Page 43 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Nodding, Cam folds his arms over his chest. “Aye. Looked him up on the company website. And I’ve gotta tell you, lass, that is one odd-lookin’ boy.”
“He’s not a boy. He’s a man! And he’s not odd-looking in the least! He’s classically handsome!”
“He looks like a doll. Only with less to add to a conversation.”
I laugh, because he’s being funny. “I see. And you think a ‘real’ man should look like what? A lumberjack? Someone with irregular access to a razor and a bar of soap?”
“I’ll bet you fifty dollars he uses a pore-reducing mask and slathers on expensive antiaging skin cream before bed every night.”
“Can I just point out at this juncture in the conversation that these observations are ridiculous coming from a man who apparently doesn’t believe in clothing himself from the waist up?”
I gesture to his chest, which is—as usual—bare. His legs are clad in a pair of faded blue jeans, slung low on his hips so the V of his abdominal muscles acts like a neon sign pointing toward the bulge in his crotch.
By now I’ve mastered the art of noticing his bulge without looking directly at it, a Jedi-level skill.
He brushes off my pesky logic with a hand wave and one of his classic Cameron McGregor self-love statements. “It’s impossible to find shirts that fit all these muscles.”
I shake my head. “Dude, you lift the definition of egomaniac to new heights.”
He grins at me. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“That’s what you think.”
I laugh again because the only other option is crying. “Moving on. Dinner’s in an hour. It will be better than my loaf and my pie. And one more thing, Tarzan. Wear a shirt.” I turn and head to my apartment, shaking my head at what he says next.
“I could, but you’ll probably only end up tearin’ it off me at the end of the night, lassie. Waste of a perfectly good shirt.”
He closes his door, chuckling. I go inside, smiling because I’ve had such a fantastic day and I’m about to make the Mountain a meal that will blow his socks off.
I don’t take the time to wonder why the second part makes me almost as happy as the first.
TWELVE
The moan coming from across the table would do a porn star proud.
“Sweet Jesus. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. That’s so bloody good. Ach, it’s like a party in my mouth. Like an orgy in my mouth! If I died at this moment, I’d be happy, because I would’ve finally discovered the meanin’ of life.”
Trying not to be too pleased by Cam’s extravagant praise, I allow myself a small smile. “The meaning of life is rigatoni carbonara?”
“No, lass. The meanin’ of life is rigatoni carbonara with homemade garlic bread, black-truffle gnocchi, and a weird fruity salad.”
“It’s a fennel, orange, mint, red chicory, pomegranate, balsamic, and extra virgin olive oil salad, not a ‘weird’ salad.”
/> Eyes closed, Cam waves his fork in the air like he’s the pope performing a blessing at mass. “Details. My point is that it’s pure braw. Pedro.”
“What’s ‘braw’ and who’s Pedro?”
Cam opens his eyes, and they’re sparkling with laughter. “It means ‘amazin’.’”
“You could’ve just said that.”
“I did!” He shovels another forkful of rigatoni into his mouth and winks at me as he chews.
“I’m glad you like it. But don’t expect this for the remainder of your bribery meals, because today we’re celebrating.”
“Oh yeah?” he says around a mouthful. “What’re we celebratin’?”
