Melt for You
When I cock a brow, he smiles. “Ask me what I’m wearin’ underneath.”
“I feel like this is a trick to get me to look at your junk.”
He looks insulted. “My ‘junk’? Cameron McGregor doesn’t have ‘junk.’ He has family jewels, thank you very much.”
I bypass the ridiculous way he refers to himself in the third person. “Yeah, well your family jewels can stay safely under your skirt, buddy, because I’m in too good a mood to deal with a random penis sighting, thank you very much.”
He lifts the edge of his kilt a few inches and grins, waggling his eyebrows. “You sure? It’s a life-changin’ event, I promise you, lass.”
I snort. “No doubt, but I don’t have the cash to bankroll the long and expensive relationship with a psychotherapist that seeing you naked would necessitate.”
“Aha! You admit it would blow your mind!”
“I admit that I’ve seen people like you before, but I’ve had to pay an entry fee at the circus to do so.”
He purses his lips and looks me up and down. “Just make it easier on yourself, darlin’, and admit you’re wild for me and are dyin’ to bring a few dozen little McGregors into the world.”
“You’re delusional.”
“You’re massively in love with me.”
“I’m massively in dislike with you.”
“You’ve finally figured out I’m the real man of your dreams.”
“I’ve finally figured out how you got here. Someone left your cage door open.”
We grin at each other while the stupid rap music blares into the hallway, eroding my hearing another few percent.
“You look awful cheery, lass. Did your lingerie store have a sale on beige granny panties?”
Not even that little zinger puts a dent in my good mood. “I just wanted to tell you that you’re a genius. I think the roses worked.”
The grin wipes from his face like someone took an eraser to it. He steps forward into the hall, forcing me to step back to accommodate him, and stares down at me.
“Aye? What happened?”
I blink up at him. “Whoa. Your ability to go from harmless flirt to serial killer is mutant, you know that?”
“Don’t kid yourself. I’m never harmless.”
He says it while staring me in the eye, a vein throbbing in his temple. A little shiver runs up my spine. It isn’t fear, but I’m not sure what it is. Honestly, I don’t want to know. This guy is a single shady chromosome away from turning into the Hulk.
“Okeydokey. You’re never harmless. Congratulations on being a psychopath. By the way, why’s your music so loud? You said, and I quote, ‘Your pie for my silence.’ That ear-splitting noise is hardly silence.”
He folds his arms over his chest and peers at me down his nose. Honestly, the man is pretty intimidating when he does that. Now I understand why biceps are sometimes referred to as “guns.” He’s got a pair of howitzers on him, locked and loaded.
“That pie you made me yesterday bought my silence yesterday. You want more silence today? I want another pie.”
I gasp in outrage. “You never said that! You can’t change the rules after we made an agreement!”
“Cameron McGregor can do whatever he likes, lass.” He steps backward and makes a move to close the door.
“Wait!”
He gazes at me with hooded lids, waiting.
“I don’t have the ingredients for another shepherd’s pie, but—”
He closes the door in my face.
I pound on the door, shouting, “But I can make you my grandmother’s meat loaf, you big jerk! It’s even better!”
There’s a pause, then the music lowers slightly. The door cracks open, and Cameron eyes me through the space. “Meat loaf?”
“Yes,” I say, seething. “Meat loaf. A loaf made of meat. It’s friggin’ delicious.”
The door opens another inch. “What kind of meat?” he asks dubiously.
Oh, for the love of God. “Ground turkey.”
He wrinkles his nose like Mrs. Dinwiddle does, and I have to swallow the growl in my throat because I really don’t want to hear his sucky rap music all night.
“It’s fluffy, juicy, and comes with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy. Do you want the dang thing or not?”
He pretends to think, tapping his chin with his finger, and I’d like to kick him in his blasted family jewels.
“All right.” He solemnly nods. “I accept this loaf of meat you offer. But if I discover that you’ve exaggerated its claims of greatness, our deal is null and void.”
My nostrils flare as the urge to commit murder boils in my veins. “I’ll show you null and void,” I mutter, turning my back to him and stomping across the hall, my happiness evaporated. I dig violently through my purse for my keys. As soon as I get the door open, the music cuts off abruptly, then a door slams and Cameron McGregor pushes past me into my apartment.
I watch helplessly as he lowers himself to my sofa and props his huge bare feet on my coffee table. “No, McGregor. No. Get out.” I point to the open door.
His smile is broad and satisfied. He laces his hands behind his head, which shows off all the muscles in his arms and abdomen and makes his tattoos ripple.
“You can tell me all about pretty boy Michael and what a genius I am while you cook.”
Then, because the universe hates me, Mr. Bingley jumps up on Cameron’s lap, curls up, and promptly goes to sleep. Cameron’s smile grows even wider.
I swing the door shut, willing his head to explode like a pumpkin. Unfortunately, I have no such luck, and his big dumb head remains intact.
“If looks could kill, I’d be stone dead, lass,” he says mildly, watching as I dump my purse on the console table in the foyer, shrug off my coat, and head toward the kitchen.
I say over my shoulder, “You’re the reason God created the middle finger.”
He laughs and keeps on laughing, an irritating sound that can be heard over all the clanging of pots and pans as I dig through the cupboard for the loaf pan. Once it’s in hand, I slam it on the counter and head to the refrigerator.
“I’m happy you find me so amusing.”
He abruptly stops laughing. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.”
Oh, sure. Fat is probably the word, right? I try out Portia’s Glare of Death on him. “You know, I was in a really good mood before I got home.”
“Because my roses worked. By the way, you’re welcome.”
My back teeth are in danger of shattering, I’m grinding them together so hard. But he has a point. “Well . . . yes. And thank you. How much do I owe you for that bouquet?”
“A week of shepherd’s pies. And/or loafs of meat, if this one turns out to be acceptable.”
He grins at the look of horror on my face, then shrugs. “It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what a Manhattan florist charges for one hundred roses, darlin’. But it’s up to you.”
One hundred roses? I do a quick mental calculation of what a dozen roses might cost retail, multiply it by eight, and wind up with a number so large it makes the blood drain from my face. And that’s not including tax and delivery.
But I’m quick to clarify terms because he’s a dirty deal changer. “That includes no music for a week, too, though, right?”