Melt for You

“Listen. While you were tellin’ your sad story about your unrequited love for pretty boy Michael, a thought crossed my mind.”

“Must’ve been a long and lonely journey,” I mutter.

“I’m gonna help you get him.”

Startled, I look up at Cam. He’s standing there smiling like he’s just said the most intelligent, amazing thing ever spoken by a person in the history of humanity.

“You’re . . . what?”

“I’m an expert at two things, lass.” He holds up two fingers for emphasis, as if perhaps I’m unable to count that high. “Rugby, and the art of seduction.”

A disbelieving laugh breaks out of me. “Did your parents ever ask you to run away from home?”

“Stop insultin’ me for a minute and listen. If you really want this bloke, you’re gonna have to play your cards right. You can’t come at him too hot or too cold. It’s like Goldilocks and the three bears.”

“Yeah, you lost me there.”

“The first bowl of porridge was too salty. That’s you, by the way—very salty.”

I murder him with my eyes.

“The second bowl of porridge was too sweet. Not you.”

I sigh and prop my hands on my hips. “Just get on with the damn story, McGregor.”

“The third bowl of porridge was just right. That’s what you have to be for him. Just right.”

I stare at him, waiting for further explanation. When it doesn’t come, and he only smiles at me like he could stand there doing it for hours, I say, “You’re a profoundly strange person.”

“I can teach you how to be what he wants.”

“Pfft! You don’t even know him! How could you possibly teach me to be what he—”

“I know men even better than I know women,” he interrupts, his voice hard. “And I know exactly what makes pretty rich boys tick.”

The vehemence of his words makes me blink. “That sounds a little ominous. Is there a story of dubious sexual consent lurking behind that statement?”

He waves a hand like he’s batting away an insect. “Bein’ in a fishbowl, living like I do, you’re exposed to every kind of person there is. Over the years, I’ve sorta become a student of humanity.”

I laugh, because that’s so ridiculous I simply have to. “You? A student of humanity? The guy who prances around in yellow tights?”

He gazes at me for a beat, a disappointed expression on his face. “You see? You are superficial. You only look at what’s right in front of your face.”

We look at each other as the seconds tick by, and I grow more and more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Aye, lass,” he says softly, “you did.” Then he smiles. “But I can take it because I’m not your sensitive pretty boy lover, who’d probably burst into tears if he got a gander at the dragon that hides under that unassuming exterior of yours.”

My chagrin evaporates as quickly as it arrived. “Unassuming. That’s a polite way of calling me a dog.”

Cam looks at the ceiling and sighs. “You’re not a dog, darlin’. You’re just not doin’ yourself any favors.”

“Jesus, between you and Mrs. Dinwiddle, my inferiority complex should reach new heights!”

His eyes flash to mine. They have that dark look again, the dangerous one that seems to come and go at will. He growls, “You’ve nothin’ to feel inferior about, idiot.”

“So we went from darling to idiot in the space of a few minutes. Excuse me while I go get my neck brace. I’m getting whiplash.”

A corner of his mouth curls up. He studies me in silence for a moment, then lifts a shoulder. “Suit yourself. Don’t take my help. But don’t come cryin’ to me when pretty boy keeps right on not knowin’ you exist.”

“Stop calling him that!”

“Stop pretending you’re a mouse, dragon lady, and go after what you want. In fifty years, we’ll all be dead. Carpe diem.”

He moves past me to the stove, picks up the dish from the stove top with the pair of oven mitts, and leaves without another word.

I stand in the kitchen for another ten minutes, going over everything he said, trying to put my finger on what I’m missing. Why would he want to help me? What’s in it for him?

I go to bed and fall asleep to his last words stuck on repeat inside my head.

Carpe diem. Seize the day.

For the third night in a row, I dream of Scottish warriors.

Only this time it isn’t Mel Gibson who’s leading them into battle.

SEVEN

I’m right in the middle of an enormous yawn the next morning at work when Portia soundlessly appears beside my desk like she’s been teleported to the surface of the planet from the starship Enterprise.

“Good morning, Jillian!”

Startled, I jump, sloshing coffee from the mug I’m holding all over the front of my white blouse. I swear she barks like that just so she can watch me freak out.

“Portia. Hi.” And it’s Joellen, you witch.

She watches with an expression of distaste as I mop up the coffee as best I can with the spare napkins I keep in the top drawer of my desk for emergencies such as these, which occur with depressing regularity. In an ice-blue dress that matches the color of her heart and with her hair swept off her face and tied into a low chignon that showcases her elegant neck, she’s immaculate.

Beside her, I feel like a mangy donkey next to a thoroughbred racehorse.

“Have you finished the edit on Maria’s manuscript?”

I can tell by her tone she’s expecting an excuse, so it gives me satisfaction to hand her the sheaf of banded papers with a smile. Lips pursed, she takes the manuscript from me and thumbs over a few pages, checking my work like a grade school teacher.

If I didn’t desperately need the rest of the coffee in my mug, I’d be tempted to hurl it in her face.

“I understand you spoke with Michael this weekend,” she says offhandedly.

I freeze.

If she knows I spoke to Michael, it must be because he told her. Why would he tell her we spoke? What could that mean?

“Uh . . . I . . . yes. He was working, too. We said hello.”

Her sharp gaze flashes to mine. “You said ‘hello’?” she repeats frostily.

I cringe, wondering what on earth she could find so offensive about me speaking to Michael and how she gets her mouth to pinch like that. It looks painful. “Um . . . yes.”

She stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t—because I’m too worried about what might fly out of my mouth—she hugs the manuscript to her chest and starts to aggressively tap one manicured fingernail against it.

“Joanna.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we expect a certain level of . . .” Her gaze travels over my coffee-stained blouse, my unruly hair, my makeup-free face. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Professionalism here at Maddox Publishing.”

A flush of heat crawls up my neck. The words are out before I can stop them. “You mean like calling the employees by their correct names?”

The tapping ceases. She blinks—once, slowly—and it’s terrifying.

I’m saved from certain death by a uniformed delivery man carrying an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. He stops at the cubicle next to mine. “Is there a Joellen Bixby around here?”