Melt for You

“Would you be interested?”

The only thing I’m more interested in is tearing off all your clothes and tackling you, sir. I manage to sound like a rational human being when I say, “Yes. I would.”

“Obviously the position is at a higher pay grade, Joellen,” says Ruth, “so since you’ve been approved for a raise, if you got the job, you’d get a bump from the starting salary to reflect your raise.”

I’m deeply regretting killing the chair, because I really need something to sink into right now. The floor doesn’t seem a good choice, so I lean against the wall and try to regulate my breathing so I don’t sound like a pug with sinus problems.

“That’s amazing news.”

Portia snaps, “You have to apply for it, like everyone else!”

Michael frowns at her harsh tone, and I’d like to smear peanut butter all over his naked body and take a weekend licking it off.

Ruth, practiced with alleviating tension in the workplace, intervenes before Portia can beat me to death with the ruined chair. “Of course. All the proper protocols must be followed. But you have seniority, Joellen, and an exceptional work record, and I encourage you strongly”—her pointed stare is that of an accomplice—“to apply.”

Portia shoots to her feet, and the temperature in the room drops by several degrees. “As the editorial director, the final selection will, of course, be mine.”

Then a miracle occurs. The clouds part, a ray of golden light shines down, and a halo appears over Michael’s head. He says, “Technically, Portia, the final selection is mine.”

I hold my breath as they stare at each other. Portia backs down first, her lashes sweeping downward in defeat. “Yes, Mr. Maddox. Of course.”

Michael inclines his head, a kingly gesture, and I almost pant with lust.

He’s a god. He’s a beautiful, benevolent, witch-slaying god.

He turns to me with a smile that could end all wars. “I’d like to see your application by the end of the week.” He nods at Ruth and Portia. “Ladies.”

Then he turns and leaves, taking my heart with him.

Ruth says brightly, “Well! I think we’re done here! Joellen, you can go back to work. I’ll bring the application by your desk later today.”

She’s almost as happy about Portia’s comeuppance as I am, and I realize I have a friend in the human resources department. When Portia stalks out of the office with a huff, Ruth grins at me.

I think it says We big girls have to stick together.

So of course I grin back, because it’s true.

The rest of the day is a blur. I float through it as if on clouds, marveling at my good luck. It’s been my aspiration since childhood to be a senior editor at a major publishing house, and with a step up to associate editor, it’s finally within reach. Getting to champion outstanding manuscripts, helping new authors be discovered, bringing literature and beauty into a culture-starved world . . .

Some people want to be rich or famous. I want a stable of rock star authors crediting me for their success in the acknowledgments sections of their novels. Books have been my passion since I discovered Harriet the Spy when I was a little kid. From there reading became an obsession. I tore through everything from the Nancy Drew mysteries to Lolita, which my horrified mother found hidden under my bed.

She wasn’t horrified because of the risqué nature of the book—not being a reader herself, she had no idea what it was about—but because it was a year overdue at the library. I checked it out and never returned it, a habit that would one day culminate with an official from the local library knocking on our door and demanding the missing books—by that point there were dozens—or payment of the fines.

I paid the fines with cash I’d saved from babysitting jobs. Even then, books were far more precious to me than money.

When I get home that evening, there’s a clean platter and meat loaf pan sitting outside my door, with a note in the Mountain’s neat printing.

You were right. It was delicious. Your loaf is even better than your pie.

I’m sure there’s nothing that can top it.

I smile, because I know a challenge when I hear one. And even though I won’t be taking a bite of anything I make for him, I’ll be damned if I’ll let the man have the last word.

I cross to his door and knock. He opens so quickly he must’ve been standing right next to it. “Oh. Hi.”

“Hi yourself, lass. Why’re you blinkin’ like a startled baby bird?”

I look both ways down the hallway. “Were you expecting someone?”

“You mean someone other than you?”

“Well, yeah.”

He stares at me for a while with a squinty look, like he can’t figure me out. “Y’know, lass, for a bright girl, you’re bloody dense.”

“Aha. That explains everything, thanks. And by the way, why do you use the word bloody to describe things that have nothing to do with blood?”

“Why do you use the word gorgeous to describe a man who’s had so much plastic surgery he looks like he was created for Madame Tussauds wax museum?”

I rear back in disbelief. “Are you referring to Michael Maddox?”

Nodding, Cam folds his arms over his chest. “Aye. Looked him up on the company website. And I’ve gotta tell you, lass, that is one odd-lookin’ boy.”

“He’s not a boy. He’s a man! And he’s not odd-looking in the least! He’s classically handsome!”

“He looks like a doll. Only with less to add to a conversation.”

I laugh, because he’s being funny. “I see. And you think a ‘real’ man should look like what? A lumberjack? Someone with irregular access to a razor and a bar of soap?”

“I’ll bet you fifty dollars he uses a pore-reducing mask and slathers on expensive antiaging skin cream before bed every night.”

“Can I just point out at this juncture in the conversation that these observations are ridiculous coming from a man who apparently doesn’t believe in clothing himself from the waist up?”

I gesture to his chest, which is—as usual—bare. His legs are clad in a pair of faded blue jeans, slung low on his hips so the V of his abdominal muscles acts like a neon sign pointing toward the bulge in his crotch.

By now I’ve mastered the art of noticing his bulge without looking directly at it, a Jedi-level skill.

He brushes off my pesky logic with a hand wave and one of his classic Cameron McGregor self-love statements. “It’s impossible to find shirts that fit all these muscles.”

I shake my head. “Dude, you lift the definition of egomaniac to new heights.”

He grins at me. “Thank you.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“That’s what you think.”

I laugh again because the only other option is crying. “Moving on. Dinner’s in an hour. It will be better than my loaf and my pie. And one more thing, Tarzan. Wear a shirt.” I turn and head to my apartment, shaking my head at what he says next.

“I could, but you’ll probably only end up tearin’ it off me at the end of the night, lassie. Waste of a perfectly good shirt.”

He closes his door, chuckling. I go inside, smiling because I’ve had such a fantastic day and I’m about to make the Mountain a meal that will blow his socks off.

I don’t take the time to wonder why the second part makes me almost as happy as the first.