Melt for You (Page 55)

“You’re getting close to serious bodily injury. Be quiet.”

His laugh is delighted. I glance over at him and am struck by how different he looks now than he did in all those pictures I saw of him on the internet. He looks happy and at ease, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he belongs right there in that chair at my kitchen table.

“How come you never smile in photographs?”

His laugh dies, his smile fades, and his eyes take on a strange hardness. I sense I’ve stepped into a minefield, but I’m already here. Might as well jump right in.

“I mean, I see you smiling and laughing all the time, like you are right now, but in pictures you always look kind of . . . miserable.”

Silent, Cam looks at me for what feels like a long time. Then he says, “You can’t really be that naïve.”

His gruff tone surprises me, as do his words. “What do you mean?”

“I mean spend a little time thinkin’ about what you just asked me, woman, and you’ll find your goddamn answer.”

I refuse to be intimidated by him, and send the same fuming stare he’s sending me right back at him. “Why are you mad at me? You said I could ask you anything!”

Our gazes clash like swords, but he’s hurt my feelings, so I won’t be the first to look away. I haven’t done anything but ask an innocent question. It’s not my fault his moods change faster than the weather.

“Ah, lassie.” He scrubs his hands over his face. His low chuckle sounds impossibly sad. “You’ll be the death of me.”

“Yeah, maybe, if you keep acting like a dick. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got pruning shears in my hand.”

He starts to laugh, low at first, building on that sad chuckle, but then he’s into full-blown guffaws, his head thrown back, one fist pounding the table.

“You’re so friggin’ weird,” I grumble, and continue arranging the sunflowers.

“And you can’t see past the end of your nose, but here we are anyway.”

“You and your ambiguous statements are gonna be the death of me, prancer. Speaking of bad vision, I have a question.”

When I turn, I find him smiling. “Of course you do.”

“Do you think I should ditch the glasses?”

“For what, a monocle?”

“Yes, a monocle,” I say sarcastically. “They’re so in style. Can you be serious for a second? This is important.”

He arranges his face into a semblance of sternness. “Aye. This is me bein’ serious. You can tell by my forbidding brow.”

When I just stare at him with a sour look, his fake serious expression is killed by another dazzling smile.

“Okay, okay. Don’t put a hex on me. The question is if I think you should ditch your glasses?”

“That is the question.”

He cocks his head, purses his lips, and takes so long examining my face I begin to blush.

“Take a picture, prancer, it’ll last longer,” I mutter, embarrassed.

“I’m tryin’ to decide how to phrase somethin’ so it won’t offend your missish nerves.”

“Missish? Is that even a word?”

Cam looks smug. “Oh, the fancy editor lady hasn’t heard of it?”

When I continue to glare at him, he relents. “It means demure. Squeamish. Prudish.”

“You’re calling me a prude?”

Mischief glints in his eyes. “No man who’s ever kissed you would call you a prude, darlin’. What I’m sayin’ is that you’re highly sensitive about your looks. One misplaced word and you’ll be locked in your room makin’ a list of all the ways you think you’re ugly.”

I have to take a moment to absorb that.

The first sentence might’ve been an incredible compliment, or he could’ve meant there are far worse adjectives than prude that men who’ve kissed me would use to describe me. Like ghastly or sickening, for example.

Then there’s his observation that I’m sensitive about my looks. Though I probably wouldn’t lock myself in my room to make a list of all the ways I’m ugly, I can easily see myself doing it at the kitchen table. In fact, I’m sure there’s a piece of paper somewhere in my apartment titled Things to Improve On that itemizes “cankles” and “weird moles” among my shortcomings.

Which means Cameron McGregor has my number. If I’m being honest with myself, he has from the start.

“Don’t break your brain overanalyzin’ that, Joellen,” says Cam drily.

“I can’t help it. My brain is set to think things to death.”

He quirks his lips. “You don’t say?”

I close my eyes, sigh, and hear him chuckle.

“All right. Here’s what I think about you ditchin’ your glasses.”

I open my eyes and wait for him to continue, chewing my thumbnail in nervousness.

“I don’t think you should do it.”

Am I relieved? Or disappointed? Annoyed? Lord, the man twists me up like a pretzel. “I have contact lenses, but I never wear them because they make my eyes red.”

“Thank you for sharin’,” he drawls. “Ask me why I don’t think you should get rid of your glasses.”

“Why don’t you think I should get rid of my glasses?”

“Because they make you look smart, and sexy, and like you don’t give a fuck, which is also sexy.”

“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. He called me sexy again. This is becoming a thing.

“I wasn’t finished.”

That sounds fairly ominous, so I start to chew my thumbnail with renewed vigor.

“The main reason I don’t think you should get rid of them is because you prefer them. If you didn’t, you’d wear your contacts or get laser surgery. But you like your glasses, so that’s what you should wear.”

“But . . . don’t most guys think they’re dorky?”

“The number of fucks you should give about what men think of how you look is zero, lass. Every choice you make about your appearance should be about what makes you feel good, not what makes some random lad—or your mother—think you’re cute. Don’t set aside your preferences for anyone.”

He’s deadly serious, all traces of teasing gone. I’m not sure how to respond to this sudden change of mood, but he’s not finished talking.

“And another thing. Learn to stop saying ‘Sorry,’ and say ‘Don’t interrupt me.’ Learn to say ‘No’ and ‘None of your business.’ Learn to be unapologetic for who you are and what you like and the opinions you hold. I know you think that if other people considered you beautiful, all your problems would be solved, but you’d just have different problems. And they’d all still revolve around the fact that deep down, you don’t think you’re good enough. That’s a lie you learned, and you can unlearn it, but it has to start with you. You have to decide to accept yourself. It’s cliché, but you really do have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.”

He pauses to inhale a slow breath, his eyes burning. When he speaks again, his voice is low.

“My mother was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but she killed herself over a man who wasn’t even worthy to breathe the same air she did. Total fucking waste. All because she didn’t think she was good enough. A lie life pounded into her that she never unlearned.”