is somewhere in the seventies, sixty is practically knocking on death’s door.”

“One of my grandmothers lived to be one hundred and fourteen.”

“What? That’s a lie!”

“Nope. And my other grandmother is one hundred and ten. She’s still alive.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“I’m not pullin’ your leg! The McGregor clan has exceptional genes, lass. Nobody in my family even starts thinkin’ about retirin’ until well after ninety.”

“Really?”

“Really. If you ever visit Scotland, I’ll take you to meet Nanny O’Shea. That’s my mum’s mum. You two would get a kick out of each other—same sharp tongue and lack of respect for the McGregor men.”

He smiles, relishing some memory, and drinks more of his beer, while I sit and think how much fun it would be to meet his ancient, sassy Scottish grandmother.

“My dad’s mother is eighty. We call her Granny Gums because she loves to horrify people by popping out her dentures during conversations like it’s an accident. She has mild dementia, so she repeats herself a lot, but otherwise she’s in pretty good shape. My other grandmother is in perfect health, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she carries on. She had a Just Buried party when she turned fifty because she was convinced she was about to kick the bucket any minute. She was a model, like my mom.”