“You were just bein’ yourself,” Cam finishes quietly when I struggle to find the right words.
When I nod, miserable to admit it, he smiles at me. “You can quit beatin’ yourself up now, lass. I know you appreciate me. And I love that sharp tongue of yours. I love that you feel comfortable enough with me to give me a good dressin’ down. I need that, y’know. Someone to stick a pin in my balloon when it gets too inflated.”
I produce a shaky laugh. “Your balloon must have a lot more pinpricks since you met me.”
He laughs, too, a soft and satisfied sound. “Aye. But a real friend is someone who stabs you in the front.”
“That’s Oscar Wilde.”
“Don’t look so surprised, lass. I’ve read Oscar Wilde. You didn’t think I was just another pretty face, did you?”
We share a smile across the checkered tablecloth. “So, we are friends.”
He shakes his head, chuckling. “Why is it so important to you this relationship has a title?”
Because the alternative to friends is either enemies or lovers.
I smile tightly but don’t answer, knowing in my heart of hearts that I’d rather die than be enemies with this man.
So if we’re not friends or enemies, that leaves only one other choice.
TWENTY-FIVE
Cam and I enjoy a long lunch, talking nonstop about everything and nothing. He gives me more advice about Michael, I pepper him with questions about Scotland, he informs me we’re moving our workouts from strictly cardio to adding strength training, I tell him I’ve lost another few pounds. We’re at the restaurant for almost two hours.
In the back of my head, I tell myself Portia gave me permission to take a long lunch, but the reality is that I’m reluctant to get back to the office. I’m having too good a time. I keep dragging my feet, asking Cam question after question until he laughs at me and asks if I’m writing an unauthorized biography.
“Yes. I’ll call it Mountain Man Unmasked. It’ll be an instant bestseller.”
“Okay. I’ll approve it. But only if you include the sonnet about my eyes.”
Our gazes catch and hold. I look away first, blushing.
Back at the office building, he asks me if I want him to come up, but I tell him no. I’ve got visions of a mob of salivating females lined up in front of the reception desk, waiting for him to emerge from the elevator so they can pounce.
We hug on the sidewalk, then he’s gone. I stand there waving at his taxi until it turns a corner and disappears. Then I trudge into the building and onto the elevator, bracing myself for whatever might await me on the thirty-third floor.
It’s a bloodbath.
First, I’m accosted by Kim, the receptionist. She leaps up from her desk the instant the elevator doors open and runs up to me, flapping her hands, the tic in her eye going so fast it looks painful.
“Oh my gosh, Joellen, I didn’t know who that was when he came in. I only knew he was big and handsome and oh!” She bites her fist. “So hot! But then Shasta told me who he was and showed me the picture of you guys on TMZ and geez, are you dating him? How long has this been going on?”
“He’s my neighbor,” I say wearily, headed back to my desk. Kim follows beside me, skipping every few feet in excitement.
“So you’re not dating him? Oh gosh, that’s a shame, that man is just”—she fans herself—“scorching! But he’s your neighbor, you say? Maybe I could come over and hang out sometime, you know, like tonight? Are you free?”
Shasta spots me from a distance and bolts from her cubicle like she’s been coughed out. She races down the hallway toward me while I brace myself for impact.
“Joellen!” she shrieks, grabbing my arm. “Holy fucksicles that man is ten times hotter in person than he is in pictures! And he’s huge!”
“Don’t ask me about his ju—”
“You have to tell me what he looks like naked! Please? Pretty please? Just give me a hint how big it is! Like this?” She holds her hands about a foot apart, then adds a few more inches. “This?”
Irritated by her lewd questioning, I scowl at her. “You’re deranged, Shasta. He’s not a piece of meat. Let it go.”
I toss my handbag onto the floor, sit in my chair, and start straightening things on my desk in an attempt to look busy, but I’ve got two females in heat hovering over me who aren’t about to let me off the hook until I tell them more about their newfound stud. Their excited clucking and flapping stirs up all the other chickens in the henhouse, until suddenly I’ve got a crowd of women at my cubicle door, squawking like mad.
Sue Wong, she of the razor-edged bangs and enviable dimples, wants to know how Cam and I met. Another acquisitions editor, Bethany, wants to know if he has a brother. Questions fly at me from every side until my head is spinning.
“You guys!” I shout above the fray. “Chill out! He’s just my neighbor!”
“What’s going on here?”
Portia’s freezing voice cuts through the noise like a samurai sword. The hens scatter in terror until it’s only me and Portia left, looking at each other in silence.
Portia’s wearing a lovely sheath dress the color of a new penny. With her perfect gold hair and steely silver-blue eyes, she looks like she was recently minted.
“Sorry about that. I, uh, think everyone was a little . . . overexcited by my visitor.”
A ghost of a smile softens her normally pinched mouth. “One can hardly blame them. The last time we had a male visitor on the thirty-third floor was when Theodore Scanlon came in to negotiate his new contract.”
Theodore Scanlon is one of Maddox Publishing’s most infamous authors. He’s older than dirt, has halitosis that could kill a grown man at ten paces, and has made ogling cleavage into a spectator sport. His crime novels—all excellent sellers—include a disturbingly high incidence of sex between siblings. Which makes the old publishing maxim “Write what you know” take on a whole disgusting new meaning.
“Did you have a nice lunch?”
I warily eye Portia, not trusting her innocent question and bland, nonwitchy smile. “Yes, thanks.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I meant it when I said you deserved it, Joellen. You really do.”
This is so weird. Why is she being so nice? What’s she up to?
She turns to leave, but I call her back. “Portia, didn’t you want to talk to me about my workload?”
She blinks, obviously confused, but then her look clears. She says airily, “Oh, never mind. I found what I was looking for. Just . . . moving things around.”
She leaves without explaining what those cryptic words meant. I ponder her strange behavior until something so horrible occurs to me that it steals my breath.
Portia is in love with Michael.
Oh God. That has to be it! She’s been an unrelenting bitch to me for ten years, always watching me like a hawk, always appearing suddenly whenever Michael appears, like she’s keeping an eye on me. Like she’s guessed how I feel about him. It couldn’t have been hard—I follow him around like a nursing calf after its mommy. Then the one day a man shows up to take me out to lunch, she does a one-eighty that could cause whiplash and is nice—because I’m no longer a threat if I have a boyfriend.
All these years, Portia has been in love with Michael, has seen that I’m in love with him, too, and has hated me for it.
And now he’s getting divorced.
And is pursuing me.
I’m so screwed.
When I get home that night, my house phone is ringing as I’m unlocking my front door. I rush in and pick it up, still in my winter coat and knitted scarf. “Hello?”
“Hello, Joellen.”
A little thrill goes through me at the sound of his voice. “Hi, Michael!”
“Is this a good time to talk?”
I look around the kitchen and decide that Mr. Bingley can wait a few minutes for his food, even though he’s glaring at me from the corner where his empty dish sits. If he could cross his arms, he would.
“Yes, this is a great time. How are you?” I sit at the kitchen table and unwind the scarf from around my neck.
“I’m well, thank you. I’m glad we’re finally getting a chance to talk. It seems my timing is always off.”
His voice is warm, so I know he’s not complaining. I’m relieved. I thought for sure I’d have to do a fair bit of groveling after what happened today in the office. I didn’t see him for the rest of the day and was too chicken to send him an email, but it’s somehow safer to talk like this instead of face-to-face.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call you back last night. Dinner went a little late, and I wasn’t sure how long you usually stay up.”
“You can call me anytime. I mean it. Day or night, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Okay.” I feel bashful and pleased and also happy he didn’t grill me about who my dinner was with. “Thanks. Um, are you in your own place now?”
“Yes. We agreed she’d stay in the house while the lawyers fight over the details of who gets to keep what. I’ve rented a place overlooking Central Park. The view is spectacular. You’d love it.”
It’s a little weird that he avoids saying his wife’s name and instead refers to her as “she,” but I’m too fixated on trying to figure out if he just invited me over to his place to care. “I’m sure I would. It sounds beautiful.”
We’re silent for a moment, awkwardly breathing at each other, until Michael says, “Okay, I have to get this off my chest.”
Oh God. That sounds bad. “What is it?”
He laughs a small, self-conscious laugh. “I’m jealous of your rugby player.”
I know he’s looking for reassurance, but instead of being irritated, I find this admission charming. He’s basically saying Cam is a man worthy of his jealousy—which proves he’s not the snob Cam thinks him to be—while at the same time showing vulnerability. For a man who has everything in the world and is accustomed to everyone bowing and scraping in his presence, it can’t be easy to admit another man makes you jealous.
Michael’s stock just climbed a few notches in my estimation.
“You don’t need to be jealous of him. I was telling you the truth when I said we were friends. There’s really nothing going on between us.”
Michael exhales a sigh of relief. “That’s good to hear. I know I don’t have any right to be jealous, but honestly I’ve thought about you for so long it would probably break my heart if you were taken the moment I was set free.”
He talks about getting a divorce like he’s been paroled from prison, but I’m distracted by something far more important. “You’ve thought about me?” I whisper, my heart doing a happy dance inside my chest.
His voice drops, too. “You must’ve known. My God, the amount of time I’ve spent staring at you, I was afraid everyone knew.”
Feeling faint, I close my eyes. It’s happening. It’s really happening. All those nights I dreamed of this man saying those words, and it’s no longer a dream . . . It’s real.
“You’re not saying anything.”
“Sorry, I’m just . . . soaking it all in.” My laugh is breathless because there’s no air in my lungs. “I’m having a hard time believing it.”
“You shouldn’t be. You’re a beautiful girl, Joellen. I’ve always thought so.”
If an asteroid smashed through the ceiling and demolished my apartment and me along with it, I would die a happy woman, because my life is now complete.
Michael Maddox called me beautiful. Either he’s in his bazillion-dollar condo overlooking Central Park high as shit on mushrooms right now, or he’s telling the truth. No one has ever said anything as wonderful to me as what he just said.
You’re perfect just the way you are, lass.
My eyes fly open. What the hell is McGregor doing in my head? At a moment like this, no less!
“Are you still there?”
I blurt the first thing that comes to mind because I’m so flustered by the Mountain intruding on my lovely moment with Michael. “I was just thinking about Portia.”
Michael sounds confused by my odd transition. “Portia? What about her?”
“I think she has a crush on you.”
Michael laughs, long and heartily. “You’re giving her too much credit. If she had a crush on me, it would mean she had a heart!”
I have to smile at that because it’s true. Then Michael says, “Besides, I don’t have the right equipment.”
I furrow my brow. “Excuse me?”
“Portia’s gay.”
I gape at the cat, who stares back at me like he’s contemplating whether or not to trot over and hork up a hairball on my shoe. “Gay? Portia’s gay?”
“A lesbian, yes. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”
Apparently the list of things I don’t know is long and illustrious. “I had no idea! How do you know?”
“I’ve met her girlfriend. They’ve been together for years. Portia and my wife serve together on the board of a national literacy organization. We’ve seen them socially many times.”
I’m glad I’m sitting down, because if I were standing I might have already collapsed and cracked my skull open on the floor.
Portia is gay. Which means she isn’t in love with Michael. Which means my theory about why she’s always been a bitch to me is so far off the mark, it’s not even in the same neighborhood.
“Wow. I honestly had no clue. I wonder why she never brought her girlfriend to any of the holiday parties or summer picnics?”
There’s a short pause. “I think she was concerned how it would be viewed by the staff.”
“What do you mean, ‘viewed’? You think she’s worried she’ll be discriminated against?”
“Well, naturally.”
“I don’t understand. Why ‘naturally’? I know a dozen gay people at Maddox who are out, and no one gives them grief. The company culture is very inclusive, but even if it weren’t, we have written policies against discrimination. And there’s federal law—”
“No one in a position of authority is openly gay in the company.”
The curtness of his tone gives me pause. “That’s true,” I say slowly, trying to put my finger on what I’m missing. Why does he sound annoyed?
When Michael speaks again, his voice is back to normal. “I’ve encouraged her to take a leadership role in that regard, of course, but she doesn’t feel comfortable. And it isn’t my place to insist. I respect her wishes to keep her private life private.”
“Yes, of course, if she’s not comfortable—”
“But enough about Portia,” Michael interrupts. “Let’s talk about you. Have you been working out? Because I noticed you seem to be looking a bit tighter of late.”
So this is what I have to look forward to when I hit menopause. This hot flash could ignite the entire kitchen. In the space of a few heartbeats, I’m flushed and drenched in sweat.
“Yes, I have been working out,” I admit sheepishly. “That’s the project I told you Cam was helping me with. I decided to start exercising and eating better, and you know, he’s a professional athlete, so.”
“That’s great, Joellen!” I can’t tell if his enthusiasm is because he likes the idea of me working out or because he’s relieved to finally discover the basis of my relationship with Cam. “I’m very happy for you. I love to work out, too. Maybe we could work out together! Do you like squash?”
“Oh, sure . . . I love squash.” I really hope he’s talking about the vegetable.
“Great! When I get back from London, I’ll take you to my club.”
“You’re going to London?”
“Yes. I leave tomorrow. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I haven’t had the chance. I’ve got meetings with some of our European distributors, but I’ll be back on Saturday the twenty-third.”
Suddenly I’m filled with cold dismay. “That’s the day of the office holiday party. Are you still going to make it?”
His voice warms. “I wouldn’t miss it for t
he world.”
Oh God. This feels like a sign. “Okay. Um . . . maybe we can email while you’re gone? You know, just to keep in touch?”
“I’d like that,” he murmurs. “I’d like that very much. And Joellen?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad we finally got to talk.”
I whisper, “Me too.”
Mr. Bingley, tired of waiting for his dinner, makes a noise like he’s being skinned alive. I laugh like a crazy person, feeling high and loose and dangerously happy, like Icarus flying too close to the sun.
But I won’t think of what happened to that idiot. I end the call and feed my demanding animal, thinking only of how many days until I see Michael again and how many pounds lighter I’ll be.
Skinny body, skinny heart, skinny love be damned, I’ve got a skinny entrance to make into a holiday party, and God help the fool who tries to stand in my way.
TWENTY-SIX
I’m deep into an internet search of how to play squash when Cam bursts through the front door with a big bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in cellophane and tissue paper. He sees me at the coffee table on my laptop and grins.
“You’re lookin’ me up again, aren’t you, lass? Tch. It’s becomin’ an obsession!”
“Get over yourself, prancer. There’s a whole big world out there that doesn’t involve you. I’m trying to find out how to play squash. Who’re the flowers for?”
He looks left, right, then behind him. “Is there someone else who lives in this apartment?”
Surprised and touched, I stand. “They’re for me? Really?”
He shakes his head and sighs dramatically. “Christ on a crutch, Miss Snufflebottom, you’re hopeless. Take the bloody things before I smack you upside the head with ’em.”
I cross to him and take the huge bouquet from his arms. “These are my favorite.” Smiling, I touch the bright-yellow petals. “They always remind me of home. My mom got them fresh from the farmers market every Friday when I was growing up.”
“I know.”
I look at him, furrowing my brow. “Have you been going through my trash or something?”
Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2) Page 22
