Melt for You (Page 56)
“You’re talking about Sir Gladstone?”
Now his tone turns brutally bitter. “Aye. That worthless piece of shit. Thought he could run roughshod over anyone because he was rich. He treated his house staff like slaves, allowing them no voices or power, giving them no appreciation. Unless you were pretty, and then you got the kind of attention a broken soul can confuse with love. He used her for years, until a younger housemaid came along. Then he acted like he never knew my mother. She was replaced, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I saw the whole thing comin’, but she’d never hear a word spoken against him. She thought because he came into her room a few nights a week and let me play rugby with his spoiled fucking children, that meant he loved her. But he didn’t. And when she found out, it killed her. She went up to the roof and threw herself off without even tellin’ me good-bye.”
My face is crumpling. I can feel it, along with my heart thumping and my throat squeezing shut. “Oh, Cam. I’m so sorry.”
He looks away, drags a hand through his hair, exhales a hard breath. “Aye. Me too.”
He looks so wrecked, so sad and lonely, that I abandon the sunflowers and go to him. “Stand up,” I demand, tugging on his sleeve. “I’m giving you a hug.”
He stands, and I go up on tiptoe, throw my arms around his shoulders, and hide my face in his neck. He winds his arms around my back and straightens, so my feet dangle above the floor.
I resist the impulse to make a crack about how strong he is to lift my weight, and just breathe into his neck with my eyes closed, feeling his heart thumping against my chest and his arms like a vise around me.
“Promise me something,” he whispers into my hair.
“What?”
“No matter what happens with Michael, we’ll still be friends.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be friends.”
His sigh is a big gust of air. “God, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s probably not something you should say to someone with low self-esteem,” I tease.
He rests his temple against mine and sighs again, but this time it sounds impossibly sad. “Aye, but you know I say it with love, lass. Always with love.”
My face is starting to crumple again. I nod, unable to speak.
We stand there like that until Mr. Bingley decides it’s getting weird and starts batting at my dangling feet. Cam gently sets me down, and we spend the rest of the evening pretending the hug didn’t happen, eating dinner and talking and dancing around the word love that lingers like a ghost in the air.
TWENTY-SEVEN
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 15
Subject: Squash
In a meeting with the head of our European distributor, a man who makes watching paint dry seem fascinating by comparison. I’ve already had three cups of coffee just to try to stay awake. The only thing keeping me going is the thought of you in one of those tiny ruffled skirts on the squash court. The word flounce comes to mind. Among other things.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 15
Subject: Re: Squash
Terribly sorry about your meeting, but being the CEO can’t be all fun and games or it would be unfair, considering the obscene amount of money you make. I hate to disappoint you, but tiny ruffled skirts and I are not on the best of terms. Leggings, perhaps?
Hope all is well in jolly old England. You left at the right time: Denny has debuted his Christmas-themed fart jokes, to everyone’s delight. I had no idea the baby Jesus was so gassy.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 16
Subject: Leggings
You’re intentionally being cruel. Leggings are even more revealing than tiny ruffled skirts. I lost at least five hours of sleep last night picturing your bottom encased in Lycra.
How do you know how much money I make? Maybe I’m only doing this job for the perks. For all you know, I could be donating my time in hopes of catching sight of you in the office. Sharing a smile over the coffee machine. Having you ignore me so aggressively as you’ve been doing for the past ten years.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 16
Subject: Re: Leggings
Ha! You, sir, have a good sense of humor. I’ve attached a picture of my face right after reading your last email. Yes, that is an eye roll you’re seeing. It was so robust I might’ve pulled something. I don’t know how much you make, but I know your haircut costs more than my monthly grocery bill, and that’s a lot.
I haven’t been ignoring you. I’ve been admiring from afar. Go look up the word unrequited in the dictionary. You might be surprised to see a picture of me beside the definition.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 16
Subject: You’re killing me
Stop calling me sir. Not only does it make me feel like my grandfather, but also there’s a vaguely Fifty Shades of Grey/power exchange undertone that’s wreaking havoc on my nerves. If you tell me it’s intentional, I might have a heart attack. (But I’ll be on the next plane home.)
I don’t have to look up the definition of unrequited to know that it doesn’t apply to our situation. The word assumes feelings are unreturned.
“Barely contained” is a more accurate description, at least from my end.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 17
Subject: Re: You’re killing me
This is me responding to your email even though my mind is blank with shock due to your last sentence. And to think all these years I thought this affair was one-sided . . . sir.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 17
Subject: Re: Re: You’re killing me
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You’re lucky I’m more than three thousand miles away. Send me another picture.
M.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 18
Subject: WHERE IS MY PICTURE?
Don’t make me pull rank and threaten to have you written up for disobedience.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 18
Subject: As you requested
Being inexperienced in the art of sexting, here is a photo of my left foot. I think it’s quite flattering. Good lighting, etc. I tried to take a few more “risqué” shots, but the front-facing camera on an iPhone is designed to kill a person’s soul. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get back to see the goods in the flesh. So to speak.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 19
Subject: Arrgh
Front-facing cameras are not the only thing that are soul killing. Disobedient copy editors are up there, too. Although your foot is lovely—those arches, you must be very proud—I was hoping for a glimpse of something a bit more intimate. Kneecap? Inner wrist? Hip bone? Even an earlobe would be satisfactory at this point. I had no idea how accustomed I’d grown to seeing you at the office. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve been gazing longingly at your eye-roll photo at night while I’m lying in bed.
Have you ever thought about getting contact lenses? Your eyes are so beautiful, but they’re a bit hidden behind your glasses. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like without them.
And a few other articles of clothing.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox