Melt for You Page 4

  “Really?”

  He nods vigorously. “Believe me, I had my share of run-ins with the daft buggers when I was at Oxford. They’re animals. Animals who’re in love with themselves. Rugby players take the term egomaniac to a whole new level.”

  I find myself nodding my head, too. “Yeah, that basically describes Cameron McGregor in a nutshell.”

  Michael’s brows shoot up. “Your neighbor is Cameron McGregor?”

  Why does he look so horrified? “Um, yes?”

  “The captain of the Scotland national union team, the Red Devils? That Cameron McGregor?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea what team he plays for—”

  “Six foot six, messy brown hair, built like a skyscraper, covered in tattoos?”

  “That sounds like him, yes.”

  Michael pulls a face. “Christ. You might want to move.”

  My heart sinks. “Oh God. That sounds bad.”

  “I don’t know how closely you follow sports, but your neighbor is all over the papers, and usually not for his performance on the pitch. Bar fights, sex scandals, being drunk and disorderly in public . . . McGregor’s temper is almost as notorious as his women. The UK gossip rags call him Prince Pantydropper because of the sheer number of his conquests.”

  Michael wrinkles his nose as he says the nickname, proving beyond a doubt that he’s a gentleman of the first order. Only a truly fine man of exceptional character would look down on the ability to cause a horde of women to drop their drawers.

  “He’s well on his way to earning that title on this side of the pond, too,” I grumble, thinking of stand-up sex and strip poker parties. I’m afraid of what I’ll go home to tonight. The kiddie pool Jell-O wrestling match suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. I sigh, shaking my head. “I hope I don’t run into him in the hallway again.”

  “Steer clear of him, Joellen.”

  Michael says that with thrilling firmness, with dominance, like it’s an order he expects to be obeyed. Why that should make my ovaries sit up and beg—tongues out, tails wagging—I don’t know, but Lord I wish he’d use that tone again.

  Preferably while I’m bent over his knee with my knickers around my ankles.

  Inspecting my face, Michael cocks his head. “Your cheeks just turned bright red. Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yep. Peachy keen,” I say, my voice strangled.

  Jesus? Satan? Aliens from outer space? Anybody who feels like claiming the life of a sad-sack copyeditor can step right up. Bonus points if you hurry.

  “Did I say something wrong? I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  Now he looks at me with alarm evident in his baby blues. It’s probably only because he’s my boss and he doesn’t want to get sued for sexual harassment, but for a moment I allow myself to simply bask in the pleasure of being the object of worry from a beautiful, elegant man.

  Looking at my feet, I mutter, “Nothing you say could ever be offensive to me. I’m just . . .”

  “Out of sorts.”

  I glance up to find Michael smiling at me. He must’ve guessed the effect he has on me, because his smile is the gracious, benevolent one a king would send a beggar as he drove by in his gilded carriage, tossing coins out the window.

  Can this man do anything wrong?

  “Yes. Exactly.” I nod, starry eyed. “Out of sorts.”

  “We both are.” His smile falters. He glances away. His eyes darken, and a thundercloud seems to pass over his face. In a different voice, he says, “I wish my only problem were a noisy neighbor.”

  That’s it. Since he’s standing here talking to me, treating me like a real human being, and dangling a juicy tidbit about his personal life out there—again—I’m going for it.

  “Is everything . . . okay?”

  He glances back at me. His jaw works for a moment, then he makes a pronouncement so unexpected it nearly knocks me off my feet.

  “I’m getting divorced.”

  “Oh!” I cover my mouth with my hand. “Michael, I’m so sorry!”

  I am not sorry, not one tiny bit, and have probably just damned myself to hell for that flat-out lie and how jubilant I feel hearing this poor man’s awful news. His marriage is falling apart, and meanwhile I could light up ten city blocks with my joyous glow. I’m incandescent with bliss and have to restrain myself from doing a happy dance around my cubicle.

  I’m a terrible, terrible person.

  “Thank you,” he says solemnly. “Though it wasn’t exactly unexpected. We’ve been having problems for years . . .”

  He trails off, lost in thought, while I begin to mentally design my wedding dress and plan our honeymoon. Then he shakes himself out of his fugue and smiles. It looks almost bashful.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I told you that. Nobody else knows. We haven’t even told our families yet.”

  His eyes plead with me to be discreet with his secret, so of course I rush to set his mind at ease. “You have my word I won’t say a thing to anyone.” That sounds much more convincing than my next sentence, which is another whopping lie. “I’m just so sorry this is happening to you.”

  Michael looks at me for a beat longer than is comfortable, then murmurs, “Thank you, Joellen. You’re always so nice.”

  Nice? I’m nice? Is that nice like a comfortable pair of shoes, or nice like a lap dance?

  Michael smoothly changes the subject so I don’t have to give myself a brain aneurysm trying to decode the meaning of an innocuous four-letter word. “So, are you coming to the office holiday party?”

  The office holiday party is an annual exercise in humiliation for me, akin to having all my skin peeled off and being thrown into a vat of hot salt water. I’m not exactly an extrovert to begin with, but standing around in a group of my peers nursing a glass of bad red wine while dressed in an outfit that looked fine at the store but somehow morphs into a clown costume when out in public is right up there on the Holidays Suck list.

  Inevitably, I will spill food down the front of my blouse, blurt something borderline offensive or outright pathetic, and be ignored or pitied by pretty much everyone. Then Portia will come stand next to me with her withering smile, reeking of disdain, and I’ll retreat to a dark corner of whatever overpriced ballroom we’re in so I can indulge in self-loathing and cram my face with fatty finger foods to my heart’s content.

  But every year Michael goes, so every year I go. And this year, he’s getting divorced.

  “Yes.” I surprise myself at how enthusiastic I sound. “I’ll definitely be there.”

  “Good. Will you save me a dance?”

  His smile is warm, and so are my nether regions.

  Holy moly. Michael Maddox wants to dance with me at the holiday party, in front of other people. Hell has officially frozen over.

  “Sure,” I say casually, as if my digestive tract hasn’t just turned into a quaking bowl of jelly.

  He smiles at me for a moment longer, then inclines his head in farewell and turns to leave. I watch him stride down the hall, his gait easy and confident, his posture much lighter than before. Then I’m struck by a thunderbolt of terror.

  The office holiday party is in less than a month.

  I throw myself into my chair, fire up my computer, and google How to lose forty pounds fast.

  FIVE

  By the time I leave work Sunday afternoon, I’ve finished the edit on the manuscript and worked myself into a lather over exactly how I’m going to achieve my new goal of transforming myself into a svelte goddess in the time it normally takes me to go up a dress size.

  Okay, “goddess” is a stretch, but I’m trying to think positive. The internet is bursting with examples of the power of mind over matter in achieving your goals, and who am I to question the word of someone named SkinnyGirl69 who claims to have lost half her body weight in a month from following a simple diet of eating nothing but air?

  So, basically, I’m going on a crash diet composed of breathing. If I don’t drop dead, I’ll
definitely be thin by Christmas. Seems like a reasonable risk to me.

  I didn’t see Michael again for the rest of the day, and I was way too chicken to go into the executive office area to say good-bye. Plus, I thought our conversation ended on such a fantastic note there was really nothing that could top it. And the danger of me ruining it all was very real, so I slunk out before fate could decide I’d had enough fun and topple the building with a rogue earthquake.

  I’m unlocking my apartment door when a booming voice from behind me makes me jump.

  “Where’s my pie, lass?”

  Gah. It’s him. Over my shoulder, I send Cameron an icy glare that would make Portia proud. “As you can see, I literally just got home. I don’t have a magical pie-producing handbag.”

  “Excuses, excuses! Next you’ll be tellin’ me they ran out of food at the store!”

  I turn around and blast him with the full measure of my dislike, shot from my eyeballs like a hail of bullets. “Some people have to work for a living, okay? I haven’t had a chance to go to the grocery store to get the stuff for your dang . . .” I’m about to continue, but this is when I notice his latest fashion choice, and I’m left speechless once again.

  After a moment during which he simply grins at me, I regain my senses. “Are you wearing . . . tights?”

  “What, these?” He makes spokesmodel hands at his muscular legs, which are clad in a pair of nuclear yellow, stretchy, shiny things that appear to be sprayed on from ankles to hips, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every ripple and bulge are highlighted—especially the bulge in his crotch.

  It’s inhumanly large. I’m certain he’s stuffed an elephant’s trunk into his pants.

  “Eyes up top, darlin’,” he drawls, catching me staring.

  I’m so mortified, I’d like to kill myself. Instead, I turn around and unlock my front door. I push it open and am about to slam it shut behind me, but Cameron flattens his big paw over it and pushes it back.

  “Now, now, no need to be shy.” Laughter warms his voice. “I already know how bad you’ve got it for me, lass. And no, these aren’t tights. They’re runner’s compression leggings.”

  Compression? Ha! They’re not compressing anything!

  “Please get your hand off my door.” I say that with my gaze pinned on the ceiling so my eyeballs don’t do any wandering off on their own. They simply can’t be trusted.

  “I’ll get my hand off your door when you tell me what time supper is. I really want that pie of yours, darlin’.”

  I growl at the innuendo in his voice, which I’m certain is the way he talks to every female who crosses his path. The pig.

  “Don’t call me darling! And stop talking about my shepherd’s pie like it’s my pie pie!”

  From my peripheral vision, I see his brows shoot up. “Your pie pie?” He bats his lashes, the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just tryin’ to find out when I can expect somethin’ you promised me.” As if on cue, his stomach grumbles. He points to it. “You see? I’m starvin’, lass!” Then he grins and slaps his hand on his abdomen, which doesn’t budge even the tiniest bit because the man has 0 percent body fat.

  “Rr-ow!”

  We look down to see Mr. Bingley curling himself around Cameron’s ankles like a furry little boa constrictor. His purr is so loud it sounds as if someone started an engine.

  “Who do we have here?” Cam smiles at Mr. Bingley, who beams up at him and rubs his face on Cam’s shiny yellow shin.

  I hope he unsheathes his claws and puts a few snags in that stupid fabric. “That’s Mr. Bingley.”

  Cam picks up the cat, flips him onto his back, and cradles him in his arms like a baby. I’m about to protest that he’s doing it wrong, but the dumb cat has closed his eyes and started to purr even more loudly, his fluffy orange tail swishing in delight against Cam’s stomach.

  As I stare in astonishment, Cam scratches under Mr. Bingley’s chin. “You must’ve done something really bad to get yourself named after a Jane Austen character, mate.”

  Now I’m beyond astonished. I’m floored. The Mountain knows who Mr. Bingley is? And here I thought hell officially froze over hours ago!

  “What?” says Cam to me, not looking up from the cat. “You thought I was all beauty and no brains, darlin’?”

  I produce an unladylike snort. “More like all ego and no manners.”

  He glances up at me from under his lashes and sends me a lazy smile. “So you’re not denyin’ you think I’m beautiful.”

  My eye roll is extravagant. “You’re depriving some poor village of its idiot. Can I have my cat back now?”

  “When I get my pie, you get the cat.” He turns around and swaggers back across the hall with Mr. Bingley in his arms, kicking the door shut just as I lunge for it.

  “McGregor!” Furious, I pound on his door with my fist. “Give me my cat back right this minute!”

  From behind the closed door comes a low chuckle and the clack of a dead bolt turning. “Your pie for your pussy, sweetheart.” Two seconds later, rap music comes on at full volume, thundering through the walls, cutting off any hope of further conversation.

  I stare at his door, fuming, grateful for once that poor Mr. Bingley is deaf so he doesn’t have to hear the blistering foul language in the lyrics. A part of me marvels at the audacity of this Cameron McGregor person and how he can work in not one but two euphemisms for my vagina in a six-word sentence, while another part of me wants to tear the door clear off its hinges and beat him to a pulp with it.

  The bastard stole my cat!

  I holler at the top of my lungs, “If he comes back with a single hair out of place, I’ll kick your tights-wearing butt!”

  I could swear under the boom of bass there’s laughter.

  Never in the long and storied history of shepherd’s pie has one been assembled faster.

  I set a land speed record to and from the corner market, my shoes leaving smoke and the sound of peeling rubber in their wake. I chop vegetables like a madwoman, sauté ground lamb as if someone is holding a gun to my head, curse at the pot of water until it finally gives in and comes to a boil from sheer terror. I abuse the potatoes so badly in my hurry to mash them, I almost overdo it and end up with a gluey mess but salvage them just in time by calming myself with a jumbo glass of wine, guzzled with the gusto of an addict at the start of an epic bender.

  After that I’m calm—well, calm is a relative term when comparing a total mental breakdown to mere crippling anxiety—and am able to finish the dish and get it into the oven without chopping off any of my fingers or suffering a life-threatening cardiac event.

  Which is when I realize that in my haste, I never turned the oven on.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I tell the empty kitchen. “If Mr. Bingley is even a little miffed when he comes home, Cameron McGregor is going to die.”

  I crank up the dial on the oven, then head over to McGregor’s and pound on the door. I’m regretting leaving my chef’s knife in the kitchen when he opens up.

  He’s changed from the yellow stretchy leggings into a pair of faded jeans but still isn’t wearing anything else. I wonder if the man owns shirts. And why does he have to be so muscular? It’s distracting!

  “Where is he?” I demand, craning my neck to try to look around his broad shoulders.

  “Where’s my pie?”

  “In the oven.”

  He cocks one eyebrow and stares at me.

  “It has to bake! It takes time! You’ll have your stupid shepherd’s pie in half an hour for God’s sake!”

  He sends me a saccharine smile. “So that’s when you’ll have your cat.”

  He makes a move to shut the door but is unable to as I throw my full weight against it. I knock him out of the way and barge into the apartment, calling Mr. Bingley’s name, knowing he won’t be able to hear me but unable to stop myself in my panic that I’m two steps away from finding a dead pile of fur on the floor with a beer bottle shoved down it
s poor throat.

  “Mr. Bingley! Mr. Bing—”

  I stop short at the bedroom door. There in the middle of the bed is the cat, curled up and sleeping peacefully, the stupid yellow tights wound around him like a security blanket.

  “He’s a real lover, that one.” Cameron stands behind me in the hallway. I can tell from his tone he’s trying not to laugh. “Practically had to peel him off me so I could take a shower. Never had a cat take a likin’ to me so fast. Takes after his mum, I guess.”

  I refuse to let him bait me, so I don’t answer. Instead, I go to the bed and pick up Mr. Bingley, careful not to touch the yellow tights. When I turn around, Cameron is blocking the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. He shakes his head.

  “Now I know you don’t think you’re leavin’ with that cat, lass, seein’ as how I don’t have a shepherd’s pie in my hands.”

  “Your obsession with that particular food is pathological, you know that?”

  “It’s just that . . . pie is my favorite thing in the world.” He pulls his lips between his teeth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  “Ugh. Keep talking—maybe someday you’ll say something intelligent.”

  He throws his head back and laughs, loud and long, while I stand and stare at him and Mr. Bingley tries to wriggle out of my arms to get back to the bed.

  “Okay, comedian,” he says, still chuckling. “New deal. We’re goin’ over to your place while we wait for my pie to finish bakin’.” He turns and strolls away, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder when I holler at him that we don’t have a deal, and he’s not welcome in my apartment.

  A minute later the point is moot as Cameron lowers his muscular bulk to my sofa, props his bare feet up on my coffee table, laces his fingers together over his stomach, and smiles at me like he’s waiting for me to bring him a drink.

  “You’re unbelievable.” I swing the door shut, deposit the cat onto the floor, and flee into the safety of the kitchen. Unfortunately the kitchen is about fifteen feet away from the living room, so I’m not really safe at all.