Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  Cam sighs. “It’s not me the guys from accounting are interested in, you wee daft bugger.”

  That makes me feel good. If I had a mirror in front of me, I’d be preening into it, petting my hair like a horse’s mane. “You’re very good for my ego, you know that?”

  He snorts. “Well, you’re shit for mine, so at least one of us is happy.”

  He’s unhappy? I don’t want him to be unhappy, especially not because of me.

  “Don’t forget I called you beautiful, prancer.” When he doesn’t respond, I hurry on, worried he’s thinking I was lying. “I meant it, too. You’re like this big, gorgeous, mountain of a man, who also happens to have a great sense of humor and an excellent vocabulary. You’re a catch.”

  His continued silence terrifies me. Just when I’m about to ask him if he’s still there, he says, “Sounds like I deserve a sonnet. We’ll call it ‘Mountain Man.’ What rhymes with enormous muscles?”

  I laugh, relieved I didn’t just stick my foot into my mouth. “I already wrote you one. But it wasn’t about your muscles, it was about your eyes.”

  As soon as it’s out, I want to commit seppuku with the metal letter opener in the pen cup next to the computer. I close my eyes and bang my head softly against my desk.

  Cam lets me off the hook with an easy laugh. “Sure, lass.”

  He doesn’t believe me. Thank God. Because what possible reason could I have to be writing sonnets about his eyes? There isn’t one. Not a rational one, anyway. It just . . . happened. I can’t be held responsible for the doings of my muse!

  “Why’re you breathin’ funny?” asks Cam when I don’t say anything. “That pesky intestinal gas botherin’ you again? You want me to stop by the store and pick you up a few pairs of your charcoal panties?”

  “Ha.” I swallow loudly, trying to get myself together.

  “Wait.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t tell me you really did write me a sonnet.”

  My groan is the sound of someone watching a casket being lowered into the ground.

  “Lassie. You know what happens if you lie to me.”

  God, that dark promise in his voice. Why the hell do I like that so much? “Yes, I know what happens, prancer. You’ll take me over your knee.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But . . . if I just don’t admit something, that’s not lying.”

  “It’s a lie of omission. It is lyin’.”

  “God, it’s like you’re looking for an excuse to spank me!”

  “I’d like an excuse to do a lot of bad things to you, darlin’. You have no idea.”

  The tone of his voice . . . oh my. Low, gruff, and deadly serious, it sets quite a few of my nerve endings atingle. Okay, all my nerve endings.

  It must be all those stupid tingles that make me say what I say next.

  “Like what?” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer, but his mercurial mood switches from dark and smoldering to light and bantering with the blink of an eye.

  “Ach, wouldn’t you like to know! Don’t you have work to be doin’, you slacker?”

  “Hey, you’re the one who called me.”

  “Aye, I did. And now I’m gonna hang up. Don’t forget—pie tonight, darlin’.” His voice drops. “And I want it extra hot.”

  Then he’s gone. I set the phone back in the cradle, surprised to see my hand trembling.

  TWENTY-THREE

  At six o’clock on the nose, Cam strolls into my apartment without knocking. I’m in the kitchen preparing—you guessed it—shepherd’s pie.

  “Fair warnin’ to all the occupants of this house, Cameron McGregor is here!” he booms, closing the door behind him.

  Mr. Bingley had been busily grooming himself on a kitchen chair, but when he feels the vibration of the door closing, he freezes, wide eyed, then flies into the living room with his tail poufed in excitement.

  “Hullo, you wee ball-less bastard,” I hear Cam say affectionately from the living room. “Where’s your mum?”

  “In here!”

  In a few moments, Cam appears from around the corner of the living room with Mr. Bingley draped contentedly like a stole across his shoulders. “Lassie,” he declares, his chest puffed out, “what d’you think of my new fur coat?”

  I shake my head in disbelief at the picture they make. “I think that animal is almost as in love with you as you are.”

  “Aye. He’s a sensible lad. How was work?” He ambles over to the stove and sniffs at the steam rising from the pan of meat I’m browning.

  I wave the cat’s tail out of my face. “Good. And weird. Michael left me an apology note on my desk with his cell phone number. Portia keeps glaring at me like she’s plotting my kidnapping and murder. And the girl who sits next to me won’t stop pestering me about the size of your junk. She’s convinced that picture on TMZ is proof that we’re boning.”

  “We already had the talk about you disrespectin’ the family jewels by callin’ ’em ‘junk,’ darlin’.” He nudges me out of the way with his elbow so he can scoop a bit of meat from the pan with his fingers.

  “Hey!” I slap his wrist. “You know I don’t like it when you do that!”

  “It’s my dinner, lass. I’ll eat it how I want.” He eats the morsel, licks his lips, sighs in pleasure, then offers his hand to Mr. Bingley, who happily cleans the rest of the sauce from Cam’s fingers.

  I roll my eyes and go back to stirring. “You shouldn’t eat undercooked meat, prancer. You’ll get salmonella.”

  “Pfft. As if bacteria would dare to mess with me. I’ll have you know I never get sick.”

  “Make yourself useful and set the table before I dump this pan over the top of your thick skull.”

  “So you told her, right?”

  I look at him. He’s smiling back at me, smug as can be. The cat has rested his head on Cam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. I could swear he’s smiling, too.

  “Told who what?”

  “Told the girl who sits next to you at work about the majesty and opulence of my family jewels.”

  My cheeks prickle with heat. I turn my attention back to the pan. “No.”

  “Why not? It’s not as if you don’t know.”

  The heat spreads to my neck. “Are you going to set the table or not?”

  Cam leans in and says deliberately into my ear, “Tell her eleven inches.”

  When he sees my eyes bulge, he adds with a chuckle, “Or you could tell her the truth and see if she faints.”

  When I glance at him, he makes a motion with his thumb that indicates the actual number is higher.

  “Moving on,” I say roughly, then stop to clear my throat. Steady, Joellen. Steady. “What do you think about Michael’s note?”

  I can tell Cam’s amused by my awkward segue, but he lets it go. “Did you call him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you email him?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see him around the office?”

  “No.”

  “Then I think you’re gonna get a phone call tonight.”

  My stomach twists with anxiety. “Really?”

  “Yep. We should talk strategy.”

  “Strategy? You make it sound like war.”

  Cam’s smile is casual, but his eyes burn with a new intensity. “Love is war, darlin’. Only thing in life worth sheddin’ blood over.”

  He turns away and heads to the cupboard for the plates while I stare down at the pan of simmering meat, wondering why that statement sounded so ominous.

  In a few minutes, I’ve got the cooked meat and vegetables poured into a casserole dish and topped it with mashed potatoes. I pop it into the oven and set the timer, then pour myself a glass of wine.

  When I set a beer in front of Cam, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table with the cat in his lap, he frowns. “That’s dark beer.”

  “I know. I remembered that’s what you said you liked.”

  When he gazes at me without commenting, I feel a little defens
ive. “It’s imported.”

  Cam says nothing.

  “The guy at the store told me it was good. It cost more than the meat!”

  “No need to shout, lassie,” he says, his voice as soft as his smile. “I hear you loud and clear.”

  Another statement that sounds loaded, hinting at unseen layers beneath the surface. He’s driving me nuts with this stuff! The last thing I need right now is more mystery in my life!

  “You’re impossible,” I grouse.

  “Impossibly wonderful, I know. Back to strategy.”

  I join him at the table, trying not to smile at his relentless self-love because I don’t want to encourage him. Although admittedly I’m a little jealous. It must be comforting to go through life convinced you’re God’s gift to the human race.

  “Fine. Strategy. Tell me how I should act when he calls.”

  “The same way you act with me.”

  I make a face. “I can’t act with him like I act with you!”

  “Like yourself, you mean?”

  “Exactly! He’ll never like me if I act like myself! I’m a disaster!”

  Cam glowers, then takes a long drink of his beer. I’ve never seen someone swallow angrily, but apparently it’s a thing.

  “Bypassin’ how barmy it is that you’d wanna be with a man who won’t like you if you act like yourself, what I meant was don’t cater to his ego. Don’t fall all over yourself to pay him compliments. Treat him like he’s your little brother: sometimes cute but mostly annoyin’.”

  I stare at Cam as if he’s insane. “How is treating a man like he’s annoying in any way attractive to said man?”

  “It doesn’t work with all men. But on lads like him—rich and pretty, used to havin’ women fall at his feet—it works like a charm. Because you’re a challenge, you see? You’re different. He has to chase you, which is fun but also establishes that you have value. You won’t just hand yourself over. When a man has to work hard for somethin’ he wants, he values it twice as much when he finally gets it. Then you’re a prize that he earned, not a gift he was given.”

  I ponder that for a moment, reflecting on all my recent interactions with Michael, and have to concede that Cam might have a point. “Okay, that makes sense.”

  Cam stops in the middle of lifting the beer to his mouth and chuckles. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? Did you just admit I might be right?”

  “Shut up. What else?”

  Cam takes another pull from the bottle of beer. I watch his throat as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, admiring how strong his neck is. My gaze drifts to his arms, all those stupid muscles straining the sleeves of his white T-shirt. His thighs, like tree trunks clad in blue jeans. His stomach, washboard abs outlined under thin cotton like an advertisement for the benefits of a gym membership.

  Everything about him is strong, from his body to his ego to his teeth . . . which are now on full display because he’s smiling at me.

  “What?” I’m taken aback by his sudden blinding grin.

  “Nothin’. Only you might want to work on developin’ a bit more of a poker face, lassie. If you leer at Michael like that, he’ll know the jig is up.”

  “I wasn’t leering at you!”

  “I can take my shirt off if you like. I’ll even let you pet my biceps, but that’s as far as it’s goin’ because I’m not just a beautiful, sonnet-worthy Mountain Man, you know. I’m a human being. I’ve got feelings.”

  I exhale in disgust. Then I drink some wine to buy time to compose myself, because I was in fact leering at him, and he caught me red-handed.

  “You’re funny,” I finally manage, aiming for a nonchalant tone. “Can we get back to strategy, please?”

  I swear Cam’s smile could be seen from outer space. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed. Those pink cheeks.”

  I stand and go to the oven, peering in like I might find a cure for my mortification inside. But there’s only the shepherd’s pie, which I imagine is laughing at me.

  Cam takes pity on me and lets me off the hook. “All right, movin’ on. Rule number one—we’ll call it the golden rule—is make him chase you. The longer, the better. But there are lots of subrules to this one. They all involve the art of parsin’ yourself out.”

  “That sounds disturbingly prostitutional.”

  “Think of it like you’re leavin’ a trail of crumbs. Small, delicious Joellen crumbs. A little bit here, a little bit there, just enough to heighten his hunger but never enough to satisfy it.”

  I go back to the table and sit, starting to feel dejected. “This is all very complicated.”

  “It’s the easiest thing in the world, darlin’. It’s called seduction, and it’s a game where everyone wins.” After a moment, he adds, “What was that wistful sigh for?”

  “Everything would be so much easier if it could just be like it is with us.”

  Cam is silent for a while. He finishes his beer, then says roughly, “You mean if you could just be friends.”

  I’m not sure what I mean, because I’ve surprised myself with that statement. It was unplanned, but I have to admit it’s true. I don’t have to think when I’m with Cam. I can just be myself because I’m not trying to impress him.

  “Oh!” Dazzled by a flash of inspiration, I sit up straight.

  “What?”

  I look at Cam, convinced I’m a genius. “I’ll pretend he’s you!”

  Cam stares at me. His jaw works. He shifts his weight in his chair, and the cat jumps off his lap, unsettled. “Come again?”

  “Like you told me to do when we kissed—pretend you were him!”

  “And did you?” he challenges quietly, his gaze steady on mine.

  I open my mouth to answer the obvious yes. But the word dies on my lips because the obvious answer isn’t the real answer. It isn’t the truth.

  Both times I kissed Cam, I never once thought of Michael.

  Immediately, I start to panic, my pulse skyrocketing and my hands beginning to shake. “Um . . .”

  “Go ahead,” says Cam softly. “Lie to me.”

  We stare at each other, and my heart decides it’s had enough of this beating nonsense and stops dead in my chest. When the phone rings, I almost faint.

  Cam moves first. He strides over to the phone, picks up the receiver, then brings it to me, holding it out silently and watching as I lift it to my ear.

  I know he sees how my hand shakes. I know he sees the color in my cheeks. I know he sees how irregular my breathing has become, because he’s taking all of it in, his gaze roving over my face as I squeak into the phone, “Hello?”

  “Joellen. It’s Michael.”

  Of course it is. The universe is having way too much fun at my expense.

  “Oh. Hello, Michael.”

  Cam and I stand a foot apart, our eyes locked. My blood feels like fire.

  “Is now a good time for us to talk?”

  “Actually, Michael”—I swallow—“I have company.”

  Cam moves closer, infinitesimally, a slight lean toward me that doesn’t involve his feet.

  “Company?” Michael’s voice is sharp in my ear. Too sharp.

  In a turn of events I never would have predicted, and would have scoffed at anyone who dared to suggest, I’m irritated with Michael Maddox.

  “Yes,” I say firmly, straightening my shoulders. “Company. I’ll have to call you back.”

  Michael sounds irritated with me, too, but tries to cover it with polite words. “Of course. I’m free for the rest of the night. Call me anytime.”

  “Will do. Thanks.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Wordlessly, I hold the phone out to Cam. He takes it from my hand, stares at me for a beat, then returns the phone to its cradle on the wall, his entire body radiating tension.

  I don’t know what’s happening, but it feels momentous.

  “That was good,” he says to the wall. “Sounded very natural. When you call him
back, don’t talk for more than ten minutes, and make sure you end the call first.”

  “I’m not going to call him back.”

  Cam turns around slowly. Our eyes meet with a click. “No?”

  “I have a dinner guest. I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  There’s a muscle in Cam’s jaw that’s getting an incredible workout. “You’ve been waitin’ on him for ten years, lassie.”

  “So one more day won’t hurt. Besides, I need practice with the golden rule. I’m dropping crumbs, right?”

  “I dunno, Joellen. Is that what you’re doin’?”

  His voice is gravelly, as rough as my breathing . . . and he has a point.

  What am I doing?

  As if on cue, the timer on the oven dings. Saved by the bell! I swallow the hysterical laugh rising from my throat and trip over to the oven. Before I can make it there, I’m grabbed by a big pair of hands.

  Then I’m backed flat against the wall, staring up into Cam’s face. His dark, dangerously intense face.

  Holding me by the shoulders and gazing into my eyes, he says softly, “Whatever it is you’re doin’, you better be sure. Take your time. Figure it out. But be sure. You owe it to yourself.”

  He releases me and strolls back to the kitchen table. He sits, props his feet up on another chair, laces his fingers together over his stomach, and smiles. “Now gimme that goddamn pie, woman. I’m starvin’.”

  His expression and voice are nonchalant, but his eyes. Oh, his eyes.

  How hotly they burn.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Nowhere girl

  Such long-standing dysfunction

  Heart unfurled

  Pain like heavyweight punches

  Chaos of wings

  Inside my head

  Bittersweet things

  Sleep beside me in bed

  Ten years, one hope, an impossible dream

  And then he spoke, but how can it be

  The words he said weren’t right but wrong

  But perhaps after all the problem is me?