Melt for You Page 7

  An expression, if I’m not mistaken, like he wants to pick up the bouquet and smash it against the wall.

  Michael looks at the roses. I look at Shasta. Shasta retreats into the safety of her cubicle, sinking slowly into her chair, eyeballing me like What the actual fuck? until her head disappears beneath the wall.

  “I guess it didn’t turn out to be such a bad weekend for you after all.”

  In response to Michael’s terse statement, I simply smile. Mona Lisa. Mona Lisa. Mona-effing-Lisa!

  “Let me get rid of this for you, kiddo.” Denny breaks the weird tension as he grabs my old chair and rolls it out of my cubicle. He rolls the new one in with a triumphant, “Ta-da!”

  “Thank you. That’s great. It looks very . . . ergonomic.”

  You don’t have the brains God gave a flea, Joellen.

  Then, right after my own voice in my head, Cam’s voice intrudes, full of disappointment under the brogue. Dinnae tell ye te stop that, lass?

  I smother the thought before it can go any further, because the last thing in the world I need is the Mountain ganging up on me, too.

  While Michael and I stand in awkward silence, Denny packs up the old chair in the box, tapes it shut, and loads it back onto the dolly. When he’s finished, he turns to me with a grin.

  “Did I tell you the one about Bill Gates farting in the Apple store?”

  “That will be all, Denny, thank you.”

  Michael’s quiet but firm voice puts the brakes on the next phase of Denny’s joke, which I’m sure has something to do with the Apple store having no Windows.

  Denny says, “Oh yes, of course. Sorry, Mr. Maddox. I’ll be off now.”

  He’s gone with my old chair in seconds flat, leaving Michael and I staring at each other with the stupid bouquet of roses ogling us both. I wonder if McGregor has a listening device or a camera hidden in the foliage and decide I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Um, thanks for the chair. I really appreciate it.”

  “You’re welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Joellen. I want to make sure you’re well taken care of.”

  Why does his voice sound so husky?

  My eyes flash up to his, our gazes lock, and the heat in his eyes makes me feel like I’m channeling starlight and lightning bolts through my veins. A peep of surprise—maybe hysteria—slips past my lips.

  After a rough throat clearing, Michael smooths a hand down the lapel of his jacket. “Well. I’m back to work. Have a good day.”

  Before I can answer, he turns on his heel and strides away.

  I watch him go, hope and confusion and longing churning in my gut, until Shasta says in a stage whisper, “Did someone drug my coffee, or was he flirting with you?”

  I throw myself over the wall that separates us and stare down at her, crouched in her chair where she has obviously been eavesdropping, and stick out my arm. “Pinch me. I’m dreaming.”

  Smiling, Shasta shakes her head. “Bitch, I’ll do more than pinch you. If Michael Maddox has the hots for you, I’ll punch you right in the face.”

  Today is officially the best day of my life.

  EIGHT

  I float through the rest of the day on a hormonal high, smiling like a crazy person. I’m not even bothered when I encounter Portia in the ladies’ room, washing her hands at the sink, and she gifts me her trademark Glare of Death in the mirror.

  Nothing can touch me. I’m invincible. I’m coated in love Teflon.

  I’m also not disturbed when I get off the elevator on my floor in my apartment building and rap music blaring from down the hall instantly causes me to lose 5 percent of my hearing.

  I pound on the Mountain’s door, still smiling.

  When he opens up, my smile falters for a moment but then snaps back into place like it’s magnetized. “Cool skirt, prancer. You look groovy in plaid. When’re you going to invest in some shirts? You do realize it’s winter, right?”

  He heaves a huge sigh and looks at the ceiling, as if hoping for divine intervention. “It’s a kilt, lass.”

  Of course I know that, but I enjoy giving him the business because it obviously irks him to have his kilt disrespected by calling it a skirt. “What’s the difference?”

  “What you wear underneath.”

  When I cock a brow, he smiles. “Ask me what I’m wearin’ underneath.”

  “I feel like this is a trick to get me to look at your junk.”

  He looks insulted. “My ‘junk’? Cameron McGregor doesn’t have ‘junk.’ He has family jewels, thank you very much.”

  I bypass the ridiculous way he refers to himself in the third person. “Yeah, well your family jewels can stay safely under your skirt, buddy, because I’m in too good a mood to deal with a random penis sighting, thank you very much.”

  He lifts the edge of his kilt a few inches and grins, waggling his eyebrows. “You sure? It’s a life-changin’ event, I promise you, lass.”

  I snort. “No doubt, but I don’t have the cash to bankroll the long and expensive relationship with a psychotherapist that seeing you naked would necessitate.”

  “Aha! You admit it would blow your mind!”

  “I admit that I’ve seen people like you before, but I’ve had to pay an entry fee at the circus to do so.”

  He purses his lips and looks me up and down. “Just make it easier on yourself, darlin’, and admit you’re wild for me and are dyin’ to bring a few dozen little McGregors into the world.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “You’re massively in love with me.”

  “I’m massively in dislike with you.”

  “You’ve finally figured out I’m the real man of your dreams.”

  “I’ve finally figured out how you got here. Someone left your cage door open.”

  We grin at each other while the stupid rap music blares into the hallway, eroding my hearing another few percent.

  “You look awful cheery, lass. Did your lingerie store have a sale on beige granny panties?”

  Not even that little zinger puts a dent in my good mood. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re a genius. I think the roses worked.”

  The grin wipes from his face like someone took an eraser to it. He steps forward into the hall, forcing me to step back to accommodate him, and stares down at me.

  “Aye? What happened?”

  I blink up at him. “Whoa. Your ability to go from harmless flirt to serial killer is mutant, you know that?”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’m never harmless.”

  He says it while staring me in the eye, a vein throbbing in his temple. A little shiver runs up my spine. It isn’t fear, but I’m not sure what it is. Honestly, I don’t want to know. This guy is a single shady chromosome away from turning into the Hulk.

  “Okeydokey. You’re never harmless. Congratulations on being a psychopath. By the way, why’s your music so loud? You said, and I quote, ‘Your pie for my silence.’ That ear-splitting noise is hardly silence.”

  He folds his arms over his chest and peers at me down his nose. Honestly, the man is pretty intimidating when he does that. Now I understand why biceps are sometimes referred to as “guns.” He’s got a pair of howitzers on him, locked and loaded.

  “That pie you made me yesterday bought my silence yesterday. You want more silence today? I want another pie.”

  I gasp in outrage. “You never said that! You can’t change the rules after we made an agreement!”

  “Cameron McGregor can do whatever he likes, lass.” He steps backward and makes a move to close the door.

  “Wait!”

  He gazes at me with hooded lids, waiting.

  “I don’t have the ingredients for another shepherd’s pie, but—”

  He closes the door in my face.

  I pound on the door, shouting, “But I can make you my grandmother’s meat loaf, you big jerk! It’s even better!”

  There’s a pause, then the music lowers slightly. The door cracks open, and
Cameron eyes me through the space. “Meat loaf?”

  “Yes,” I say, seething. “Meat loaf. A loaf made of meat. It’s friggin’ delicious.”

  The door opens another inch. “What kind of meat?” he asks dubiously.

  Oh, for the love of God. “Ground turkey.”

  He wrinkles his nose like Mrs. Dinwiddle does, and I have to swallow the growl in my throat because I really don’t want to hear his sucky rap music all night.

  “It’s fluffy, juicy, and comes with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy. Do you want the dang thing or not?”

  He pretends to think, tapping his chin with his finger, and I’d like to kick him in his blasted family jewels.

  “All right.” He solemnly nods. “I accept this loaf of meat you offer. But if I discover that you’ve exaggerated its claims of greatness, our deal is null and void.”

  My nostrils flare as the urge to commit murder boils in my veins. “I’ll show you null and void,” I mutter, turning my back to him and stomping across the hall, my happiness evaporated. I dig violently through my purse for my keys. As soon as I get the door open, the music cuts off abruptly, then a door slams and Cameron McGregor pushes past me into my apartment.

  I watch helplessly as he lowers himself to my sofa and props his huge bare feet on my coffee table. “No, McGregor. No. Get out.” I point to the open door.

  His smile is broad and satisfied. He laces his hands behind his head, which shows off all the muscles in his arms and abdomen and makes his tattoos ripple.

  “You can tell me all about pretty boy Michael and what a genius I am while you cook.”

  Then, because the universe hates me, Mr. Bingley jumps up on Cameron’s lap, curls up, and promptly goes to sleep. Cameron’s smile grows even wider.

  I swing the door shut, willing his head to explode like a pumpkin. Unfortunately, I have no such luck, and his big dumb head remains intact.

  “If looks could kill, I’d be stone dead, lass,” he says mildly, watching as I dump my purse on the console table in the foyer, shrug off my coat, and head toward the kitchen.

  I say over my shoulder, “You’re the reason God created the middle finger.”

  He laughs and keeps on laughing, an irritating sound that can be heard over all the clanging of pots and pans as I dig through the cupboard for the loaf pan. Once it’s in hand, I slam it on the counter and head to the refrigerator.

  “I’m happy you find me so amusing.”

  He abruptly stops laughing. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.”

  Oh, sure. Fat is probably the word, right? I try out Portia’s Glare of Death on him. “You know, I was in a really good mood before I got home.”

  “Because my roses worked. By the way, you’re welcome.”

  My back teeth are in danger of shattering, I’m grinding them together so hard. But he has a point. “Well . . . yes. And thank you. How much do I owe you for that bouquet?”

  “A week of shepherd’s pies. And/or loafs of meat, if this one turns out to be acceptable.”

  He grins at the look of horror on my face, then shrugs. “It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what a Manhattan florist charges for one hundred roses, darlin’. But it’s up to you.”

  One hundred roses? I do a quick mental calculation of what a dozen roses might cost retail, multiply it by eight, and wind up with a number so large it makes the blood drain from my face. And that’s not including tax and delivery.

  But I’m quick to clarify terms because he’s a dirty deal changer. “That includes no music for a week, too, though, right?”

  “Sure. But it also includes me eatin’ over here.”

  I’m dumbfounded. “Here? Why here?”

  He takes a moment to answer, then says with a bland expression, “I like your cat.”

  I narrow my eyes and watch him idly scratch Mr. Bingley behind his ears. “Won’t that interfere with your naked poker parties and standing door sex with strangers?”

  Amusement flickers in his eyes. “No, I’ll just move those to the mornin’s.”

  I can tell he’s baiting me, which he seems to really love, so I keep my expression as bland as his and ignore it. “So to clarify, the deal is seven home-cooked meals, which you eat here, in exchange for payment on the roses and no loud music.”

  He inclines his head, smiling slightly, which makes me suspicious.

  “And that’s it?”

  “I can throw in a daily viewin’ of the family jewels if you like.”

  His voice is rich with suppressed laughter, and I want to hurl the meat loaf pan at his head. “No, thank you. But it occurs to me that we should discuss exactly how long it will take you to eat your meals here.”

  He arches his brows. “You want a time limit, lass? That’s a trifle insultin’.”

  “I just want to make sure you don’t end up sleeping on my couch.”

  “What if you invite me to?”

  I throw my hands in the air. “McGregor, honestly!”

  “It’s a legitimate question. I’ve been told I’m irresistible often enough to believe it. You could very well wind up throwin’ yourself at me, darlin’, and then where would we be? Just clarifyin’, like you said.”

  I close my eyes, inhale a slow, deep breath, and run my hands over my hair. When I open my eyes again, I find Cameron grinning at me.

  I say, “Twenty minutes a night.”

  The grin doesn’t budge. “I’m not a competitive eater, lass, you can’t expect me to shovel an entire pie down my throat in less than half an hour.”

  “Fine. Thirty minutes.”

  “One hour.”

  “Forty-five minutes.”

  He assesses the look on my face, my clenched fists, and my general impersonation of a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse and relents. “Forty-five minutes. Deal.”

  I feel as if I’ve just negotiated peace in the Middle East. “Deal. Now sit there, and try not to be annoying while I make dinner.”

  Low chuckling comes from behind me as I turn and head to the refrigerator again. I’m busy for several minutes—getting the ingredients together, mincing red bell peppers, blending moistened oats with the meat—until I feel a presence behind me and turn.

  I let out a scream when I find Cameron standing not two feet away, watching me. “Jesus! You scared me half to death! What’re you doing?”

  “Did you forget I was here, lass? Is your attention span that short?”

  He’s laughing at me again, mirth shining in his eyes as his lips curl up at the outer edges. I yank a wooden spoon from a ceramic crock on the counter and slap his shoulder with it. “Get over there! Go sit down at the table, and stop looming!”

  “Christ, you’re bossy,” he grouses, but he says it with warmth in his voice, so I can tell he actually likes it. Which works out well for both of us, because I can see a lot of beatings in his future if he keeps this up.

  He lowers himself to a chair at my kitchen table, taking up all the space in the room in that irritating way he has. I throw a dish towel at him, which hits him in the face.

  “Can you please cover yourself?”

  “With this?” He holds the dish towel up to his broad torso. It covers about a quarter of it. When I frown, he chuckles. “Is the sight of my manly bare chest distracting you, sweetheart?”

  I groan, rolling my eyes. “Forty-five minutes of this every night and I’ll go insane.”

  “Aye. With lust.”

  “Oh. My. God.”

  “You can just call me Cam, darlin’. Though it’s accurate, God seems a wee bit formal.”

  I make a sound of exasperation that contains a lot of snarling fricatives and go back to assembling the meat loaf.

  Cam is quiet until I put the loaf into the oven and set the timer. Then he says, “So. Pretty boy. Tell me.”

  The thought of Michael’s expression when he looked at the roses on my desk brings a smile to my face. I wash my hands in the sink, dry them, then lean against the counter with my arms folded ove
r my chest and meet Cam’s gaze. “It was brilliant. He came over first thing in the morning to see about the chair he ordered me, and there’s this huge bouquet on my—”

  “What chair?”

  I’m startled by the force of his question. “Oh. He thought my office chair was broken because I was being my usual clumsy self and . . .” The way Cam’s face darkens when I call myself clumsy makes me quickly rewind. “I mean, he thought my chair was broken and ordered me another one.”

  “This was before he saw the roses?”

  “Yeah. This was during the conversation I had with him on Sunday, when I found out he was getting divorced.”

  “When you say he thought it was broken, that makes it sound like it wasn’t actually broken.”

  “It wasn’t. It’s hard to explain without getting you mad, because I’ll have to describe what happened, and honestly I don’t see any way around that without mentioning that I’m clumsy.”

  Cam gazes at me steadily. “Huh.”

  “What d’you mean, ‘huh’?”

  “There’s two parts to it.”

  “There’s two parts to a one-syllable word?”

  “To the explanation.”

  “Why do I feel like I should be sitting for this?”

  Cam motions to the chair across from him, which I sink into, weirdly nervous about what he might say.

  Drumming his fingers on the table, Cam says, “Part one is the interestin’ fact that pretty boy ordered you a new office chair.”

  I chew my lip with worry. “Why is that interesting?”

  “Interestin’ that he noticed. Interestin’ that he took the initiative. Interestin’ that he made it happen so fast. Interestin’ that he dropped by to make sure it was done. All of it made even more interestin’ because you’re of the opinion he doesn’t know you exist.”

  I lean forward, my eyes wide. “That’s what I thought!”

  “What did he do when he saw the flowers?”

  “He sort of . . . glared at them, like he wanted to throw them away.”

  A muscle flexes in Cam’s jaw, but he’s silent.

  “What’s part two?”

  “That you care if I get mad when you’re too hard on yourself.”