Melt for You

I scramble to backtrack, making desperate googly eyes at Mrs. Dinwiddle so she’ll take the hint to shut up. “No one! She’s kidding. I’m not in love with any—”

“Her married boss!” crows Mrs. Dinwiddle, leaning toward Cameron with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. Like I’m not even standing right here. Like my deepest, darkest secret is fabulous conversation material with the beefy baller she only just met.

I’m not a violent person, and I especially would never condone violence against the elderly, but Mrs. Dinwiddle is in imminent danger of getting bitch-slapped.

Cam’s whole demeanor changes. He looks shocked, his smile falling away and his eyes widening. “You’re having an affair with your married boss? And you’re judging me?”

“I am certainly not having an affair!” I huff, indignant. “I’d never do such a thing!”

Mrs. Dinwiddle says sadly, “He doesn’t know she exists, you see.”

“Okay, visiting time at the zoo is over. Good-bye, people.” I try to usher them both out the door, but Cam won’t be budged, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is too busy downing the rest of her martini to notice my dismay.

“Hold on. Explain this to me.” Cam turns to me with new interest. “So you’re in love with this guy—who’s married—but you’ve never gotten together with him . . . because he doesn’t know you exist?”

I grind my back teeth together. “You make it sound like the only reason I haven’t committed adultery is because he hasn’t noticed me.”

“It’s not adultery on your part if you’re not married, Ducky,” chimes in Mrs. Dinwiddle, who has a rather “educated” opinion on the matter.

“Ugh. Semantics! My point is that even if Michael were all over me, I’d never do anything with a married man! It’s just . . . unrequited. He doesn’t know how I feel about him. But even if he did, I’d never cross that line.”

Cam examines my face with narrowed eyes. After a moment, apparently satisfied I’m telling the truth, he pronounces, “That’s a sad story, lass. No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood every time I see you.”

“I’m in a bad mood every time I see you because I’m seeing you,” I say sweetly. “And it’s not that sad a story, because I found out today that he’s getting divorced.”

When they stare at me in silence, I feel a little defensive, like they think I’m fibbing. “And he asked me to save him a dance at the office holiday party.”

Cam’s brows climb so far up his forehead it looks like a party trick. “The plot thickens!”

Mrs. Dinwiddle squeals and bounces on her toes. “Indeed ! Now will you let me give you that makeover, Ducky?”

“Just out of curiosity, why do you call her Ducky?”

Mrs. Dinwiddle makes a regal sweeping motion with the fan to indicate my appearance. “Because she insists on remaining an ugly duckling, my dear, when she could so easily become a swan.”

Cam turns to me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve seen in my life. “Aw. Ducky.”

Wow. If this is Karma, she put on spiked boots before she started kicking my ass.

SIX

A few minutes later, Mrs. Dinwiddle has left to refill her martini, and the Mountain and I are in my kitchen, waiting for the accursed shepherd’s pie to finish baking so I can evict him and get back to planning my transformation.

Or hunger strike, in other words.

Cam sits at my kitchen table with Mr. Bingley in his lap, absentmindedly stroking the cat while watching me, taking up far too much space for a single human being. The man has an atmosphere. His gaze has actual weight, like a touch. It’s unnerving. Like one of those haunted oil portraits, his eyes follow my every move.

“Stop staring at me—you’re freaking me out,” I grouse, watching the timer on the oven and willing it to speed up. Only a few more minutes to freedom.

“How long have you been in love with your boss?”

“None of your business.”

“Oh, c’mon, you can tell me, lass. It’s not like I’ll ever meet the man. Besides, I go back to Scotland in a month when the new season starts, and you’ll never have to see me again. Get it off your chest.”

I shoot him a glare, then go back to staring at the oven. “Why do you care, anyway?”

I hear the shrug in his voice when he answers. “I don’t really, but I guess I can’t understand why a woman would waste her time pinin’ over a man who doesn’t want her when she could be focusin’ on findin’ one who does. And—forgive me—especially at your age.”

I’m too depressed to be insulted. “God, you sound exactly like my mother.”

I’m not looking at him, but nonetheless feel his gaze sharpen. “So you’ve talked to your mother about this. Which means it’s serious and has probably been going on for years.”

Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “How on earth would you know what it means?”

“I know women.”

I don’t have a pithy comeback for that, because it’s obviously the truth. He says the words with no bragging or smiles, just a simple statement of fact, backed up by the thousand pairs of panties he probably has stuffed into his closet as souvenirs.

“Fine. Yes, it’s serious and has been going on for years.”

“How many years?”

I stare at him. “Are you writing a book or something?”

He chuckles. “Just gettin’ my facts straight. Answer the question.”

I can tell by his determined expression that he won’t give up until I tell him what he wants to know. So . . . what the hell. I draw a breath and admit, “Ten years. Since the first day I started working at my job. Since the first minute I laid eyes on him.” I say it in a muted voice, knowing how pitiful it sounds.

Silence follows. After a moment, I chance a look at Cam. He’s gazing back at me with an inscrutable expression, his brows drawn together, his head cocked to one side.

“And what,” he asks quietly, his eyes intense, “is so special about him that would make you flush a decade down the toilet?”

I glance away. Heat rises in my face, and I have to swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Aye, I would, lass. I understand obsession all too well.”

When I look at him again, arrested by the new tone in his voice, the darker, more complicated tone, he meets my stare unflinchingly. A flicker of something crosses his face—longing or loneliness, some bottomless despair—but it’s gone so quickly I must have imagined it.

I shift my gaze to the oven timer. Three minutes. Then I cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes, and decide on a whim to tell him the truth.

“He’s just . . . perfect. In every way.”

Cam sounds irritated by my dreamy tone. “Barf. Can you be more specific?”

“He’s educated. Cultured. Sophisticated. Kind. Brilliant. Gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous?”

I nod, keeping my eyes closed. “He looks exactly like Christopher Reeve in his Superman days. Heroic. Cleft chin and everything. And he’s a gentleman. His manners would put the queen of England to shame. And he dresses beautifully. And he knows all about literature, and opera, and ballet, and art—”

“So he’s gay.”