Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(82)

After a moment, Cam says, “Reality’s settin’ in.”

“I literally thought those exact words not two minutes ago.”

“Great minds think alike. Is my dinner ready yet?”

Despite my worry, I have to smile. “Yes, evil overlord, your dinner is ready.” I remove his plate from the microwave, check it to make sure there are no cold spots, and set it in front of him with a knife and fork. “Why are you eating so late, anyway? You told me I shouldn’t eat after seven p.m.”

He digs into his food without preamble, sawing a big chunk of the chicken off and stuffing it into his mouth. We eat the same way, all flashing utensils and sighs of pleasure, savoring every bite like it’s our last meal before the electric chair. How he can enjoy watching me eat I’ll never know. Although admittedly I’m getting quite a bit of enjoyment watching him tear through that piece of chicken.

That he likes my cooking so much gives me a weird kind of happiness, a fizzy little starburst of sunshine glowing inside my chest.

“Didn’t eat today except for lunch,” he says around a mouthful, his attention on the plate. “Don’t have much in the apartment except stuff for our mornin’ shakes and the odd sandwich.”

“So go shopping! What have you been doing for dinner since our last supper?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothin’.”

I’m dismayed. “You haven’t been eating? How do you have the energy to do our workouts in the morning?”

He glances up at me and winks. “’Tis the thought of you that keeps me goin’, lass.”

My eye roll is extravagant. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going back to our nightly dinners. I can’t have my trainer dying on me—I’m almost halfway to my weight-loss goal.”

Cam stops chewing and stares at me. He swallows and wipes his mouth with his hand. “You have a specific number in mind?”

“Yeah. Forty pounds. What did you think this was about, my love for kale and early-morning jogs in subzero temperatures?”

“Forty pounds? I thought you just wanted to get into shape?”

“I do! I am!”

He sits back in his chair and examines me closely, a furrow forming between his brows.

“What’s that look? You’re making me nervous.”

“It’s your body, lass. If you wanna shrink it, that’s your decision. But if I could offer an opinion . . .”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

He says softly, “You look great. Truly. If you were payin’ me to be your trainer, I’d advise you to stop tryin’ to lose weight and focus on healthy eatin’ habits and gainin’ strength, endurance, and flexibility from your workouts. And, most importantly, practicin’ gratitude for the body you’ve got.”

“Practicing gratitude,” I repeat doubtfully.

He nods. “You’re healthy. You’re whole. Your body does whatever you ask it to. There are millions of people who live with chronic pain or physical disabilities who would gladly trade places with you.”

When I screw my face up following that little speech, he sighs.

“Your body isn’t a thing to be looked at and judged against some standard of perfection that doesn’t even really exist. It’s the vessel that takes you through life, allowin’ you to experience all the beautiful things life has to offer. Food. Sex. Sunsets. Music. Hugs. Laughter. A healthy body is a gift. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t treat it like some cheap one-night stand. Treat it like the love of your life. Treat it with respect and tenderness, but most of all, gratitude.

“And a healthy dose of awe, too. Your body is made of remnants of stars and massive explosions in the galaxies. Every few years, the bulk of your body is newly created by the regeneration of your cells, but you have things in you that are as old as the universe. We’re literally stardust. Every one of us is a little miracle. You’re a miracle, Joellen. Think about that the next time you’re standin’ naked in front of the mirror and want to focus on some stray dimple you don’t like.”

He digs into his meal again, as if he hasn’t just completely rocked my world.

I’m a miracle? Who says stuff like that?

“You’re thinkin’ again, lass,” says Cam, chewing. “I can hear the gears turnin’.”

“There’s no way you’re only twenty-nine.”

He grins around a mouthful of chicken. “Why, ’cause I’m so enlightened? Maybe I’m the latest reincarnation of the Buddha, you ever think of that?”

“Oh yes. You’re very enlightened. I can tell from the girly pink robe.”

Cam looks up at me, hazel eyes sparkling. “Exactly,” he pronounces. “Great title for another sonnet about me, don’tcha think? ‘The Man in the Girly Pink Robe.’ I can see it now. Full o’ tender endearments about my extreme lovability. You can work on it tomorrow and show it to me at dinner.”

We smile at each other, Mr. Bingley jumps up onto Cam’s lap and curls into a ball, and I push away the little voice in my head whispering how the man in the girly pink robe will soon be gone from my life forever.





TWENTY-NINE

The man in the girly pink robe and I

Sit on a bench in the park discussing the weather.