Melt for You (Page 57)

Date: December 19

Subject: Something to tide you over

Attached is a pic of my earlobe. You’ll be in a kerfuffle trying to discern if it’s the left or right, I’m sure. Ah, the mystery. I am a master of seduction, am I not?

In other news, Portia apparently has a twin who does not breathe fire and snack on little children. I don’t know if she’s on new meds, but she’s been acting human recently. Come to think of it, since you left.

Contacts make my eyes hurt, though I was thinking of wearing them for the holiday party. I’ve even bought myself a new dress. It’s tight and red and makes my boobs look bigger and my waist look smaller. I’ve asked it to marry me, but it’s playing coy and not answering. Such is love.

From: Michael Maddox

To: Joellen Bixby

Date: December 20

Subject: Have I told you you’re irresistible?

From: Joellen Bixby

To: Michael Maddox

Date: December 20

Subject: You’ve used the word charming. Irresistible has yet to be introduced.

From: Michael Maddox

To: Joellen Bixby

Date: December 21

Subject: Consider it introduced.

And add captivating, delightful, adorable, funny, and bewitching to the mix. Honestly, there aren’t enough superlatives. You’re wonderful. And those arches! Those earlobes!

I can’t wait to see you again.

M.

From: Joellen Bixby

To: Michael Maddox

Date: December 21

Subject: Speaking of seeing me again . . .

Here’s an awkward but important question: we’re not really allowed to date, right? I mean according to company policy. I wanted to look it up in the online handbook but thought it might raise a red flag somewhere. Who knows how closely Ruth in HR monitors things. She could have a bot crawling the web for hits on “Can I shag the CEO without getting fired?”

So . . . can I?

From: Michael Maddox

To: Joellen Bixby

Date: December 21

Subject: Re: Speaking of seeing me again . . .

You’ll think I’m strange, but your last email gave me an erection. The thought of you sitting at your desk pondering what kind of dirty things we could do together without getting caught . . . dear God, here it is again. I wonder if I can type with one hand? (Sorry, inside thought.)

To answer your question seriously—yes, there is a company policy against romantic or sexual relationships between supervisors and subordinates. Unfortunately, as I’m the CEO, it could be argued that everyone is my subordinate. It’s a family company, but I still have to answer to the board.

Long answer short, it’s a big risk. I’ll be completely honest: we’re both looking at losing our jobs if we’re discovered. I will completely understand if you’re not willing to accept that risk.

I, however, definitely am.

Think about it. I’m back in a few days. I’ll see you at the party. You can let me know then. Either way, I’ve already informed HR that you’ve been selected for the acquisitions editor position. It won’t be formally announced until we’re back from after the holiday break between Christmas and New Year, so please keep it under your hat for now.

No matter what you decide about us, I’ll always wish you the best and be your friend.

Hopefully yours,

M.

TWENTY-EIGHT

“Holy cow,” I whisper, staring at the computer screen in disbelief. “I got the position!”

I leap out of bed where I’ve been sitting with my laptop, run through my apartment, and throw open the front door. I pound a fist on Cam’s apartment door like I’m the landlord and he’s three months late with the rent.

“Cam! Are you home? Open up!”

A muffled, “Comin’!” and then he opens the door, barefoot, wearing what appears to be a woman’s robe. It’s pink terrycloth, about ten sizes too small, edged in white lace at the wrists and collar.

“Um . . .”

“What?” He looks down at himself. “Oh, this? It was in Kellen’s closet. Looked comfy.” He shrugs. “It is comfy. “

“I admire that for such a big, manly man, you have very open ideas about gender-specific clothing.”

He scoffs. “Whoever made that rule that pink is only for girls is dumb. I’ll have you know, pink is very flatterin’ to my complexion.”

It actually is, but I don’t have time for this conversation. “Moving on—I got the promotion! You’re looking at the newest associate editor at Maddox Publishing!” I jump up and down in glee, doing a little skipping dance and waving my hands like a drugged-out mime.

“Really? That’s fantastic, lass! Good for you! You just found out?”

“Yes, Michael emailed me the news! I’m not supposed to tell anyone until after the first of the year when they make the formal announcement, but I had to tell you. Oh God, wait until my mother hears—she’ll freak out!”

“You told me before you told your mum?”

I stop jumping up and down and make a face at him. “Why do I feel like that’s going to be followed with a lecture about how much I’m in love with you, but I just don’t realize it yet?”

“Because you are, and you don’t.” He closes his door and ambles past me. “This calls for a celebration. You have any of that dark beer you bought for me left?”

He disappears into my apartment. I follow him, shaking my head at the picture he makes. No matter what he’s wearing—or isn’t wearing—the man doesn’t have an ounce of self-consciousness. “Your ego is your superpower, you know that, prancer?”

Cam flops onto my sofa, lies back, and crosses his legs at the ankle. He looks like an MMA wrestler wearing his daughter’s princess robe. “Oh, no, lass, that’s not my superpower.” He winks at me, grinning.

“You’re never gonna let me forget I saw you naked, are you?”

“I’ll forget it as soon as you do. So no, never.”

Ignoring him, I go into the kitchen, fish a beer from the fridge, pop the top off it, and pour it into a glass. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and head back into the living room. I give Cam his beer, then sit at the end of the sofa near his feet, crossing my legs under me.

“Why aren’t you dressed for bed yet?” He eyes my jeans and T-shirt. “It’s almost ten o’clock on a school night. You need your sleep.”

That makes me smile. “You’ll make a good dad someday, you know that? You’re bossy in a very sweet way.”

When he arches his brows at the compliment, I hold up a hand. “Not in love with you. Just making an observation.”

“Well, thank you. I’ve always wanted to be a father.”

“You have tons of time. What are you, early thirties?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t find out during your investigative research.” With an arm under his head, he takes a drink from his beer, watching me.

“Ugh. I only looked you up that one time, and I didn’t pay attention to your birth date. So—are you going to tell me, or is it a state secret?”

“I’m twenty-nine.”

I’m floored. He seems so much older. More mature. Twenty-nine is practically a baby! Suddenly I feel like Methuselah, nearly a thousand years old and counting.

“Uh-oh,” he says drily, examining my pinched expression. “She’s thinkin’. No good can come of this.”