Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  So . . . can I?

  From: Michael Maddox

  To: Joellen Bixby

  Date: December 21

  Subject: Re: Speaking of seeing me again . . .

  You’ll think I’m strange, but your last email gave me an erection. The thought of you sitting at your desk pondering what kind of dirty things we could do together without getting caught . . . dear God, here it is again. I wonder if I can type with one hand? (Sorry, inside thought.)

  To answer your question seriously—yes, there is a company policy against romantic or sexual relationships between supervisors and subordinates. Unfortunately, as I’m the CEO, it could be argued that everyone is my subordinate. It’s a family company, but I still have to answer to the board.

  Long answer short, it’s a big risk. I’ll be completely honest: we’re both looking at losing our jobs if we’re discovered. I will completely understand if you’re not willing to accept that risk.

  I, however, definitely am.

  Think about it. I’m back in a few days. I’ll see you at the party. You can let me know then. Either way, I’ve already informed HR that you’ve been selected for the acquisitions editor position. It won’t be formally announced until we’re back from after the holiday break between Christmas and New Year, so please keep it under your hat for now.

  No matter what you decide about us, I’ll always wish you the best and be your friend.

  Hopefully yours,

  M.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Holy cow,” I whisper, staring at the computer screen in disbelief. “I got the position!”

  I leap out of bed where I’ve been sitting with my laptop, run through my apartment, and throw open the front door. I pound a fist on Cam’s apartment door like I’m the landlord and he’s three months late with the rent.

  “Cam! Are you home? Open up!”

  A muffled, “Comin’!” and then he opens the door, barefoot, wearing what appears to be a woman’s robe. It’s pink terrycloth, about ten sizes too small, edged in white lace at the wrists and collar.

  “Um . . .”

  “What?” He looks down at himself. “Oh, this? It was in Kellen’s closet. Looked comfy.” He shrugs. “It is comfy. “

  “I admire that for such a big, manly man, you have very open ideas about gender-specific clothing.”

  He scoffs. “Whoever made that rule that pink is only for girls is dumb. I’ll have you know, pink is very flatterin’ to my complexion.”

  It actually is, but I don’t have time for this conversation. “Moving on—I got the promotion! You’re looking at the newest associate editor at Maddox Publishing!” I jump up and down in glee, doing a little skipping dance and waving my hands like a drugged-out mime.

  “Really? That’s fantastic, lass! Good for you! You just found out?”

  “Yes, Michael emailed me the news! I’m not supposed to tell anyone until after the first of the year when they make the formal announcement, but I had to tell you. Oh God, wait until my mother hears—she’ll freak out!”

  “You told me before you told your mum?”

  I stop jumping up and down and make a face at him. “Why do I feel like that’s going to be followed with a lecture about how much I’m in love with you, but I just don’t realize it yet?”

  “Because you are, and you don’t.” He closes his door and ambles past me. “This calls for a celebration. You have any of that dark beer you bought for me left?”

  He disappears into my apartment. I follow him, shaking my head at the picture he makes. No matter what he’s wearing—or isn’t wearing—the man doesn’t have an ounce of self-consciousness. “Your ego is your superpower, you know that, prancer?”

  Cam flops onto my sofa, lies back, and crosses his legs at the ankle. He looks like an MMA wrestler wearing his daughter’s princess robe. “Oh, no, lass, that’s not my superpower.” He winks at me, grinning.

  “You’re never gonna let me forget I saw you naked, are you?”

  “I’ll forget it as soon as you do. So no, never.”

  Ignoring him, I go into the kitchen, fish a beer from the fridge, pop the top off it, and pour it into a glass. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and head back into the living room. I give Cam his beer, then sit at the end of the sofa near his feet, crossing my legs under me.

  “Why aren’t you dressed for bed yet?” He eyes my jeans and T-shirt. “It’s almost ten o’clock on a school night. You need your sleep.”

  That makes me smile. “You’ll make a good dad someday, you know that? You’re bossy in a very sweet way.”

  When he arches his brows at the compliment, I hold up a hand. “Not in love with you. Just making an observation.”

  “Well, thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

  “You have tons of time. What are you, early thirties?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t find out during your investigative research.” With an arm under his head, he takes a drink from his beer, watching me.

  “Ugh. I only looked you up that one time, and I didn’t pay attention to your birth date. So—are you going to tell me, or is it a state secret?”

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  I’m floored. He seems so much older. More mature. Twenty-nine is practically a baby! Suddenly I feel like Methuselah, nearly a thousand years old and counting.

  “Uh-oh,” he says drily, examining my pinched expression. “She’s thinkin’. No good can come of this.”

  I blow out a breath too hard, which causes my lips to flap in a truly unattractive way. But I don’t care, because it’s Cam, and he’s seen me at my worst. “I remember twenty-nine. It was actually harder than thirty. Once I was over that hump, I accepted I’d never be young again.”

  “Everything’s relative, lass. There’s a sixty-year-old grandma out there who’d give her eyeteeth to be thirty-six again.”

  “Oh, thank you for that pearl of wisdom. How comforting to know the elderly are jealous of me.”

  “Sixty isn’t elderly!”

  “Dude. Seriously. If the average life expectancy is somewhere in the seventies, sixty is practically knocking on death’s door.”

  “One of my grandmothers lived to be one hundred and fourteen.”

  “What? That’s a lie!”

  “Nope. And my other grandmother is one hundred and ten. She’s still alive.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “I’m not pullin’ your leg! The McGregor clan has exceptional genes, lass. Nobody in my family even starts thinkin’ about retirin’ until well after ninety.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. If you ever visit Scotland, I’ll take you to meet Nanny O’Shea. That’s my mum’s mum. You two would get a kick out of each other—same sharp tongue and lack of respect for the McGregor men.”

  He smiles, relishing some memory, and drinks more of his beer, while I sit and think how much fun it would be to meet his ancient, sassy Scottish grandmother.

  “My dad’s mother is eighty. We call her Granny Gums because she loves to horrify people by popping out her dentures during conversations like it’s an accident. She has mild dementia, so she repeats herself a lot, but otherwise she’s in pretty good shape. My other grandmother is in perfect health, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she carries on. She had a Just Buried party when she turned fifty because she was convinced she was about to kick the bucket any minute. She was a model, like my mom.”

  I take a long drink of my wine, thinking of all the times my mother and grandmother commiserated about getting old, even when I was a kid and they weren’t anywhere close to old. Every holiday and family get-together inevitably turned into a Mourning the Glory Days of Our Departed Beauty party.

  “Those people do not age gracefully, and I’m not talking about wrinkles.”

  Cam sits up and holds his beer out toward me, like he wants to toast.

  “What?”

  “Clink your glass with
me, lass. That’s the first time you’ve said somethin’ sensible about age, looks, or your family.”

  “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” We toast and drink, then Cam smacks his lips, looking wistfully toward the kitchen.

  The man is as subtle as a wrecking ball.

  “I have a chicken breast and some veggies left over from dinner I could reheat if you’re hungry.”

  Cam toys with the lace on the sleeve of his robe, his lashes swept demurely downward. “Only if it’s no bother, lass. I don’t wanna keep you up.”

  I kick his feet and grin at him. “Oh, shut up, you big baby.”

  When he smiles bashfully, his lips in a wry little twist because he’s too shy to admit he wants me to cook for him, I’m hit with a sudden, unidentifiable emotion. It’s weird and tender and powerful and alien and makes my heart skip several beats.

  I stand so abruptly I spill wine on the carpet.

  Cam looks up at me, but I spin away, unwilling to let his sharp eyes get a glimpse at my face. In a daze, I walk into the kitchen and start putting together a plate for Cam from the leftovers in the fridge.

  What was that? What’s wrong with me? Am I getting sick? I put the back of my hand to my forehead, but it’s cool and dry, no sign of fever.

  “So what else did pretty boy say in his email?” calls Cam from the living room.

  I’m too distracted to give him the details. “My laptop’s on the bed if you want to check it out.”

  In a few moments, he strolls into the kitchen with the laptop, sits at the table, and starts to read. Almost immediately, he’s making faces.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I like him better in email than in person.”

  That makes me laugh out loud. “Oh ho! So you admit Mr. Repressed has a cute side!”

  My laugh makes him grouchy. “I said no such thing. Let’s not get carried away, lass. I’m just admittin’ he might have a certain charm in electronic communications that doesn’t translate into real life.” His voice hardens. “Even if he was tryin’ to get you to send nudes.”

  “Yeah, but I remembered what you said about dropping crumbs, so I took your advice and sent him a picture of my earlobe instead.”

  “Seems like it worked. Pretty boy’s fallin’ all over himself here.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says sharply, “Did you read this part about the policy against subordinates and supervisors bein’ in a relationship?”

  I sigh, putting the plate of food into the microwave to reheat. “Yeah. It’s a bummer, but I guess we’ll just have to be extra careful.”

  “Extra careful as in not sendin’ emails like this over the company server?”

  I freeze in horror. “Oh shit.”

  “Aye, oh shit is right. Dumb ass.”

  Outraged, I turn and stare at him. “Did you just call me a dumb ass?”

  “I’m callin’ him a dumb ass, because he is, because he should fucking know better! He’s the CEO, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I should know better, too!”

  Cam sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Aye. But you’re a woman in love. They’re always blind as fuckin’ bats.” He glances up at me. “Sorry. Not to lump you in with the rest of your gender, but in my personal experience, a woman loses her damn mind when she falls in love. And most of the time she loses herself in the process, too.”

  His look is a little too pointed for comfort. I turn away, occupying myself with watching the plate turn on the carousel in the microwave. “I’ll go in and delete everything later. I’ll make sure he does, too. I don’t think there’s anything too incriminating. We’re not admitting we’re in a relationship, we’re just talking about the possibilities. Besides, it won’t be a problem unless someone is looking for something, which they aren’t.”

  Yet.

  Thinking of all the complications an office romance with Michael will most likely entail, I rub my hand over my forehead. Before it was just a lovely dream, but now reality is setting in, and it’s a lot less dreamy.

  I could lose my job.

  He’s worth it. He’ll protect you.

  Will he? If his own job is on the line?

  He’s a good man. You can trust him. Everything will be fine.

  You’re too old to be impractical. You have no experience doing anything else. If you get fired from Maddox Publishing, you’ll be temping as a receptionist or living with your parents within a few months.

  I rest my forehead on the microwave door and groan.

  “You havin’ a breakdown over there, lassie? Do I need to call the paramedics?”

  “No. I’m just beginning to realize this thing with Michael might be more complicated than I thought.” My laugh is rueful. “Or didn’t think. It was never a possibility before, not really. But now . . .”

  After a moment, Cam says, “Reality’s settin’ in.”

  “I literally thought those exact words not two minutes ago.”

  “Great minds think alike. Is my dinner ready yet?”

  Despite my worry, I have to smile. “Yes, evil overlord, your dinner is ready.” I remove his plate from the microwave, check it to make sure there are no cold spots, and set it in front of him with a knife and fork. “Why are you eating so late, anyway? You told me I shouldn’t eat after seven p.m.”

  He digs into his food without preamble, sawing a big chunk of the chicken off and stuffing it into his mouth. We eat the same way, all flashing utensils and sighs of pleasure, savoring every bite like it’s our last meal before the electric chair. How he can enjoy watching me eat I’ll never know. Although admittedly I’m getting quite a bit of enjoyment watching him tear through that piece of chicken.

  That he likes my cooking so much gives me a weird kind of happiness, a fizzy little starburst of sunshine glowing inside my chest.

  “Didn’t eat today except for lunch,” he says around a mouthful, his attention on the plate. “Don’t have much in the apartment except stuff for our mornin’ shakes and the odd sandwich.”

  “So go shopping! What have you been doing for dinner since our last supper?”

  He lifts a shoulder. “Nothin’.”

  I’m dismayed. “You haven’t been eating? How do you have the energy to do our workouts in the morning?”

  He glances up at me and winks. “’Tis the thought of you that keeps me goin’, lass.”

  My eye roll is extravagant. “Okay. That’s it. We’re going back to our nightly dinners. I can’t have my trainer dying on me—I’m almost halfway to my weight-loss goal.”

  Cam stops chewing and stares at me. He swallows and wipes his mouth with his hand. “You have a specific number in mind?”

  “Yeah. Forty pounds. What did you think this was about, my love for kale and early-morning jogs in subzero temperatures?”

  “Forty pounds? I thought you just wanted to get into shape?”

  “I do! I am!”

  He sits back in his chair and examines me closely, a furrow forming between his brows.

  “What’s that look? You’re making me nervous.”

  “It’s your body, lass. If you wanna shrink it, that’s your decision. But if I could offer an opinion . . .”

  “Sure. Go ahead.”

  He says softly, “You look great. Truly. If you were payin’ me to be your trainer, I’d advise you to stop tryin’ to lose weight and focus on healthy eatin’ habits and gainin’ strength, endurance, and flexibility from your workouts. And, most importantly, practicin’ gratitude for the body you’ve got.”

  “Practicing gratitude,” I repeat doubtfully.

  He nods. “You’re healthy. You’re whole. Your body does whatever you ask it to. There are millions of people who live with chronic pain or physical disabilities who would gladly trade places with you.”

  When I screw my face up following that little speech, he sighs.

  “Your body isn’t a thing to be looked at and judged against some standard of perfection that doesn’t even really exist. It’s the vessel that ta
kes you through life, allowin’ you to experience all the beautiful things life has to offer. Food. Sex. Sunsets. Music. Hugs. Laughter. A healthy body is a gift. Don’t take it for granted. Don’t treat it like some cheap one-night stand. Treat it like the love of your life. Treat it with respect and tenderness, but most of all, gratitude.

  “And a healthy dose of awe, too. Your body is made of remnants of stars and massive explosions in the galaxies. Every few years, the bulk of your body is newly created by the regeneration of your cells, but you have things in you that are as old as the universe. We’re literally stardust. Every one of us is a little miracle. You’re a miracle, Joellen. Think about that the next time you’re standin’ naked in front of the mirror and want to focus on some stray dimple you don’t like.”

  He digs into his meal again, as if he hasn’t just completely rocked my world.

  I’m a miracle? Who says stuff like that?

  “You’re thinkin’ again, lass,” says Cam, chewing. “I can hear the gears turnin’.”

  “There’s no way you’re only twenty-nine.”

  He grins around a mouthful of chicken. “Why, ’cause I’m so enlightened? Maybe I’m the latest reincarnation of the Buddha, you ever think of that?”

  “Oh yes. You’re very enlightened. I can tell from the girly pink robe.”

  Cam looks up at me, hazel eyes sparkling. “Exactly,” he pronounces. “Great title for another sonnet about me, don’tcha think? ‘The Man in the Girly Pink Robe.’ I can see it now. Full o’ tender endearments about my extreme lovability. You can work on it tomorrow and show it to me at dinner.”

  We smile at each other, Mr. Bingley jumps up onto Cam’s lap and curls into a ball, and I push away the little voice in my head whispering how the man in the girly pink robe will soon be gone from my life forever.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The man in the girly pink robe and I

  Sit on a bench in the park discussing the weather.