Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(91)

He pauses to draw a breath. The tension in his body radiates off him in waves. “That kind of stink doesn’t wash off.”

“Oh, Cam. That’s awful.”

“That’s not even the worst part. Two months later, she finds out she’s pregnant and files a paternity suit against me.”

“But all it would take would be a DNA test to prove you’re not the father!”

“Aye. Which she won’t submit to, claiming it can hurt the unborn child. So I’m stuck waitin’ until she gives birth so we can get the bloody test done and prove I’m innocent. In the meantime, she’s all over the news, cryin’ about how I took advantage of her.”

I’m furious on his behalf. “But that’s not fair! She’s lying!”

He sounds weary when he replies. “That’s the price I have to pay for refusin’ to settle the suit. Her barristers offered me a deal to keep her quiet, but I refused because that’s blackmail. It’ll all come out in the wash once the baby’s born, but until then, it’s a circus with me in the center ring.”

“But can’t you countersue her for defamation of character?”

He says gently, “If anyone’s to blame for my character assassination, lass, it’s me. And she’s a child who’s obviously messed up in the head. What good would it do in the end?”

This is all very depressing. “I wish there was something I could do to help. I hate that you’re going through this.”

He turns his face to my hair, inhaling deeply. “You’ve already helped, lass. You have no idea how much.”

His voice is husky with emotion, deep and raw, and it brings the hot prick of tears to the back of my eyes. We lie quietly for a few moments, just breathing, until he starts to speak again.

“This is gonna sound so fucking weird.”

“I’m already worried.”

He draws a breath, then blurts, “You remind me of my mother.”

“Speaking of awkward segues! I’ll just be here trying not to be icked out by that, thanks. You couldn’t wait to lay that gem on me until we weren’t naked in bed?”

He chuckles. “I know. Sorry. What I mean is . . .” He struggles for a moment to find the right words. “How you’re a natural caretaker. How you know how to make people feel good about themselves without tryin’. How you’re always honest.” His voice drops. “How you feel like home.”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply in and out, which doesn’t help my voice breaking when I say, “You’re killing me here, prancer.”

He pulls me tighter against him, hugging me hard with those muscle-bound arms. “Are we gonna talk about the elephant in the room?”

I know what he means, but I make a joke to avoid it, because if nothing else, I’m an expert at avoiding tough conversations and uncomfortable emotional moments with bad humor. “Do you have a name for that thing? Because I’ve secretly been calling it Godzilla.”

“I’m not talkin’ about my dick, lass, and you know it.”

I scrunch down a few inches, hiding my face in his pecs. “Have I ever mentioned that you have beautiful breasts? Because you do. Man breasts are highly underrated.”

Cam’s deep sigh stirs my hair. “I have to go back to Scotland on the third.”

He lets it hang there, a loaded gun pointed at our fledgling relationship, just trying out its shaky newborn legs. When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Trainin’ for the new season starts on the sixth or I’d stay longer—”

“No,” I interrupt, my voice muffled against his skin. “You can’t stay. You have to go back to your life.”

And I have to figure out mine. What’s left of it. I wonder whether a job at McDonald’s or Starbucks would be better suited to my skill set?

His voice thick, Cam says, “Come with me.”

My heart starts to pound frantically, leaving me breathless. I momentarily lose the power of speech, which is a good thing because my mental state at the moment could best be described as “standing out on a ledge.”

“I’ll buy you a ticket, one with an open-ended return date so you can stay as long as you want. Take some vacation time, see if you like Scotland . . . why’re you shakin’ your head?”

“You know it’s impossible,” I whisper, hating how weepy I sound. These kinds of moments call for the type of frontier-woman fortitude I don’t have. I’m pretty sure I’ll be wiping my snot from his chest any minute.

“Lass—”

“I’m thirty-six, Cam. You’re twenty-nine. I’ve got neuroses older than you. You’re a glamorous, famous person whose house is always filled with people and parties, and I’m a homebody who only socializes with my cat. You’ll end up resenting me. I’ll end up homesick, feeling like a burden. We both have pretty significant problems we have to fix in our lives, and using each other as crutches isn’t going to do anything but create more messes.”

After a long, tense moment, Cam says, “Wow. That was bloody depressin’. Try again. And this time keep it short and just say yes.”

I groan and roll over onto my other side. If I thought that would work as a final punctuation on the conversation, Cam puts that idea to rest immediately by winding his arm around my waist and dragging me backward against him.