Melt for You

She’s too busy ogling the box to be put off by my sarcasm.

Denny parks the dolly upright and removes a folding work knife from a pocket of his trousers. He slices open the tape on the top of the box. “It’s a new chair for you, kiddo. Mr. Maddox put in a requisition over the weekend.”

The breath leaves my lungs in a wheeze. Shasta and I gape at each other.

Denny makes a great show of unpacking the box, cutting at the cardboard so the chair is revealed all at once when the sides fall away.

“That’s the new ergonomic model,” whispers Shasta, agog.

I don’t know about ergonomic, but it makes my current chair look derelict.

“Oh, fantastic, you brought it up!” says a male voice to my left, and my heart stops.

It’s Michael, watching approvingly as Denny dusts off the chair with a rag taken from his back pocket, even though there’s not a speck of dust on the thing.

“Yes, sir! You said first thing Monday, so I made sure to do it before my regular rounds.”

Shasta and I share a stunned glance, and I know we’re both suffering the same brain meltdown. Michael ordered Denny to bring me a new chair “first thing.” Like it was a priority. And then he showed up to make sure it was done!

Don’t get ahead of yourself—he’s probably just about to tell you you’re not getting the raise you requested!

He looks perfect today, so perfect he’s almost blindingly beautiful. Smooth hair, gorgeous navy-blue suit, freshly shaven jaw. He obviously didn’t spend another night on his office sofa. He turns his gaze to me and dazzles me with a killer smile.

“Good morning, Joellen.”

I love you and want to have all your babies. “Uh . . . morning.”

He sends a friendly nod to Shasta, who giggles. “Hi, Mr. Maddox!”

“Good morning, Shasta. What a lovely sweater you’re wearing. That color suits you.”

I can tell Shasta wants to run over to him, throw her arms around his neck, and lay a big wet one on him, but she manages to control herself.

“Thank you. Blue’s my favorite color.”

“Mine, too,” says Michael, causing Shasta to furiously blush.

I’m not surprised. Making females swoon is his superpower.

Then Michael notices the bouquet of roses on my desk. He does a comical double take, blinking in surprise. “That’s quite the enormous bouquet. Is it your birthday, Joellen?”

It stings a little that he’d assume the only reason I’d ever get flowers is for a birthday, but who am I kidding? I don’t even get them then. “Oh, no, those are just from—”

I bite my tongue just in time. Then, frantically trying to think of how Mrs. Dinwiddle would handle this situation and remembering Cam’s suggestion that I should act “coy as shit,” I gaze fondly at the roses as if remembering a night of passion.

On a dreamy sigh, I say, “A friend.” Then I bat my lashes and look demurely at my feet.

When Michael is silent in the wake of my theatrical performance, I’m convinced I’ve made a colossal fool of myself. But when I glance up at him, he’s staring at the roses with a new expression.

An expression, if I’m not mistaken, like he wants to pick up the bouquet and smash it against the wall.

Michael looks at the roses. I look at Shasta. Shasta retreats into the safety of her cubicle, sinking slowly into her chair, eyeballing me like What the actual fuck? until her head disappears beneath the wall.

“I guess it didn’t turn out to be such a bad weekend for you after all.”

In response to Michael’s terse statement, I simply smile. Mona Lisa. Mona Lisa. Mona-effing-Lisa!

“Let me get rid of this for you, kiddo.” Denny breaks the weird tension as he grabs my old chair and rolls it out of my cubicle. He rolls the new one in with a triumphant, “Ta-da!”

“Thank you. That’s great. It looks very . . . ergonomic.”

You don’t have the brains God gave a flea, Joellen.

Then, right after my own voice in my head, Cam’s voice intrudes, full of disappointment under the brogue. Dinnae tell ye te stop that, lass?

I smother the thought before it can go any further, because the last thing in the world I need is the Mountain ganging up on me, too.

While Michael and I stand in awkward silence, Denny packs up the old chair in the box, tapes it shut, and loads it back onto the dolly. When he’s finished, he turns to me with a grin.

“Did I tell you the one about Bill Gates farting in the Apple store?”

“That will be all, Denny, thank you.”

Michael’s quiet but firm voice puts the brakes on the next phase of Denny’s joke, which I’m sure has something to do with the Apple store having no Windows.

Denny says, “Oh yes, of course. Sorry, Mr. Maddox. I’ll be off now.”

He’s gone with my old chair in seconds flat, leaving Michael and I staring at each other with the stupid bouquet of roses ogling us both. I wonder if McGregor has a listening device or a camera hidden in the foliage and decide I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Um, thanks for the chair. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else you need, Joellen. I want to make sure you’re well taken care of.”

Why does his voice sound so husky?

My eyes flash up to his, our gazes lock, and the heat in his eyes makes me feel like I’m channeling starlight and lightning bolts through my veins. A peep of surprise—maybe hysteria—slips past my lips.

After a rough throat clearing, Michael smooths a hand down the lapel of his jacket. “Well. I’m back to work. Have a good day.”

Before I can answer, he turns on his heel and strides away.

I watch him go, hope and confusion and longing churning in my gut, until Shasta says in a stage whisper, “Did someone drug my coffee, or was he flirting with you?”

I throw myself over the wall that separates us and stare down at her, crouched in her chair where she has obviously been eavesdropping, and stick out my arm. “Pinch me. I’m dreaming.”

Smiling, Shasta shakes her head. “Bitch, I’ll do more than pinch you. If Michael Maddox has the hots for you, I’ll punch you right in the face.”

Today is officially the best day of my life.

EIGHT

I float through the rest of the day on a hormonal high, smiling like a crazy person. I’m not even bothered when I encounter Portia in the ladies’ room, washing her hands at the sink, and she gifts me her trademark Glare of Death in the mirror.

Nothing can touch me. I’m invincible. I’m coated in love Teflon.

I’m also not disturbed when I get off the elevator on my floor in my apartment building and rap music blaring from down the hall instantly causes me to lose 5 percent of my hearing.

I pound on the Mountain’s door, still smiling.

When he opens up, my smile falters for a moment but then snaps back into place like it’s magnetized. “Cool skirt, prancer. You look groovy in plaid. When’re you going to invest in some shirts? You do realize it’s winter, right?”

He heaves a huge sigh and looks at the ceiling, as if hoping for divine intervention. “It’s a kilt, lass.”

Of course I know that, but I enjoy giving him the business because it obviously irks him to have his kilt disrespected by calling it a skirt. “What’s the difference?”

“What you wear underneath.”