Page 118 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
He looks beautiful, of course. Not a hair out of place. The suit is gorgeous. The shoes are buffed to a mirror shine. I’d like to light his face on fire and put it out with a shovel.
“Please.” He gestures for me to come out of the stall. Then he watches warily as I emerge, breathing flames from my nostrils.
I stand near the sinks and fold my arms over my chest. “You have exactly ten seconds to say your piece, and then I’m going to kick you in the balls. Go.”
A ghost of a smile lifts his lips. “It isn’t what it looks like.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Seriously? You expect me to believe that?”
“Just hear me out. I told you our divorce was amicable—”
“No. No, you did not tell me that. You said she was living in the house and you got a new place while the attorneys were working out the details. That was the extent of your explanation.”
He holds up his hands as if in surrender. “I apol
ogize. I should’ve made it clearer. Our divorce is amicable.”
“Yeah, we’re past that. Get to the important part where you’re attending the company holiday party together, looking all married and happy.”
His expression is pained. “My father thought it would be good for morale. You know, for the staff to see that things are calm and friendly between us. Many times in cases like ours, family companies are broken up in bitter divorces.”
When I stare at him, still unsure if he’s telling the truth but definitely sure I’m unimpressed that he’s taking daddy’s advice about his personal life, he adds wearily, “We don’t have a prenup. If Elizabeth wanted to, she could insist on the sale of the company so the proceeds could be evenly split between us.”
That punches a good-size hole in my outrage. “But the company’s been around for a million years! Way before you two were married!”
Michael nods. “Yes. It has. But since I took over as CEO, we’ve tripled in size, and so have our profits. She could argue in court that those profits are marital assets. I’d fight it, of course, but if I lost, I’d have to buy her out to the tune of more than one hundred million dollars. I don’t have that kind of cash. The only way would be to sell.”
I’m not sure how to react to that. I examine his face, but he seems sincere.
He takes a step closer. “Not to change the subject, but you look incredible.”
I know I should say something. All I come up with is a morose “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, taking another step closer. “I know it must’ve been a shock, seeing us like that. I honestly didn’t know until late this afternoon that she’d be coming.”
Plenty of time to pick up the phone. I huff out an aggravated breath.
He reaches out and strokes my arm, then takes another step toward me, so now we’re standing close enough that I can smell his cologne. And the bourbon on his breath, which is surprisingly strong.
“You really do look incredible,” he murmurs. “This dress is . . . wow. And your hair. My God, Joellen. You’re stunning.”
I fight a smile because I’m peeved, but his expression is too admiring to stay mad for long. “I’m glad you like it.”
He curls his fingers into my arm and pulls me closer. “I don’t like it. I love it. You’ve made me your slave.” He leans in and runs his nose along my jaw, raising the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Now if only you’d get rid of those glasses, you’d be perfect.”
That leaves me breathless. Stunned, like he just hit me across the face. I picture us sitting together at a breakfast table on some morning in the distant future. He’s reading a newspaper, ignoring me until I reach for another croissant, and then he slaps my hand, snapping “You’ve had enough.”
He’ll never think I’m perfect just the way I am. He’ll never tell me I’m a miracle. I’ll always have to fake it with him, trying to live up to some impossible standard, never able to relax and be myself.
A switch inside my head flicks from on to off, and just like that, I can’t wait to get out of here. “We should go. Someone could walk in any minute.”
“That only makes it more exciting, don’t you think?”
He sniffs my neck, making a low noise of pleasure in his throat. When he drags me against him, I’m startled to feel a bulge below his waist that probably isn’t his wallet.
“Whoa! Okay. Let’s cool it—”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about you while I was gone,” he interrupts, his voice deeper. He trails his lips down my neck, nipping every so often like he’s trying to taste me. Eat me. He backs me up until my bottom hits the sink and I can’t go any farther.
