Melt for You Read online

  I wave that away because I want to get back to Michael. “So, what do you think it all means?”

  “I think it means he likes you.”

  Though I’m thrilled by the possibility that what he’s saying might be true, I know it’s not reality. “Much as I’d love to believe that, I can’t.”

  “Maybe you should take my word for it, lass.”

  “This from the man wearing nothing but a plaid skirt who insists I’m desperate to have his babies.”

  Cam’s smile comes on slow and heated. “Aye. And what bonny wee bairns they’d be, too. Pretty little devils with their mum’s salty tongue.”

  “Being around you is slightly exhausting, McGregor.”

  “Only slightly? I’m takin’ that as a compliment, lass.”

  I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Weakly at first, but then I give in to the hysteria I’ve been holding back all day, brought on by my morning encounter with Michael, and laugh with gusto, my head thrown back, pounding a fist on the table.

  “You see?” Cam sounds smug. “You’re mad about me. Only a woman in love can laugh like that.”

  Wiping tears from my eyes, I try to catch my breath. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby, weren’t you?”

  “Not as a baby,” he answers softly, the smile fading from his face. “That came later.”

  That statement shoots my laughter from the air like clay birds. I stare at him―he’s suddenly serious, his jaw tense―and wonder if I’m supposed to pretend he didn’t say anything or take it as an opening to delve into his personal life. And if I want to open this particular can of worms.

  “I can hear the gears turnin’, lass,” he says, watching my face. “Don’t break your brain—just go ahead and ask.”

  “Um. Sheesh. I don’t know where to start.” After a moment, I ask tentatively, “You . . . had a rough childhood?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t googled me.”

  “Of course I haven’t googled you! Why would I do that?”

  “Because I’m Cameron McGregor, that’s why.”

  I have to blink at his casual delivery, like he takes it for granted that every person who comes into contact with him rushes to the internet immediately after they meet to discover all the intimate details of his background.

  If I thought he had a big ego before, now I think it’s positively colossal. “Okay, not to be mean, but I literally had never heard of you until you moved into my building.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be daft. Everyone’s heard of me.”

  “Dude. You’re not Mick Jagger.”

  “No, I’m much more famous and better-looking.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  He sits forward, dropping his casual demeanor for a challenging one. He stabs a finger at his chest. “You’re saying you think Mick bloody Jagger, that grizzled old Englishman, is better-looking than me?”

  “Easy, tiger. Don’t get your skirt in a bunch. I’m saying you’re not as famous as Mick Jagger.”

  He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at me down his nose like he so enjoys doing, making a clucking noise with his tongue. “You’re sadly misinformed, darlin’. I’m the most famous athlete on the planet.”

  “Okay, number one, rock stars are more famous than athletes, hands down. And number two, you’re not more famous than Michael Jordan.”

  He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m way more famous than Michael Jordan!”

  “Maybe in your own mind, but here in the land of the sane people, you’re definitely not.”

  His sigh is a big gust of air, filled with disappointment. “Ach, lassie, you really don’t get out enough.”

  “On a side note to this stupid conversation, McGregor, here in the States, Lassie is a famous television dog. So when I hear you call me lassie, I’m hearing you call me a dog.”

  He considers that for a moment. “What kind of dog?”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

  “I’m bein’ serious! Is it a pretty dog? A mangy dog? A pit bull? I’ve never heard of this Lassie character. You need to clue me in.”

  “You were kicked out of Scotland because you’re so annoying, right? Everyone got together and agreed to throw you out for the greater good of the country?”

  He’s trying not to laugh, pressing his lips together. “You’d know if you googled me.”

  “I am not googling you, egosaurus.”

  “C’mon, you know you want to. We can do it together!”

  I stare at him, shaking my head. “You have serious mental problems that require professional help.”

  His hazel eyes sparkle. “All part o’ my charm, sweetheart, all part o’ my charm.”

  I look at the timer on the oven, wondering how much longer this torture has to continue, when Mr. Bingley wanders into the kitchen and jumps up into Cameron’s lap.

  Cam looks at me, smiling triumphantly.

  “Oh, shut up, McGregor.”

  “Never in a million years, lass. I’ve got too many brilliant ideas to share. Like this one, for instance. Are you ready?” He leans forward, his eyes shining like he’s about to dispense some illuminating morsel of galactic wisdom.

  “I can hardly wait.”

  “First, a question: When was the last time you kissed a man?”

  I’m instantly, totally insulted. “Screw you!”

  “I’m not insinuatin’ you’re a lesbian, if that’s what you think. Not that there’s anything wrong with bein’ a lesbian—that just wasn’t where I was headed.”

  “You’re so lucky the knives are in a drawer on the other side of the kitchen, because if I had one in my hand right now, I’d gouge out your eyeballs.”

  He waves a hand impatiently in my face. “My point is that if it’s been a while since you were properly kissed, you’ll need a little practice to get yourself up to speed for pretty boy Michael.”

  I shout, “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Cam sits back in his chair and smiles. “I’m talkin’ about bein’ your coach.”

  It takes me a moment to understand, but when I do, my ears go hot. “Wait. You’re offering to teach me how to kiss?”

  His smile grows even wider. “Who better than Prince Pantydropper?”

  NINE

  After I expend an enormous amount of energy glaring torpedoes at Cam and trying to unscramble my brain, a light bulb goes on over my head. “Oh, I get it.”

  He looks interested. “You get what, exactly?”

  “You’re one of those guys who can’t stand it when a woman isn’t into him. Your ego is so inflated with the hot gas everyone blows up your butt, when you cross paths with someone who’s indifferent, it drives you crazy. So you have to walk around half-naked showing off your collection of bulges and tattoos, and demand homemade meat loaves, and make outrageous statements like ‘I’ll be your kissing coach,’ all so that your fragile yet ridiculously overblown ego won’t implode from lack of attention.”

  Cam deadpans, “Thank you, Dr. Freud, for that excellent diagnosis.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Too bad it’s barmy. But I’m interested in hearin’ more about these ‘bulges’ you speak of. Are there any in particular that’re your favorites?”

  Hooking a thumb into the waistband of his kilt, he sends me an innocent smile that’s like sandpaper scoured over my nerve endings.

  “I bet it’s even more aggravating to you that the chubby girl is the one who’s not all hot and bothered by your flagrant machismo, right?”

  There goes his smile, disappearing faster than a bowl of chocolate Häagen-Dazs down my throat. He leans toward me with a low growl.

  “Tear yourself down in front of me again, woman, and I’ll take you over my knee and make you wish you hadn’t.”

  We stare at each other while the clock ticks on the kitchen wall and Mr. Bingley makes a meal of his hind paw, going at it like I go at a rack of ribs.

/>   “Why’re your lips twitchin’?” Cam narrows his eyes at me.

  “Because I’m trying to decide if that’s sweet, sexist, or so ridiculous I should laugh.”

  Cam’s face clears like the sun breaking through thunderclouds. He leans back into his chair and grins. “That’s easy, lass. It’s sweet.”

  Is this guy for real? “Question. Purely for curiosity’s sake.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you ever actually taken a woman over your knee as punishment?”

  When his grin turns wicked, I hold up a hand. “Nope. Never mind. I don’t want to know.” A sudden spike of pain lances through my skull, and I wince, pressing my fingers to my eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Ugh. Headache.”

  Cam’s brow wrinkles. “I know you think I’m irritatin’, but causin’ an actual headache is on a whole other level.”

  “It’s not you. I mean it is you, but it’s mainly because I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

  Cam thunders, “Why the bloody hell not?”

  I wince. “Oh, thanks for that. Shouting is great for headaches.”

  “Don’t avoid the question!”

  When I sigh heavily and rub my temple, Cam says darkly, “This better not have anythin’ to do with pretty boy and the office holiday party.”

  Okay, so he’s smart . . . ish. But he’s also on my last nerve, and I know if I admit I’m starving myself to lose weight, he’ll have all kinds of opinions on the subject, so I decide to tell a teensy white lie.

  I inspect a crack on the wall over his left shoulder. “My stomach has just been a little upset.”

  After a short pause, Cam sighs. “You lie for shit, woman.”

  He pronounces shit like shyte. It’s kind of adorable, but I hate him, so it’s not. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

  “Student of humanity, remember?”

  I resist the urge to stick out my tongue and simply stare at him instead.

  “Okay, your face gets all scrunched up and your whole body does this cringy, foldin’-in-on-itself thing. You might as well be wearin’ a sign on your forehead.”

  “That is inconvenient.”

  Cam’s voice softens, and so do his eyes. “No, lass. It’s a good thing.” Then his voice gets hard again. “But starvation diets are not.”

  “Could you please be less observant? It’s making my headache worse.”

  “No, and tough. A headache is the price you pay for bein’ a bloody idiot. Your body needs fuel, lass, and if it doesn’t get it, it’ll start to cannibalize your muscles, and then you’ll have worse problems than headaches.”

  I grumble, “What’re you, a doctor?”

  He stands and braces his hands on his hips, towering over me. Mr. Bingley hops to the floor and waits patiently at his feet.

  Cam says, “Look at me, lass. Look at this body.” He throws out his arms, juts out his chin, and puffs out his chest. “You think I got this perfect physique by starvin’ myself? You think I became the world’s most famous, beloved athlete by tryin’ to be skinny?”

  “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question? Your ego is blocking my ears.”

  “The human body is a complex machine. A temple, as they say. You have to treat it like one!”

  “Yeah, well, my temple is more like an abandoned ruin the jungle has taken over and a herd of billy goats is living in.”

  I can tell Cam wants to laugh, but he’s trying hard to keep his serious face because he’s not finished with his scolding. He wags a finger at me like Granny Gums does when she’s warning that my biological clock is on a death-spiral countdown.

  “What you need is a customized diet and exercise program.”

  “Incorrect. What I need is liposuction.”

  He shudders, as if the thought repulses him, and drops back into his chair, which creaks in protest under his weight. Mr. Bingley instantly jumps back into his lap. I’m starting to wonder if Cam rubs catnip on his body before coming over.

  “No lipo. Your body will burn fat efficiently if you feed it properly and work it out.”

  “Hooray. Unfortunately, I’m addicted to carbs and sugar and allergic to exercise, so the only way I’m going to burn fat is if someone comes at me with a blowtorch or if I stop eating altogether. I decided I’d try option two first.”

  Cam drums his fingers on the table, pinning me in his intense gaze until I’m shifting in my seat because his look makes me so uncomfortable. Then he pronounces, “We start trainin’ tomorrow mornin’.”

  I say archly, “I’m not taking you up on your kissing coaching, pal, no matter how many panties you’ve dropped! Let it go.”

  He rolls his eyes, as if I’m the one who’s being ridiculous. “I’m talkin’ about an exercise program.”

  “Ha! Me adopting an exercise routine is about as likely as you suddenly developing humility and fashion sense.” I stand, cross to the oven, and impatiently tap the timer, convinced it’s not working.

  “How much weight do you wanna lose by the party?” he demands, sweeping his gaze over my figure.

  I shoot him a sour look. “A literal ton. And if you can add in glowing skin and a pair of boobs that don’t look like something out of National Geographic, lengthen my legs by a few inches, and generally reduce my resemblance to the ogress Princess Fiona from Shrek, you’re on.”

  I’m too busy assessing the state of the cooking meat loaf through the glass window of the oven to notice the yawning silence, but after a while it dawns on me that Cam isn’t saying anything, which can only be bad news.

  I glance over at him and find what I know I’ll find: Cam doing his best impersonation of Wolverine.

  I straighten and sigh, shaking my head. “Please don’t bristle at me, McGregor.”

  He enunciates each word slowly, as if he’s biting them off with his teeth. “Who. Told. You. You’re. Ugly.”

  “Every mirror I’ve ever looked into.”

  Wrong answer. Wolverine goes full mutant mode. It’s lucky he’s not wearing a shirt, because it would be ripped to shreds by his sudden angry expansion.

  “Stop, McGregor. Just stop. I know how I look.”

  “Maybe you need new glasses.”

  That pisses me off. I hate it when well-meaning people try to make me feel better about my looks.

  My cheeks flaming with heat, I say quietly, “Don’t you dare pity me or patronize me. And don’t bullshit me, either. I own mirrors, and a scale, and have a younger sister who’s won enough beauty contests that I know what pretty is supposed to look like. And I’m not it. Which is fine—I’m not feeling sorry for myself. But when someone like you who’s physically gifted tries to be kind about my appearance, it comes off as really disingenuous and honestly kind of cruel.”

  Because I’m upset and my throat has tightened, my voice breaks over the last word. I hate how vulnerable I sound, how it must be so obvious to him that I’m upset, so I turn away, folding my arms protectively over my chest and hiding my flaming face.

  From across the kitchen comes Cam’s low voice. “I don’t pity you, Joellen. And I’m a lot of things, but a bullshitter isn’t one of ’em.”

  When I shake my head, huffing out a hard breath through my nose, Cam demands, “Look at me.”

  “I’m too mad to look at you. Now be quiet before I take the meat loaf out of the oven and shove it up your stuck-up butt.”

  There’s a pause, then Cam chuckles. “Y’know, lass, in some cultures when a woman constantly threatens a man with violence, it’s a sure sign she likes him.”

  I’m overcome with sudden fatigue and scrub my hands over my face. “You’re relentless. Also that’s a totally made-up fact.”

  “I’m sure I read it somewhere, but here’s a fact that isn’t made up. If you wanna look different for pretty boy, I’m your best shot.”

  I slant him a sideways glare.

  He meets it with an expression of total confidence, his smile the very definition of smug. “I was
a runt as a boy, lass. The incredibly delectable body you see before you is self-made, forged from nothin’ but will.”

  Ignoring my exasperated sigh, he makes a motion with his hand to indicate his form. “This majestic display of manhood didn’t just happen. Cameron McGregor wasn’t carved by Michelangelo’s hand like the David. He was carved by his own. I’m sure you’ll agree, the results are even more spectacular.”

  “Sorry, I think I just vomited a little in my mouth. What were you saying?”

  Holding my gaze, Cam rises from his chair and comes to stand right in front of me. “Gimme your hand.”

  Leery, I back away several inches. “If you’re thinking of giving me a tactile tour of other parts of your majestic manhood, you can go jump off a cliff.”

  He grabs my hand and flattens it over his stomach before I can react. His skin is hot and soft, the muscles beneath are corded and as unyielding as steel, and the blood suffusing my cheeks is in imminent danger of leaking straight through my pores.

  Pressing his big hand over mine, he says in a thick voice, “When it comes to the body, I know what I’m doin’, lass. Gimme a chance to show you what I mean. I promise you’ll be satisfied.”

  When he gazes deep into my eyes, I discover I’m having trouble breathing.

  Here’s the thing: I know I have an overactive imagination. I’m prone to flights of fancy, have arguments in my head with people that last for days, could daydream myself into old age if I’m not careful. But I know to the marrow of my bones that the low rumble of heat in Cameron’s voice—the absolute conviction behind the words I promise you’ll be satisfied—is more than his usual Broadway show.

  He’s telling the truth . . . and he’s not talking about an exercise program.

  My uterus comes alive like a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza, exploding with heat and color, the “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing over loudspeakers, bleachers full of screaming fans jumping up and down. Cam’s gaze is locked to mine like a tractor beam. I suddenly understand what romance novels are talking about when they refer to the heroine as having weak knees, because mine are rubberized. I’m about to melt into a liquid pool at his feet.

  Cam must see something in my eyes, because his own sharpen. He leans closer, his lips parted, a vein throbbing in his neck.