Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(84)

Pleased, I look down at myself. “I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“Aye. It’s a compliment. But if you knew what I was really thinkin’, lass, you’d run back into that bedroom and bolt the door behind you.”

When I glance back up at him, he isn’t smiling. He lifts his beer in a salute, then guzzles the whole thing in one go. My face flushes with heat.

“But we need to take it in a bit, Ducky. It’s a little loose here!”

Mrs. Dinwiddle is frowning at my waist, pinching an inch of fabric between her fingers.

“You’re right. I’ve lost weight since I bought this. Shoot.”

“No worries, my dear, just take it off for a minute, and I’ll fix it up for you! I’m an expert seamstress, of course. All those years on the stage, I accumulated more than just men, let me tell you. My skills with a needle and thread are legendary. Tut, tut, in you go, take it off, put on a robe, and I’ll bring it right back!”

She waves me off into the bedroom like she’s shooing a flock of pigeons away from her lunch. I remove the dress, careful not to mess my hair or makeup, put on my fluffy white bathrobe, and reemerge into the living room with the dress in my arms.

“Back in a jiff!”

Mrs. Dinwiddle sweeps out of the apartment, leaving me and Cam alone.

“You’re not wearin’ your glasses.”

It sounds like an accusation, so instantly I’m on the defense. “I’ve got my contacts in. I decided to go whole hog with the transformation thing. I want everyone to not recognize me when I walk into the party. I want to slay.”

“Oh, you’ll slay, lass. No doubt about that. But it’s really because pretty boy wanted to see you without them, isn’t it?”

My heartbeat ticks up a notch. I swallow, feeling nervous and uncomfortable, unsure of why I’d feel either. “Is that bad?”

He draws a breath through his nose, a long one, like he’s biting his tongue or trying to cool his temper. Then he stands, leaving his empty beer bottle on the coffee table. He crosses to me and takes my face in his hands.

“No,” he says softly, looking into my eyes. “It’s not bad. You want to please your man—I get it. Just don’t forget who you are. Don’t forget what you are, Joellen. Not for anyone.”

My heartbeat is now the wild, thundering gallop of a pack of stallions flying over the open plains. “What am I?” I whisper, terrified of the answer.

“Perfect.”

He bends his head and kisses me, the softest, sweetest brush of his lips against mine. Then he turns and leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.

I sink weak-kneed to the sofa and spend the next fifteen minutes hyperventilating, until Mrs. Dinwiddle reappears with my dress.




In the cab on the way to the party, I don’t see the snowy streets passing by. I don’t see the traffic or the lights or hear the Christmas jingle playing on the stereo.

All I see is Cam’s face. All I hear is his voice telling me I’m perfect.

Well, I also hear the critical voice that’s always with me telling me that Cam has obviously ingested a lot of drugs if he thinks I’m anywhere close to perfect, but I force that voice to a dark corner of my mind and allow myself to accept that maybe I don’t have to be perfect. Maybe having one person who thinks I am is enough.

Maybe his belief in me can be the seed that takes root in the stubborn, self-loathing dirt of my mind and grows into a garden of self-acceptance.

Or maybe I’m nuts.

“God, I really need a drink,” I say aloud.

In the driver’s seat, the cabbie holds up a silver flask. “You like bourbon?”

I have to smile. Damn, I love New York. “Not even a little bit.”




Maddox Publishing’s annual holiday party is being held at the Broad Street Ballroom, a former Bank of America headquarters converted into a luxury event space. This year, the theme of the party is Winter Wonderland, because apparently no one on the event committee possesses a kernel of originality.

I step out of the cab into bitter wind and hurry up the stone steps toward the door, pulling my coat up around my ears and hoping my hair doesn’t get too badly damaged. It’s still snowing, and there’s frost on the ground.

I walk inside into warmth and a confusion of scents—hot wax and lilies and women’s perfume. A girl at a desk takes my coat and gives me a ticket, then I make my way down an elegant hallway toward the ballroom, willing my hands to stop shaking. They refuse.

Music and laughter from around a corner. The sound of clinking ice. I pass myself in a mirror but don’t look, knowing that critical voice is too ready to pounce.

I arrive at the large double doors leading into the ballroom. I take one final deep breath, then go inside.





THIRTY

As if I’m having an out-of-body experience, I see everything around me all at once, including myself.

Cocktail tables softly glowing with votive candles. Dinner tables surrounding a large white dance floor. Centerpieces of white branches dripping in strands of faux jewels that catch and reflect the light. A ten-piece band in tuxedos on a riser. People mingling, talking, laughing with drinks in their hands.

Me, standing alone at the door, wearing a drop-dead gorgeous red dress that cost half a month’s pay, a pair of glittery sky-high heels that make my legs look fantastic, and my cheap everyday glasses with the black plastic frames.