Page 17 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Scandalized but trying not to laugh, Mrs. Dinwiddle whips the Chinese silk fan from a pocket of her mink and almost sprains her wrist fanning her face.
“Ha,” I say sourly. “You have all the charm of an open grave, McGregor.”
“Tch. Just admit it. You’re in love with me.” He bumps me with his elbow, and I send him a look designed to melt his face.
“Love? Hardly. If you were on a life support machine, I’d unplug it to charge my phone.”
Cam laughs, leaving me confused as to why he seems to like it so much when I insult him. My confusion is overtaken by a wave of horror, however, when Mrs. Dinwiddle rejoins the conversation.
“I’m sure she would fall in love with you, Cameron, but she’s already in love with someone else.”
“That so? Who’s the lucky man?” drawls Cam, playing along, thinking she’s joking, because obviously no man in his right mind would have anything to do with the likes of me.
I scramble to backtrack, making desperate googly eyes at Mrs. Dinwiddle so she’ll take the hint to shut up. “No one! She’s kidding. I’m not in love with any—”
“Her married boss!” crows Mrs. Dinwiddle, leaning toward Cameron with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. Like I’m not even standing right here. Like my deepest, darkest secret is fabulous conversation material with the beefy baller she only just met.
I’m not a violent person, and I especially would never condone violence against the elderly, but Mrs. Dinwiddle is in imminent danger of getting bitch-slapped.
Cam’s whole demeanor changes. He looks shocked, his smile falling away and his eyes widening. “You’re having an affair with your married boss? And you’re judging me?”
“I am certainly not having an affair!” I huff, indignant. “I’d never do such a thing!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle says sadly, “He doesn’t know she exists, you see.”
“Okay, visiting time at the zoo is over. Good-bye, people.” I try to usher them both out the door, but Cam won’t be budged, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is too busy downing the rest of her martini to notice my dismay.
“Hold on. Explain this to me.” Cam turns to me with new interest. “So you’re in love with this guy—who’s married—but you’ve never gotten together with him . . . because he doesn’t know you exist?”
I grind my back teeth together. “You make it sound like the only reason I haven’t committed adultery is because he hasn’t noticed me.”
“It’s not adultery on your part if you’re not married, Ducky,” chimes in Mrs. Dinwiddle, who has a rather “educated” opinion on the matter.
“Ugh. Semantics! My point is that even if Michael were all over me, I’d never do anything with a married man! It’s just . . . unrequited. He doesn’t know how I feel about him. But even if he did, I’d never cross that line.”
Cam examines my face with narrowed eyes. After a moment, apparently satisfied I’m telling the truth, he pronounces, “That’s a sad story, lass. No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood every time I see you.”
“I’m in a bad mood every time I see you because I’m seeing you,” I say sweetly. “And it’s not that sad a story, because I found out today that he’s getting divorced.”
When they stare at me in silence, I feel a little defensive, like they think I’m fibbing. “And he asked me to save him a dance at the office holiday party.”
Cam’s brows climb so far up his forehead it looks like a party trick. “The plot thickens!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle squeals and bounces on her toes. “Indeed ! Now will you let me give you that makeover, Ducky?”
“Just out of curiosity, why do you call her Ducky?”
Mrs. Dinwiddle makes a regal sweeping motion with the fan to indicate my appearance. “Because she insists on remaining an ugly duckling, my dear, when she could so easily become a swan.”
Cam turns to me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve seen in my life. “Aw. Ducky.”
Wow. If this is Karma, she put on spiked boots before she started kicking my ass.
SIX
A few minutes later, Mrs. Dinwiddle has left to refill her martini, and the Mountain and I are in my kitchen, waiting for the accursed shepherd’s pie to finish baking so I can evict him and get back to planning my transformation.
Or hunger strike, in other words.
