Page 31 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
I wave that away because I want to get back to Michael. “So, what do you think it all means?”
“I think it means he likes you.”
Though I’m thrilled by the possibility that what he’s saying might be true, I know it’s not reality. “Much as I’d love to believe that, I can’t.”
“Maybe you should take my word for it, lass.”
“This from the man wearing nothing but a plaid skirt who insists I’m desperate to have his babies.”
Cam’s smile comes on slow and heated. “Aye. And what bonny wee bairns they’d be, too. Pretty little devils with their mum’s salty tongue.”
“Being around you is slightly exhausting, McGregor.”
“Only slightly? I’m takin’ that as a compliment, lass.”
I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Weakly at first, but then I give in to the hysteria I’ve been holding back all day, brought on by my morning encounter with Michael, and laugh with gusto, my head thrown back, pounding a fist on the table.
“You see?” Cam sounds smug. “You’re mad about me. Only a woman in love can laugh like that.”
Wiping tears from my eyes, I try to catch my breath. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby, weren’t you?”
“Not as a baby,” he answers softly, the smile fading from his face. “That came later.”
That statement shoots my laughter from the air like clay birds. I stare at him?he’s suddenly serious, his jaw tense?and wonder if I’m supposed to pretend he didn’t say anything or take it as an opening to delve into his personal life. And if I want to open this particular can of worms.
“I can hear the gears turnin’, lass,” he says, watching my face. “Don’t break your brain—just go ahead and ask.”
“Um. Sheesh. I don’t know where to start.” After a moment, I ask tentatively, “You . . . had a rough childhood?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t googled me.”
“Of course I haven’t googled you! Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m Cameron McGregor, that’s why.”
I have to blink at his casual delivery, like he takes it for granted that every person who comes into contact with him rushes to the internet immediately after they meet to discover all the intimate details of his background.
If I thought he had a big ego before, now I think it’s positively colossal. “Okay, not to be mean, but I literally had never heard of you until you moved into my building.”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be daft. Everyone’s heard of me.”
“Dude. You’re not Mick Jagger.”
“No, I’m much more famous and better-looking.”
“No, you’re not.”
He sits forward, dropping his casual demeanor for a challenging one. He stabs a finger at his chest. “You’re saying you think Mick bloody Jagger, that grizzled old Englishman, is better-looking than me?”
“Easy, tiger. Don’t get your skirt in a bunch. I’m saying you’re not as famous as Mick Jagger.”
He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at me down his nose like he so enjoys doing, making a clucking noise with his tongue. “You’re sadly misinformed, darlin’. I’m the most famous athlete on the planet.”
“Okay, number one, rock stars are more famous than athletes, hands down. And number two, you’re not more famous than Michael Jordan.”
He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m way more famous than Michael Jordan!”
“Maybe in your own mind, but here in the land of the sane people, you’re definitely not.”
