Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Before I can be forced to lie about how cute Shasta’s bendy boyfriend is, I’m saved by the appearance of Portia, who’s wearing a face like someone just executed her cat.

  “Joellen,” she says, drawing out the syllables in an exaggerated fashion. She’s probably mocking me, but I count it as a win because it’s the first time she’s gotten my name right in the entirety of my employment at Maddox Publishing.

  “Portia,” I reply, just so she knows she’s not the only one who can pronounce a name.

  Her lips pinch. “Will you please follow me?”

  My heart lurches, and Shasta and I share a worried glance. The only reasons I can fathom that Portia would ask me to follow her anywhere are if I’m about to get fired or she’s taking me to the roof so she can push me off.

  “Um . . . is everything okay?”

  “You have a meeting with human resources.”

  Panic unfurls inside my chest like a writhing ball of snakes. “I do? Since when?”

  “Since now,” she replies through gritted teeth. She spins on her heel and strides away before I can ask any more questions, like Does my severance package include ongoing health insurance? and How did you get that stick stuck so far up your ass?

  Being the steadfast friend she is, Shasta focuses on the important stuff. “If you’re getting fired, I call dibs on your new chair.”

  I frantically search my memory for any incriminating past behavior that might lead to my termination but come up with zilch. I’m always on time, I never miss a day or a deadline, and if I’m not exactly beloved by my coworkers, at least I’m generally tolerated.

  Except by Portia, who would obviously like to suspend me by my ankles over a bed of burning hot coals until I’m dead.

  “You better hurry up, Joellen. Portia looked like she was about to bust a nut.”

  Ignoring Shasta’s odd male orgasm reference, I rise from my chair, grimacing as my thigh muscles howl in protest. I hobble through the cubicle maze toward the human resources department, which is on the other side of the floor, past the executive offices. I notice Michael isn’t in his office, which is lucky because I’d probably throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.

  I don’t have much in the way of savings. If I get fired and can’t find a job right away, I’ll be sleeping on my parents’ sofa by Valentine’s Day, contemplating which suicide method would leave the least amount of mess for the coroner to clean up.

  “Come in,” says Ruth, the HR manager, when I arrive at her open door.

  A woman the word zaftig was invented for, Ruth is voluminous. Next to her, I look slim. But she dresses in lovely feminine outfits and always has her nails and hair perfectly done, and pulls off the whole Rubenesque look with grand style. If she has any qualms about sitting four feet away from glossy, greyhound-skinny Portia, she doesn’t show it.

  Skinny body, skinny heart, skinny love.

  Cam’s words echo inside my head as I take a seat opposite Ruth’s desk. I smile at her because if Cam is right, Ruth has enough love inside her heart to heal the world, but Portia’s love is as thin and dry as a stale cracker, crumbling to dust when you put it between your hungry teeth.

  “Are you all right?” Ruth’s brow creases with a frown as she watches me wince when I cross my legs.

  “Yes, sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I just started working out, and I’m a little sore.”

  Ruth beams at me. “Good for you! Regular exercise is the best way to maintain your health!”

  Portia, sitting across from us in the small office, makes a small noise in the back of her throat. It’s a muted laugh, dripping with disdain. When Ruth glances at her sharply, I know I’m not the only one who isn’t a Portia fan.

  Opening a manila file on her desk, Ruth thumbs through a stack of papers. “I understand you’ve just passed your ten-year anniversary with the firm, Joellen.” She looks up at me for confirmation. When I nervously nod, she goes back to perusing the file. “And in that time you’ve missed . . .”

  Her index finger skims the length of one page, stopping at a figure at the bottom. She glances up at me again. “One day.”

  “I had uterine fibroid surgery!” I blurt, freshly panicking that I’m being accused of doing something wrong. “I scheduled it for first thing in the morning because I wanted to come in in the afternoon, but my surgeon wouldn’t allow it, so I had . . . to . . .” I look back and forth between Ruth, who has her hand to her throat, and Portia, who has recoiled in disgust. “Um . . . take the rest of the day off.”

  Behind her glasses, Ruth’s brown eyes are owl round. “Of course you had to take the day off,” she says, horrified. “Joellen, that’s major surgery! I had fibroids removed in my thirties—you should’ve taken a week off!”

  I’m relieved I’m not in trouble, but also confused. Do I have too much accrued sick leave?

  Portia interrupts, her voice as dry as bone. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

  When Ruth turns her incredulous gaze to Portia, it’s met with an indifferent stare. “I don’t have all day.”

  Ruth takes a little too long to carefully straighten all the papers in my employee file. I imagine she’s biting her tongue so hard she tastes blood. She’s a woman known for her kindness and tact—excellent traits for her position—but Portia can strain even the most saintly nerves.

  “The raise you requested last month has been approved,” says Ruth, which is the only thing she manages to get out before I leap from my chair with a whoop of joy.

  “Really? That’s fantastic! I can’t believe it!”

  Portia covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a monster yawn, but I’m too ecstatic to care. I try to do a little happy dance, but instead of cooperating, my crippled legs collapse beneath me. I land in Ruth’s poor guest chair like a bomb dropped from the sky, horrified to hear a loud crack as the wood frame splits underneath the ugly maroon fabric.

  I leap up again and stare at the chair, willing it not to explode into a million pieces, silently begging the universe for a break.

  “I think you killed it,” observes Portia, just as the damn thing does a slow-motion sideways death dive to the floor.

  The three of us are looking at it lying there flat as roadkill, when Michael pokes his head in the door, smiling brightly. “Sorry to barge in. Did we give her the good news?”

  Judging by Ruth’s expression, it’s a breach of protocol for the CEO to show up during an HR meeting with an employee. Either that or she really liked the dead chair.

  “We were just getting started with our meeting,” says Ruth primly, to which Michael replies, “So you haven’t told her about the open position yet?”

  Portia makes a retching noise, and everyone looks at her in alarm. Her face is turning an interesting shade of purple, and her eyes are rolling around in her head. She’s obviously having a stroke.

  “We haven’t even p-posted it yet!” sputters Portia, clawing at her skirt like a madwoman. “Bill can take over the extra work for the time being, or Konrad—”

  “Nonsense.” Michael leans against the doorframe and smiles at me. “Joellen, unfortunately Maria won’t be returning to work because—”

  Ruth loudly clears her throat. Michael looks at her, startled.

  “Oh. Er . . . right.” He begins again, more carefully this time. “Maria is no longer an employee of Maddox Publishing.”

  “Um. Okay?” I’m confused why he’d be telling me this, why Portia is having a meltdown, and what Maria has to do with me. We’re both copyeditors. If she’s left the company, a copyeditor position will be open. So what?

  “Maria had just been promoted to associate editor. We were going to make the announcement this week.”

  My heart stutters. I look at Ruth, who’s smiling gently at me. I look at Portia, who’s wishing murder were legal. I look back at Michael, who’s waiting patiently for me to respond to what is the most fantastic news I’ve received in a decade.

  “There’s an associate editor posi
tion open?” I peep, wide eyed.

  “Would you be interested?”

  The only thing I’m more interested in is tearing off all your clothes and tackling you, sir. I manage to sound like a rational human being when I say, “Yes. I would.”

  “Obviously the position is at a higher pay grade, Joellen,” says Ruth, “so since you’ve been approved for a raise, if you got the job, you’d get a bump from the starting salary to reflect your raise.”

  I’m deeply regretting killing the chair, because I really need something to sink into right now. The floor doesn’t seem a good choice, so I lean against the wall and try to regulate my breathing so I don’t sound like a pug with sinus problems.

  “That’s amazing news.”

  Portia snaps, “You have to apply for it, like everyone else!”

  Michael frowns at her harsh tone, and I’d like to smear peanut butter all over his naked body and take a weekend licking it off.

  Ruth, practiced with alleviating tension in the workplace, intervenes before Portia can beat me to death with the ruined chair. “Of course. All the proper protocols must be followed. But you have seniority, Joellen, and an exceptional work record, and I encourage you strongly”—her pointed stare is that of an accomplice—“to apply.”

  Portia shoots to her feet, and the temperature in the room drops by several degrees. “As the editorial director, the final selection will, of course, be mine.”

  Then a miracle occurs. The clouds part, a ray of golden light shines down, and a halo appears over Michael’s head. He says, “Technically, Portia, the final selection is mine.”

  I hold my breath as they stare at each other. Portia backs down first, her lashes sweeping downward in defeat. “Yes, Mr. Maddox. Of course.”

  Michael inclines his head, a kingly gesture, and I almost pant with lust.

  He’s a god. He’s a beautiful, benevolent, witch-slaying god.

  He turns to me with a smile that could end all wars. “I’d like to see your application by the end of the week.” He nods at Ruth and Portia. “Ladies.”

  Then he turns and leaves, taking my heart with him.

  Ruth says brightly, “Well! I think we’re done here! Joellen, you can go back to work. I’ll bring the application by your desk later today.”

  She’s almost as happy about Portia’s comeuppance as I am, and I realize I have a friend in the human resources department. When Portia stalks out of the office with a huff, Ruth grins at me.

  I think it says We big girls have to stick together.

  So of course I grin back, because it’s true.

  The rest of the day is a blur. I float through it as if on clouds, marveling at my good luck. It’s been my aspiration since childhood to be a senior editor at a major publishing house, and with a step up to associate editor, it’s finally within reach. Getting to champion outstanding manuscripts, helping new authors be discovered, bringing literature and beauty into a culture-starved world . . .

  Some people want to be rich or famous. I want a stable of rock star authors crediting me for their success in the acknowledgments sections of their novels. Books have been my passion since I discovered Harriet the Spy when I was a little kid. From there reading became an obsession. I tore through everything from the Nancy Drew mysteries to Lolita, which my horrified mother found hidden under my bed.

  She wasn’t horrified because of the risqué nature of the book—not being a reader herself, she had no idea what it was about—but because it was a year overdue at the library. I checked it out and never returned it, a habit that would one day culminate with an official from the local library knocking on our door and demanding the missing books—by that point there were dozens—or payment of the fines.

  I paid the fines with cash I’d saved from babysitting jobs. Even then, books were far more precious to me than money.

  When I get home that evening, there’s a clean platter and meat loaf pan sitting outside my door, with a note in the Mountain’s neat printing.

  You were right. It was delicious. Your loaf is even better than your pie.

  I’m sure there’s nothing that can top it.

  I smile, because I know a challenge when I hear one. And even though I won’t be taking a bite of anything I make for him, I’ll be damned if I’ll let the man have the last word.

  I cross to his door and knock. He opens so quickly he must’ve been standing right next to it. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hi yourself, lass. Why’re you blinkin’ like a startled baby bird?”

  I look both ways down the hallway. “Were you expecting someone?”

  “You mean someone other than you?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He stares at me for a while with a squinty look, like he can’t figure me out. “Y’know, lass, for a bright girl, you’re bloody dense.”

  “Aha. That explains everything, thanks. And by the way, why do you use the word bloody to describe things that have nothing to do with blood?”

  “Why do you use the word gorgeous to describe a man who’s had so much plastic surgery he looks like he was created for Madame Tussauds wax museum?”

  I rear back in disbelief. “Are you referring to Michael Maddox?”

  Nodding, Cam folds his arms over his chest. “Aye. Looked him up on the company website. And I’ve gotta tell you, lass, that is one odd-lookin’ boy.”

  “He’s not a boy. He’s a man! And he’s not odd-looking in the least! He’s classically handsome!”

  “He looks like a doll. Only with less to add to a conversation.”

  I laugh, because he’s being funny. “I see. And you think a ‘real’ man should look like what? A lumberjack? Someone with irregular access to a razor and a bar of soap?”

  “I’ll bet you fifty dollars he uses a pore-reducing mask and slathers on expensive antiaging skin cream before bed every night.”

  “Can I just point out at this juncture in the conversation that these observations are ridiculous coming from a man who apparently doesn’t believe in clothing himself from the waist up?”

  I gesture to his chest, which is—as usual—bare. His legs are clad in a pair of faded blue jeans, slung low on his hips so the V of his abdominal muscles acts like a neon sign pointing toward the bulge in his crotch.

  By now I’ve mastered the art of noticing his bulge without looking directly at it, a Jedi-level skill.

  He brushes off my pesky logic with a hand wave and one of his classic Cameron McGregor self-love statements. “It’s impossible to find shirts that fit all these muscles.”

  I shake my head. “Dude, you lift the definition of egomaniac to new heights.”

  He grins at me. “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  I laugh again because the only other option is crying. “Moving on. Dinner’s in an hour. It will be better than my loaf and my pie. And one more thing, Tarzan. Wear a shirt.” I turn and head to my apartment, shaking my head at what he says next.

  “I could, but you’ll probably only end up tearin’ it off me at the end of the night, lassie. Waste of a perfectly good shirt.”

  He closes his door, chuckling. I go inside, smiling because I’ve had such a fantastic day and I’m about to make the Mountain a meal that will blow his socks off.

  I don’t take the time to wonder why the second part makes me almost as happy as the first.

  TWELVE

  The moan coming from across the table would do a porn star proud.

  “Sweet Jesus. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. That’s so bloody good. Ach, it’s like a party in my mouth. Like an orgy in my mouth! If I died at this moment, I’d be happy, because I would’ve finally discovered the meanin’ of life.”

  Trying not to be too pleased by Cam’s extravagant praise, I allow myself a small smile. “The meaning of life is rigatoni carbonara?”

  “No, lass. The meanin’ of life is rigatoni carbonara with homemade garlic bread, black-truffle gno
cchi, and a weird fruity salad.”

  “It’s a fennel, orange, mint, red chicory, pomegranate, balsamic, and extra virgin olive oil salad, not a ‘weird’ salad.”

  Eyes closed, Cam waves his fork in the air like he’s the pope performing a blessing at mass. “Details. My point is that it’s pure braw. Pedro.”

  “What’s ‘braw’ and who’s Pedro?”

  Cam opens his eyes, and they’re sparkling with laughter. “It means ‘amazin’.’”

  “You could’ve just said that.”

  “I did!” He shovels another forkful of rigatoni into his mouth and winks at me as he chews.

  “I’m glad you like it. But don’t expect this for the remainder of your bribery meals, because today we’re celebrating.”

  “Oh yeah?” he says around a mouthful. “What’re we celebratin’?”

  “I got a raise.”

  Cam stops chewing.

  “And there’s an associate editor position open, which the HR director encouraged me to apply for.” I beam at Cam as he swallows his mouthful of food.

  It’s a moment before he answers. “Congratulations, lass. You deserve the raise, I’m sure.”

  There’s something funny in his voice that gets my hackles up. “Why does that feel like one of those backhanded compliments I get on blind dates, like ‘It’s great that you’re not obsessed with how you look’?”

  Cam takes a swallow of water from his glass before answering. When he does, he keeps his gaze on his plate of food. “Just seems a little coincidental is all.”

  “How is it coincidental? I applied for the raise a month ago!”

  His gaze flashes up to mine. “Uh-huh. And you’re gettin’ it the week pretty boy replaced your chair and I sent you roses.”

  “God, you’re a buzzkill.”

  “Just pointin’ it out. What’s the deal with the position that’s open?”

  The memory of Ruth’s face when Michael stuck his head in her office gives me a moment’s pause, as does the odd way she cut him off when he was talking about Maria. At the time I was too busy being thrilled to notice how strange it was, but now . . .

  “The girl who had the job left suddenly.”