Then a voice comes through the door. “Ducky? Ducky, are you home?”
Amused, Cameron looks at me. “Ducky?”
“Shut up, pie boy,” I mutter, headed for the door. When I open it, I find Mrs. Dinwiddle, martini in hand, wearing four-inch heels and a full-length mink coat over a flowered nightgown. The diamond tiara perched on her head is slightly askew.
“There you are, dear!” She beams at me as if she’s won a game of hide-and-seek.
“Hello, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”
She pushes back a wispy gray curl from her forehead, escaped from its proper position under the tiara. “I just wanted to say that last night was lovely. I probably don’t tell you enough, but I so appreciate you making dinner for me every Satur . . .”
She trails off right in the middle of her thought, arrested by the sight of a large barechested man smiling at her from the sofa. She instantly switches into coy debutante mode, fluttering her lashes and lifting a shoulder when she says with syrupy sweetness, “Why, hellooo there, young man.”
Cameron sends her a flirtatious nod, his smile so bright it’s practically blinding. Apparently he doesn’t care what age the women are who pay him attention, as long as they do.
Her gaze still glued to Cameron, Mrs. Dinwiddle addresses me. “I didn’t think you’d have company, Ducky. You never have—”
“He was just leaving,” I say loudly, cutting her off before she can reveal any more details of my pathetic life.
“No, I wasn’t.” Cameron rises from the sofa and swaggers over, grinning that smug, infuriating grin that tells me in no uncertain terms he’s going to give me the business about the “date” I said I had last night.
“Hullo, I’m Cameron McGregor. Pleasure to meet you.” He sticks his hand out to Mrs. Dinwiddle. Instead of taking it, she does that limp-wristed thing you see in old movies when the Southern belle wants the courtly gentleman to kiss her hand.
So what does he do? He bends over, lifts her hand to his mouth, and kisses it!
Mrs. Dinwiddle giggles like a teenage girl and bats her fake eyelashes so furiously I’m surprised they don’t fly off. When Cameron straightens and releases her hand, she wiggles her fingers in his face.
“Well aren’t you dashing?” she says, eyeballing his chest.
Cameron smiles at her indulgently, enjoying her obvious admiration. “I don’t know about that, ma’am, but I do know that a beautiful woman like yourself should always be treated like a queen.”
I growl. “And the ugly ones should always be treated like servants?”
Simpering at Cam, Mrs. Dinwiddle chastises me. “He’s only paying me a little compliment, Ducky. Leave the poor man alone!”
“Oh, I’d love to leave him alone,” I mutter. “All alone. On a desert island.”
When Mrs. Dinwiddle frowns at me, Cam chuckles. “She’s just jealous of your style, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”
“No, I’m jealous of everyone who hasn’t met you.”
Cam turns the full wattage of his smile toward me. “Oh, c’mon now, lass, meetin’ me has gotta be the most excitin’ thing to happen to you since your last Pap smear.”
Scandalized but trying not to laugh, Mrs. Dinwiddle whips the Chinese silk fan from a pocket of her mink and almost sprains her wrist fanning her face.
“Ha,” I say sourly. “You have all the charm of an open grave, McGregor.”
“Tch. Just admit it. You’re in love with me.” He bumps me with his elbow, and I send him a look designed to melt his face.
“Love? Hardly. If you were on a life support machine, I’d unplug it to charge my phone.”
Cam laughs, leaving me confused as to why he seems to like it so much when I insult him. My confusion is overtaken by a wave of horror, however, when Mrs. Dinwiddle rejoins the conversation.
“I’m sure she would fall in love with you, Cameron, but she’s already in love with someone else.”
“That so? Who’s the lucky man?” drawls Cam, playing along, thinking she’s joking, because obviously no man in his right mind would have anything to do with the likes of me.
I scramble to backtrack, making desperate googly eyes at Mrs. Dinwiddle so she’ll take the hint to shut up. “No one! She’s kidding. I’m not in love with any—”
“Her married boss!” crows Mrs. Dinwiddle, leaning toward Cameron with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. Like I’m not even standing right here. Like my deepest, darkest secret is fabulous conversation material with the beefy baller she only just met.
I’m not a violent person, and I especially would never condone violence against the elderly, but Mrs. Dinwiddle is in imminent danger of getting bitch-slapped.
Cam’s whole demeanor changes. He looks shocked, his smile falling away and his eyes widening. “You’re having an affair with your married boss? And you’re judging me?”
“I am certainly not having an affair!” I huff, indignant. “I’d never do such a thing!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle says sadly, “He doesn’t know she exists, you see.”
“Okay, visiting time at the zoo is over. Good-bye, people.” I try to usher them both out the door, but Cam won’t be budged, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is too busy downing the rest of her martini to notice my dismay.
“Hold on. Explain this to me.” Cam turns to me with new interest. “So you’re in love with this guy—who’s married—but you’ve never gotten together with him . . . because he doesn’t know you exist?”
I grind my back teeth together. “You make it sound like the only reason I haven’t committed adultery is because he hasn’t noticed me.”
“It’s not adultery on your part if you’re not married, Ducky,” chimes in Mrs. Dinwiddle, who has a rather “educated” opinion on the matter.
“Ugh. Semantics! My point is that even if Michael were all over me, I’d never do anything with a married man! It’s just . . . unrequited. He doesn’t know how I feel about him. But even if he did, I’d never cross that line.”
Cam examines my face with narrowed eyes. After a moment, apparently satisfied I’m telling the truth, he pronounces, “That’s a sad story, lass. No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood every time I see you.”
“I’m in a bad mood every time I see you because I’m seeing you,” I say sweetly. “And it’s not that sad a story, because I found out today that he’s getting divorced.”
When they stare at me in silence, I feel a little defensive, like they think I’m fibbing. “And he asked me to save him a dance at the office holiday party.”
Cam’s brows climb so far up his forehead it looks like a party trick. “The plot thickens!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle squeals and bounces on her toes. “Indeed ! Now will you let me give you that makeover, Ducky?”
“Just out of curiosity, why do you call her Ducky?”
Mrs. Dinwiddle makes a regal sweeping motion with the fan to indicate my appearance. “Because she insists on remaining an ugly duckling, my dear, when she could so easily become a swan.”
Cam turns to me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve seen in my life. “Aw. Ducky.”
Wow. If this is Karma, she put on spiked boots before she started kicking my ass.
SIX
A few minutes later, Mrs. Dinwiddle has left to refill her martini, and the Mountain and I are in my kitchen, waiting for the accursed shepherd’s pie to finish baking so I can evict him and get back to planning my transformation.
Or hunger strike, in other words.
Cam sits at my kitchen table with Mr. Bingley in his lap, absentmindedly stroking the cat while watching me, taking up far too much space for a single human being. The man has an atmosphere. His gaze has actual weight, like a touch. It’s unnerving. Like one of those haunted oil portraits, his eyes follow my every move.
“Stop staring at me—you’re freaking me out,” I grouse, watching the timer on the oven and willing it to speed up. Only a few more minutes to freedom.
“How long have you been in love with your boss?”
<
br /> “None of your business.”
“Oh, c’mon, you can tell me, lass. It’s not like I’ll ever meet the man. Besides, I go back to Scotland in a month when the new season starts, and you’ll never have to see me again. Get it off your chest.”
I shoot him a glare, then go back to staring at the oven. “Why do you care, anyway?”
I hear the shrug in his voice when he answers. “I don’t really, but I guess I can’t understand why a woman would waste her time pinin’ over a man who doesn’t want her when she could be focusin’ on findin’ one who does. And—forgive me—especially at your age.”
I’m too depressed to be insulted. “God, you sound exactly like my mother.”
I’m not looking at him, but nonetheless feel his gaze sharpen. “So you’ve talked to your mother about this. Which means it’s serious and has probably been going on for years.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “How on earth would you know what it means?”
“I know women.”
I don’t have a pithy comeback for that, because it’s obviously the truth. He says the words with no bragging or smiles, just a simple statement of fact, backed up by the thousand pairs of panties he probably has stuffed into his closet as souvenirs.
“Fine. Yes, it’s serious and has been going on for years.”
“How many years?”
I stare at him. “Are you writing a book or something?”
He chuckles. “Just gettin’ my facts straight. Answer the question.”
I can tell by his determined expression that he won’t give up until I tell him what he wants to know. So . . . what the hell. I draw a breath and admit, “Ten years. Since the first day I started working at my job. Since the first minute I laid eyes on him.” I say it in a muted voice, knowing how pitiful it sounds.
Silence follows. After a moment, I chance a look at Cam. He’s gazing back at me with an inscrutable expression, his brows drawn together, his head cocked to one side.
“And what,” he asks quietly, his eyes intense, “is so special about him that would make you flush a decade down the toilet?”
I glance away. Heat rises in my face, and I have to swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Aye, I would, lass. I understand obsession all too well.”
When I look at him again, arrested by the new tone in his voice, the darker, more complicated tone, he meets my stare unflinchingly. A flicker of something crosses his face—longing or loneliness, some bottomless despair—but it’s gone so quickly I must have imagined it.
I shift my gaze to the oven timer. Three minutes. Then I cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes, and decide on a whim to tell him the truth.
“He’s just . . . perfect. In every way.”
Cam sounds irritated by my dreamy tone. “Barf. Can you be more specific?”
“He’s educated. Cultured. Sophisticated. Kind. Brilliant. Gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?”
I nod, keeping my eyes closed. “He looks exactly like Christopher Reeve in his Superman days. Heroic. Cleft chin and everything. And he’s a gentleman. His manners would put the queen of England to shame. And he dresses beautifully. And he knows all about literature, and opera, and ballet, and art—”
“So he’s gay.”
Outrage flares through me, hot as the surface of the sun. I open my eyes and stab Cam with a look. “He’s not gay! He’s been married for years!”
“To a man?”
“No! To a model, if you must know—some airheaded Amazon with a thigh gap and a twenty-inch waist!”
“Huh.” He matches my fierce gaze with one of his own. “So he’s superficial.”
“What? No!”
“Yes, he is. Just like you are.”
I gasp. He might as well have stabbed me in the gut.
“Don’t gimme that look,” says Cam, slowly shaking his head. “You’re in love with some bloke based on nothing more than his résumé and his pretty face.”
“That is not true!”
The cat jumps off his lap and trots into the living room, sensing the fountain of magma about to explode from the top of my skull. Cam rises and moves toward me.
“No? How many conversations have you had with him?”
“A lot!” That’s a lie, but I’ll be damned if I’m backing down.
“That don’t involve work,” he clarifies.
I open my mouth to answer but snap it shut and turn back to the oven. “Forget it. Your pie’s almost ready. Take it and get lost.”
“The answer’s none, right?”
I refuse to answer. Cam correctly takes my silence as a yes and presses on.
“And how much time have you spent with this ‘perfect’ man away from work? Or work-related functions?” he adds quickly when I turn to speak.
My face throbs with heat. “You don’t have to spend years in private conversations with someone to know they’re a good person.”
“No, but one date would be a good start. It seems to me you don’t really know anything about him other than that he’s pretty and has rich-boy tastes. Ballet, opera, art . . . sounds like things someone who was tryin’ real hard to impress other people would put in a bio.”
That bit of insight stings especially badly because under Michael’s smiling picture on the company website is his bio, which is where I’ve discovered most of the fascinating facts of his life. The other places of discovery being Wikipedia, the social pages of newspapers, and overheard conversations around the office.
And the one holiday party where I hid behind a cluster of potted palms and eavesdropped on his table.
I stare right into Cam’s eyes when I answer. How is he suddenly so close?
“I’ve worked at his company for ten years of my life. I’ve seen how he treats people, how he speaks to them, how he interacts with his employees, vendors, and guests. He’s an incredible man. An exceptional man. And yes, he’s beautiful, but it wouldn’t matter if he weren’t because he’s so good. He’d never make someone feel small, or put them down for their beliefs, or heartlessly mock their feelings.”
My voice is rising, and my hands begin to shake. Cam and I are somehow now standing almost nose to nose, but I keep going because I’m so damn mad.
“He’d never have sex with a stranger he met in a bar and then throw her out like garbage! He’d never aggravate his neighbors with loud music, or wander around half-dressed like a psychopath, or steal someone’s cat!”
“But he would marry an airheaded model with a thigh gap and a twenty-inch waist.”
I scoff in disbelief. “Oh, you’re saying you’re above marrying a beautiful model, is that it?”
“No,” he says quietly, his jaw hard. “I’m sayin’ if he were the altruistic, benevolent demigod you make him out to be, he’d marry a woman who more closely reflected his true heart.”
I’m momentarily impressed by his use of several big words in that sentence but quickly return to outrage. “Rich men marry women for their beauty every day.”
“Aye, they do, and those rich men are the same superficial fuckers who dump those beautiful girls once their looks fade and swap them out for a younger replacement.”
My jaw unhinges and lands somewhere in the center of my chest. Cameron McGregor has . . . ethics?
No. I’m hearing him wrong. This is the man whore we’re talking about. He’s just playing devil’s advocate.
The oven timer dings. For seconds that feel like eons, Cam and I stare at each other in bristling silence, neither one willing to back down first. Finally I can’t take the tension anymore and turn away, cursing under my breath.
As I don a pair of oven mitts, Cam sits down again, which is the opposite of what I want him to do. “Here.” I remove the bubbling dish from the oven and set it on the stove top with a clatter, then rip off the oven mitts and toss them on the counter. “Here’s your stupid shepherd’s pie. Now go back to Kellen’s apartment and leave me in pe
ace with my pathetic one-sided love story.”
“Never said it was pathetic, lass.”
His voice is gentle, which only pisses me off more. “But that’s what you think. It’s pretty obvious you think I’m dumb as dirt for feeling the way I do.”
“The heart wants what it wants,” Cam says, watching me steadily. “But sometimes what you think is love is just a beautiful form of self-destruction. The worst thing in life is to give yourself away in exchange for nothing.”
He’s surprised me again with his eloquence. I’d have bet my life this swaggering, skirt-chasing beast didn’t have it in him.
Then it hits me: this is exactly how he’s so successful with women. Pretty speeches and dazzling smiles, parading around in his underwear with his muscles on display, all of it designed with the goal of getting girls on their backs with their feet in the air.
My heart hardens against him like a pond freezing over in a bitter winter frost. The entire population of Manhattan could skate on it, it’s so cold.
“Well, my life is mine, and what I do with it is my business,” I say stiffly. “Now please leave. I’m exhausted. I worked all weekend, and I have to get up early to go back in the morning.”
Why am I explaining anything to him? Why am I not hurling the burning-hot dish at his head? And why, oh why am I letting this blunt instrument of a man upset me? His opinion means nothing!
Cam’s face darkens with that strange tension again, but then he breaks into a grin, and the moment passes as if it never happened at all. He rises, stretches his arms overhead, then yawns as if this entire conversation has bored him to tears.
“Tell you what, lass. I’m gonna do you a huge favor.”
“If the next words out of your mouth have anything to do with your penis, I will kill you where you stand.”
“Just hear me out before you go all doo-lally on me now, darlin’.”
That growl echoing through the kitchen is emanating from inside my chest. “I don’t know what doo-lally means, but what did I tell you about calling me darling?”
“You can tell what it means from the context. And I’ll call you whatever I want. Darlin’.”
Melt for You Page 5
