Page 51 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
More rustling. He might be sitting down. I imagine him in his office, staring at the floor, looking all sorts of beautiful and tormented.
He begins haltingly, like he’s forcing the words out against his will. “You know . . . that I’m . . . getting divorced.”
“Yes.”
“And . . . also that . . . I’m the CEO of this company.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re . . . my employee . . . who has recently applied for a promotion.”
I can’t answer because euphoria has frozen my tongue, but my heart is screaming YES! YES! YES!
“So this is . . . complicated.”
I shoot to my feet, blind to anyone or anything around me, a death grip on the phone, my soul about to rip itself from my body. I listen for what he might say next with the terrified focus of someone waiting for the verdict from a jury in her murder trial.
“Are you still there?”
“I’m here.” My voice is shaky, but I don’t care. A nuclear bomb could go off in Lower Manhattan and I wouldn’t care.
Sounding miserable, Michael sighs again. “I’m sorry. I’m putting you in a terrible position. I’m being an idiot. I never should have opened my mouth.”
Too late. He’s opened Pandora’s box now, and all the devilish little creatures are running amok, screaming in glee throughout my reproductive organs. “You were going to kiss me, weren’t you.”
It’s a statement, not a question, because now I’m sure it’s true. I might have been able to convince myself it was my imagination before this conversation, but things have drastically changed.
“I should go.”
“Michael. Tell me.”
There’s a long, cavernous silence, then Michael whispers, “Yes.”
He hangs up.
I lift my arms in the air, thro
w back my head, and let out a victory whoop so loud everyone in the cubicle maze stops what they’re doing and stares.
From behind me comes Shasta’s irritated voice. “Bitch, what the hell is wrong with you? People are busy doing nothing around here—be quiet!”
I start laughing and can’t stop.
Michael Maddox was going to kiss me.
I can’t wait to get home to tell Cam.
FOURTEEN
I stop at the corner market on the way home to pick up a good bottle of wine, because I’m celebrating. The signs of Christmas are everywhere. Shop windows twinkle with colored lights, a soft dusting of snow covers the ground, holiday music plays from every loudspeaker, fake Santas panhandle on corners for charity, aggressively ringing bells in people’s irritated faces.
It all seems magical. I’m feeling the holiday spirit like I’ve never felt it before, simply because Michael’s lips had the intent to press against mine.
Never mind that they actually failed to do so. It’s the thought that counts. If it weren’t for that witch Portia, I’d be celebrating tonight with Dom Pérignon instead of a decent Napa cabernet.
I’m opening my apartment door when I hear Cam’s voice. It’s muffled behind his own door but still easily discernible.
“Because I don’t bloody want to come back early, that’s why!”
