Melt for You

by J. T. Geissinger

For men desiring new sensations,

  For we mature ladies (still full of life)

  Are seasoned by our complications.

  We bring to love a certain spice

  Unknown to less experienced maidens.

  So look not, you men, to the young for their easy charms,

  But satisfy your deeper yearnings in an older woman’s arms.

  In the wake of my recitation of “Ode to Old Chicks,” Michael’s face goes through a series of remarkable transformations. I don’t know how many emotions cross his face, but the final one it settles on is indecipherable and, therefore, terrifying.

  “What a fascinating sonnet,” he says, his voice tight, his eyes blazing blue fire. “And how interesting you chose that particular one to share with me.”

  My stomach drops. I’ve made a colossal, unintentional, but nonetheless unforgivable error.

  My boss thinks I’ve just propositioned him. I’m going to be fired for sexual harassment.

  My career is over. I might as well go visit the animal shelter now and adopt the rest of my cats.

  My hand over my mouth and my eyes saucer wide, I breathe out in horror. “It—no—that’s the most recent one I wrote. I didn’t mean anything by it . . .”

  Michael’s blistering gaze drops to my mouth. He murmurs, “No? Pity.” He reaches out and brushes his knuckle over the slope of my cheek.

  The earth stops spinning on its axis. I become aware of all the cells in my body, of every singing nerve, my ragged breathing, the tremor skittering over my skin. We stand there and stare at each other as a powerful magnetism wipes my mind blank.

  My mind is frozen, but my body is all sensation, all pounding heartbeat and flying pulse, the faint press of his knuckle on my skin the center of my universe.

  His lips part. He leans closer.

  Holy shit. He’s going to kiss me.

  “Mr. Maddox, I need to speak—”

  Portia barges into the kitchen, heels clicking, a file under her arm. She sees us and skids to a stop.

  Michael spins away and resumes fixing himself a cup of coffee as if nothing has happened, while I stand rooted to the spot, mortified and strangely guilty, unable to speak or move.

  Ice forms in long, crackling fingers on the floor and wall around the spot where Portia stands. She stares at me, her gaze hard, her posture rigid, her expression accusatory, then she turns her icy glare to Michael’s back. “Excuse me, sir,” she says stiffly. “Your secretary told me you were in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Michael turns around with a mug in his hand, a casual smile on his handsome face. “You weren’t interrupting. Joellen and I were just discussing her application. She’s very eager to get the job.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say. If people could spontaneously combust, Portia would be splattered all over the walls and floor right now in little frozen pieces.

  She cuts her freezing gaze to me. Her lips thin and her nostrils flare, and I’m afraid she might physically attack me.

  “I see,” she says softly, burning holes into my head with her eyes.

  This is a disaster of Hindenburg proportions. It’s clear what Portia thinks Michael meant by eager and what she thinks I’m up to.

  With one knuckle brush, I’ve become the office harlot, sleeping my way to a promotion I wouldn’t otherwise deserve.

  My voice strangled, I say, “I’ll just be getting back to work now.”

  I slink away, tail between my legs, skirting Portia with my gaze on the ground. As soon as I’m out of the kitchen, I break into a breathless run, headed back to my desk where I plan to spend the rest of the day designing myself various size scarlet As to wear on my clothing.

  If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.

  A few minutes before five o’clock, my desk phone rings.

  “Joellen Bixby speaking.”

  “Joellen, it’s Michael.”

  My heart slams against my rib cage. I look around surreptitiously, as if Portia might be lurking around the corner of my cubicle, then sink into my chair and cover the phone’s mouthpiece with my hand. Why I suddenly feel like I’m in a spy movie, I don’t know.

  “Um. Hello, sir.”

  He sighs, and even that sounds beautiful. “Please, stop with the sir. Everyone calls me sir. It makes me feel like my grandfather.”

  “Sorry. Habit. You being the CEO and all.”

  Michael clears his throat. “Yes. About that.” There’s a short pause, then he exhales in a gust. “I’m sorry for what happened in the kitchen. That was inappropriate of me. I hope you can accept my sincere apologies. I clearly made you uncomfortable, and it was absolutely out of line—”

  “I wasn’t uncomfortable.”

  Silence.

  Strangely emboldened by his lack of response, I drop my voice to a whisper. “I mean, I was, but in a good way.”

  Another exhale, this one longer and slower.

  “You’re not saying anything.”

  “I’m relieved.” His voice drops an octave. “And . . . really happy to hear that.”

  I hold the phone away from my face and scream silently, kicking my feet up and down and bouncing in my chair like a lunatic. When I put the phone back to my ear, I dredge up every ounce of courage I have and ask him the $64,000 question.

  “Why?”

  After a nerve-wracking pause, his response is even lower than before. “You know exactly why, Joellen.”

  My panties are curling off me like burning paper. My glasses are fogging like they did the first time I read Fifty Shades of Grey. My heart is in danger of exploding inside my chest.

  I whisper, “No, I don’t. Tell me.” Who is this person? This bold, flirty person? A body snatcher has apparently consumed me.

  I hear some rustling, the squeak of a chair, what sounds like footsteps echoing off tile. “What are you doing?”

  “Pacing.”

  He’s pacing. And his voice is rough. And he’s happy that I wasn’t uncomfortable in a bad way, but won’t answer when I ask why.

  “Michael,” I whisper.

  “Yes, Joellen?”

  “What’s happening?”

  More rustling. He might be sitting down. I imagine him in his office, staring at the floor, looking all sorts of beautiful and tormented.

  He begins haltingly, like he’s forcing the words out against his will. “You know . . . that I’m . . . getting divorced.”

  “Yes.”

  “And . . . also that . . . I’m the CEO of this company.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re . . . my employee . . . who has recently applied for a promotion.”

  I can’t answer because euphoria has frozen my tongue, but my heart is screaming YES! YES! YES!

  “So this is . . . complicated.”

  I shoot to my feet, blind to anyone or anything around me, a death grip on the phone, my soul about to rip itself from my body. I listen for what he might say next with the terrified focus of someone waiting for the verdict from a jury in her murder trial.

  “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here.” My voice is shaky, but I don’t care. A nuclear bomb could go off in Lower Manhattan and I wouldn’t care.

  Sounding miserable, Michael sighs again. “I’m sorry. I’m putting you in a terrible position. I’m being an idiot. I never should have opened my mouth.”

  Too late. He’s opened Pandora’s box now, and all the devilish little creatures are running amok, screaming in glee throughout my reproductive organs. “You were going to kiss me, weren’t you.”

  It’s a statement, not a question, because now I’m sure it’s true. I might have been able to convince myself it was my imagination before this conversation, but things have drastically changed.

  “I should go.”

  “Michael. Tell me.”

  There’s a long, cavernous silence, then Michael whispers, “Yes.”

  He hangs up.

  I lift my arms in the air, thro
w back my head, and let out a victory whoop so loud everyone in the cubicle maze stops what they’re doing and stares.

  From behind me comes Shasta’s irritated voice. “Bitch, what the hell is wrong with you? People are busy doing nothing around here—be quiet!”

  I start laughing and can’t stop.

  Michael Maddox was going to kiss me.

  I can’t wait to get home to tell Cam.

  FOURTEEN

  I stop at the corner market on the way home to pick up a good bottle of wine, because I’m celebrating. The signs of Christmas are everywhere. Shop windows twinkle with colored lights, a soft dusting of snow covers the ground, holiday music plays from every loudspeaker, fake Santas panhandle on corners for charity, aggressively ringing bells in people’s irritated faces.

  It all seems magical. I’m feeling the holiday spirit like I’ve never felt it before, simply because Michael’s lips had the intent to press against mine.

  Never mind that they actually failed to do so. It’s the thought that counts. If it weren’t for that witch Portia, I’d be celebrating tonight with Dom Pérignon instead of a decent Napa cabernet.

  I’m opening my apartment door when I hear Cam’s voice. It’s muffled behind his own door but still easily discernible.

  “Because I don’t bloody want to come back early, that’s why!”

  I pause, my ears perked, curiosity overwhelming me.

  Heavy footsteps stomp across the floor one way, then turn around and go back the other. “My fucking attorney is supposed to be handling that!” he roars. “He said I wouldn’t have to appear in court until the seventeenth of next month!”

  Oh boy. That doesn’t sound good.

  Trying to be quiet, I turn the key in the lock and open my door. I don’t want Cam to think I was spying on him and get called a Peeping Tom again, so it’s my intention to sneak in, mouselike, but Mr. Bingley has other ideas.

  “RRROOOOWWW!” he shrieks, caterwauling like I’ve stepped on his tail.

  “Shh!” I hiss, waving a hand at him. “I’ll feed you in one second!”

  But it’s too late. The door across the hall is already opening.

  Staring at me, Cam thunders into the phone in his hand, “I’ve gotta fucking go! I’ll call you back later!”

  He stabs his finger against the screen to end the call, tosses the phone over his shoulder so it lands with a clatter on the floor, then stands there staring at me, breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down and his eyes wild.

  “Hey there, prancer. Bad day?” I let him seethe silently for a few seconds. “You want to talk about it?”

  “No!”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get your panties in a bunch. Have a nice evening.”

  I assume he won’t want to be social tonight due to the severe thunderstorm boiling over his head, but he puts that notion to rest by slamming his door, striding across the hall, and pushing past me into my apartment.

  “Sure, c’mon in, make yourself at home,” I say drily, watching him drop onto my sofa. “Always a pleasure to have an angry three-hundred-pound gorilla in the house.”

  He rests his head on the back of the sofa and closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is subdued. “Sorry, lass. Just lemme cool off for a second.”

  Mr. Bingley reminds me in no uncertain terms of his displeasure at being made to wait for his dinner and trots into the kitchen with his tail held high. I close the door, wondering how I became a meal slave to these two high-maintenance males.

  I drop my handbag on the console, shuck off my coat and scarf and drape them over a chair, and take the wine into the kitchen, where I feed the cat and then go on a hunt for the bottle opener and a good crystal wineglass. It’s hidden behind all the other crappy, mismatched glasses in a cupboard. I spend a while wrestling with the cork until it pops out, then I call over my shoulder, “You want a glass of wine?”

  “Cameron McGregor doesn’t drink wine.”

  I scream, because the bastard has appeared from thin air and now stands right beside me.

  “McGregor! Quit doing that!”

  He looks faintly amused. “It’s not my fault you’re as deaf as your cat, lass.”

  “I’m not deaf at all. You’re just unnaturally stealthy!”

  He chuckles, and I’m relieved to see a few of the thunderclouds are dissipating. “That’s true. Ninjalike, I am.”

  “Don’t talk backward like Yoda. You’re too muscular to pull it off.”

  “Aha! You’re finally admittin’ to yourself what a handsome, burly devil I am!”

  “Here we go.” I smile and shake my head, then pour myself a glass of cab. I take a nice long swig, swallow, and sigh happily.

  Which is when I notice Cam looking me up and down.

  “What?”

  “You’re wearin’ a dress. And heels.”

  “Congratulations on your astonishing powers of observation.”

  He doesn’t laugh. “You look . . .”

  When he fails to complete the sentence, my face flushes. “Like a person in a dress? Why thank you, what a spectacular compliment.”

  His gaze flashes up to mine. “Great, I was gonna say . . . you look really great.”

  I narrow my eyes at him, but he gives no indication that he’s making a joke.

  I swear this dress has magical powers. I might wear it every day from now on. “Thanks. So, if you don’t drink wine, what do you drink?”

  “Beer. But dark beer. Lager, ale, nothin’ you can see through.”

  “Because real men don’t drink sissy, pale-colored beer.”

  “Exactly. I knew you thought I was a real man.”

  “The jury’s still out, pal. You wear an awful lot of skirts. I’m afraid I might find you raiding my closet one of these nights. But if you need a friend to talk to about it, I’m down. I’ll even let you try on my bras.”

  We grin at each other. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Today he’s wearing an actual outfit, composed of white T-shirt, black boots, and those faded blue jeans slung low on his hips. With all the tattoos on his biceps, his shaggy hair, and the dark scruff on his jaw, he looks like he could be anything from an outlaw biker to a rock star.

  I might be able to see the appeal that had all those women in the supermarket drooling.

  “What’s that look you’re wearin’, lass? Your face is funny. You havin’ an episode of intestinal gas?”

  Embarrassed, I go with sarcasm, my usual first line of defense when called out.

  “Yes, McGregor. I’m having an episode of intestinal gas. And I’m not wearing my charcoal panties, so stand back or be blasted.” I give him a little shove in the chest, which is like trying to shove a brick wall and exactly as effective.

  “Ach, I’m sure your farts smell like rose petals, luv.”

  I burst out laughing. “Please don’t talk to me about farts! There’s a guy at work who tells me fart jokes 24-7. I don’t need anyone else bringing up the subject!”

  Something flickers over McGregor’s face—a flash of tension, there then quickly gone. “There’s another guy at work you’re interested in?”

  “No. Ew. Denny is like seventy years old. And fart jokes aren’t exactly the thing to make a girl swoon. But speaking of work . . .”

  I set my wine on the counter and clap, hopping a little because I’m so excited to share the news. “Michael almost kissed me today in the company kitchen.”

  After a pause, Cam strolls over to the kitchen table and sits in one of the chairs. From under lowered brows, he levels me with a look. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”

  “Oh my God. You’re already ruining it!”

  He ignores me and goes straight to the point. “If you had a girlfriend who told you her still-married boss almost kissed her at work, what would you say?”

  Some of the air leaks from my Michael love balloon. “It sounds bad when you say it.”

  He makes a gesture with his hand, like Because it is.


  I pour myself more wine. “Okay, but you haven’t heard the whole story.”

  He quirks his lips. “I’m breathless with anticipation.”

  I launch into the entire explanation of what happened, including all the details, what I said, what Michael said, how Portia walked in on us, then the phone call where Michael admitted he was about to kiss me. When I’m done talking, Cam looks disturbed.

  “What?” I chew my thumbnail in anxiety.

  “You think you’re old?”

  Utterly confused, I stare at him.

  “You said the sonnet you recited to him was called ‘Ode to Old Chicks.’ Was that about yourself?”

  Heat ascends my neck in a slow, creeping flush. “I’m thirty-six, McGregor.”

  “And you think that’s old?”

  “Are you screwing with me right now?”

  He shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair, and mutters something under his breath. “Never mind. Back to the big picture. Married boss. Single employee. An almost kiss in the company kitchen. The possibility of flushin’ your whole career down the toilet if your friend the wicked witch decides to report you to management.”

  “Michael is management.”

  “Aye. And you’re up for a promotion. How’s that gonna look?”

  I hesitate, considering what he’s suggesting. Cam must not like my expression, because his voice comes out hard.

  “Don’t be naïve. If that woman wants to, she can make big problems for you at work. There’s all sorts o’ ways she can make your life hell. Smear your reputation. Turn people against you. Undermine the legitimacy of your hard work by sayin’ the promotion is only ’cause you’re bangin’ the boss. Use your imagination, lass.”

  I think of Ruth in HR and how she didn’t seem to like Michael barging in on our meeting, of how deep Portia’s hatred for me appears to go, and my stomach flips with anxiety. I guzzle the rest of my glass of wine. “Bummer. And here I was thinking I’d take you up on that offer to teach me how to kiss.” I laugh nervously. “That’s the least of my troubles!”

  I pour myself more wine. It isn’t until I’m about to lift it to my mouth that I notice Cam has appeared noiselessly next to me once again. “Dude. Seriously. That’s freaky. Cut it out.”

  “I just had a thought.”