Melt for You

I crank up the dial on the oven, then head over to McGregor’s and pound on the door. I’m regretting leaving my chef’s knife in the kitchen when he opens up.

He’s changed from the yellow stretchy leggings into a pair of faded jeans but still isn’t wearing anything else. I wonder if the man owns shirts. And why does he have to be so muscular? It’s distracting!

“Where is he?” I demand, craning my neck to try to look around his broad shoulders.

“Where’s my pie?”

“In the oven.”

He cocks one eyebrow and stares at me.

“It has to bake! It takes time! You’ll have your stupid shepherd’s pie in half an hour for God’s sake!”

He sends me a saccharine smile. “So that’s when you’ll have your cat.”

He makes a move to shut the door but is unable to as I throw my full weight against it. I knock him out of the way and barge into the apartment, calling Mr. Bingley’s name, knowing he won’t be able to hear me but unable to stop myself in my panic that I’m two steps away from finding a dead pile of fur on the floor with a beer bottle shoved down its poor throat.

“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Bing—”

I stop short at the bedroom door. There in the middle of the bed is the cat, curled up and sleeping peacefully, the stupid yellow tights wound around him like a security blanket.

“He’s a real lover, that one.” Cameron stands behind me in the hallway. I can tell from his tone he’s trying not to laugh. “Practically had to peel him off me so I could take a shower. Never had a cat take a likin’ to me so fast. Takes after his mum, I guess.”

I refuse to let him bait me, so I don’t answer. Instead, I go to the bed and pick up Mr. Bingley, careful not to touch the yellow tights. When I turn around, Cameron is blocking the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. He shakes his head.

“Now I know you don’t think you’re leavin’ with that cat, lass, seein’ as how I don’t have a shepherd’s pie in my hands.”

“Your obsession with that particular food is pathological, you know that?”

“It’s just that . . . pie is my favorite thing in the world.” He pulls his lips between his teeth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Ugh. Keep talking—maybe someday you’ll say something intelligent.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and long, while I stand and stare at him and Mr. Bingley tries to wriggle out of my arms to get back to the bed.

“Okay, comedian,” he says, still chuckling. “New deal. We’re goin’ over to your place while we wait for my pie to finish bakin’.” He turns and strolls away, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder when I holler at him that we don’t have a deal, and he’s not welcome in my apartment.

A minute later the point is moot as Cameron lowers his muscular bulk to my sofa, props his bare feet up on my coffee table, laces his fingers together over his stomach, and smiles at me like he’s waiting for me to bring him a drink.

“You’re unbelievable.” I swing the door shut, deposit the cat onto the floor, and flee into the safety of the kitchen. Unfortunately the kitchen is about fifteen feet away from the living room, so I’m not really safe at all.

Then a voice comes through the door. “Ducky? Ducky, are you home?”

Amused, Cameron looks at me. “Ducky?”

“Shut up, pie boy,” I mutter, headed for the door. When I open it, I find Mrs. Dinwiddle, martini in hand, wearing four-inch heels and a full-length mink coat over a flowered nightgown. The diamond tiara perched on her head is slightly askew.

“There you are, dear!” She beams at me as if she’s won a game of hide-and-seek.

“Hello, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”

She pushes back a wispy gray curl from her forehead, escaped from its proper position under the tiara. “I just wanted to say that last night was lovely. I probably don’t tell you enough, but I so appreciate you making dinner for me every Satur . . .”

She trails off right in the middle of her thought, arrested by the sight of a large barechested man smiling at her from the sofa. She instantly switches into coy debutante mode, fluttering her lashes and lifting a shoulder when she says with syrupy sweetness, “Why, hellooo there, young man.”

Cameron sends her a flirtatious nod, his smile so bright it’s practically blinding. Apparently he doesn’t care what age the women are who pay him attention, as long as they do.

Her gaze still glued to Cameron, Mrs. Dinwiddle addresses me. “I didn’t think you’d have company, Ducky. You never have—”

“He was just leaving,” I say loudly, cutting her off before she can reveal any more details of my pathetic life.

“No, I wasn’t.” Cameron rises from the sofa and swaggers over, grinning that smug, infuriating grin that tells me in no uncertain terms he’s going to give me the business about the “date” I said I had last night.

“Hullo, I’m Cameron McGregor. Pleasure to meet you.” He sticks his hand out to Mrs. Dinwiddle. Instead of taking it, she does that limp-wristed thing you see in old movies when the Southern belle wants the courtly gentleman to kiss her hand.

So what does he do? He bends over, lifts her hand to his mouth, and kisses it!

Mrs. Dinwiddle giggles like a teenage girl and bats her fake eyelashes so furiously I’m surprised they don’t fly off. When Cameron straightens and releases her hand, she wiggles her fingers in his face.

“Well aren’t you dashing?” she says, eyeballing his chest.

Cameron smiles at her indulgently, enjoying her obvious admiration. “I don’t know about that, ma’am, but I do know that a beautiful woman like yourself should always be treated like a queen.”

I growl. “And the ugly ones should always be treated like servants?”

Simpering at Cam, Mrs. Dinwiddle chastises me. “He’s only paying me a little compliment, Ducky. Leave the poor man alone!”

“Oh, I’d love to leave him alone,” I mutter. “All alone. On a desert island.”

When Mrs. Dinwiddle frowns at me, Cam chuckles. “She’s just jealous of your style, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”

“No, I’m jealous of everyone who hasn’t met you.”

Cam turns the full wattage of his smile toward me. “Oh, c’mon now, lass, meetin’ me has gotta be the most excitin’ thing to happen to you since your last Pap smear.”

Scandalized but trying not to laugh, Mrs. Dinwiddle whips the Chinese silk fan from a pocket of her mink and almost sprains her wrist fanning her face.

“Ha,” I say sourly. “You have all the charm of an open grave, McGregor.”

“Tch. Just admit it. You’re in love with me.” He bumps me with his elbow, and I send him a look designed to melt his face.

“Love? Hardly. If you were on a life support machine, I’d unplug it to charge my phone.”

Cam laughs, leaving me confused as to why he seems to like it so much when I insult him. My confusion is overtaken by a wave of horror, however, when Mrs. Dinwiddle rejoins the conversation.

“I’m sure she would fall in love with you, Cameron, but she’s already in love with someone else.”

“That so? Who’s the lucky man?” drawls Cam, playing along, thinking she’s joking, because obviously no man in his right mind would have anything to do with the likes of me.