Page 103 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Suddenly I’m filled with cold dismay. “That’s the day of the office holiday party. Are you still going to make it?”
His voice warms. “I wouldn’t miss it for t
he world.”
Oh God. This feels like a sign. “Okay. Um . . . maybe we can email while you’re gone? You know, just to keep in touch?”
“I’d like that,” he murmurs. “I’d like that very much. And Joellen?”
“Yes?”
“I’m so glad we finally got to talk.”
I whisper, “Me too.”
Mr. Bingley, tired of waiting for his dinner, makes a noise like he’s being skinned alive. I laugh like a crazy person, feeling high and loose and dangerously happy, like Icarus flying too close to the sun.
But I won’t think of what happened to that idiot. I end the call and feed my demanding animal, thinking only of how many days until I see Michael again and how many pounds lighter I’ll be.
Skinny body, skinny heart, skinny love be damned, I’ve got a skinny entrance to make into a holiday party, and God help the fool who tries to stand in my way.
TWENTY-SIX
I’m deep into an internet search of how to play squash when Cam bursts through the front door with a big bouquet of sunflowers wrapped in cellophane and tissue paper. He sees me at the coffee table on my laptop and grins.
“You’re lookin’ me up again, aren’t you, lass? Tch. It’s becomin’ an obsession!”
“Get over yourself, prancer. There’s a whole big world out there that doesn’t involve you. I’m trying to find out how to play squash. Who’re the flowers for?”
He looks left, right, then behind him. “Is there someone else who lives in this apartment?”
Surprised and touched, I stand. “They’re for me? Really?”
He shakes his head and sighs dramatically. “Christ on a crutch, Miss Snufflebottom, you’re hopeless. Take the bloody things before I smack you upside the head with ’em.”
I cross to him and take the huge bouquet from his arms. “These are my favorite.” Smiling, I touch the bright-yellow petals. “They always remind me of home. My mom got them fresh from the farmers market every Friday when I was growing up.”
“I know.”
I look at him, furrowing my brow. “Have you been going through my trash or something?”
He smiles. “Mrs. Dinwiddle enjoys a good gossip.”
I laugh. “True. But . . .”
He sees my confusion and takes pity on me. “It’s our last supper, lass. The occasion seemed to call for flowers.”
“That sounds uncomfortably biblical, but thanks.” I examine his face, fresh shaven and shining. “I see you discovered you own a razor.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “Aye. I was startin’ to appear a bit cavemannish.” His gaze drops to mine. “You fancy the proper pretty boy look, so I thought it bein’ a special night and all, I’d make an effort.”
“Scruff suits you better,” I say without thinking. “You’re way too manly to be overgroomed. All your rough edges are much more . . .”
Cam is grinning at me like a cat that just scarfed up a nice fat canary.
I huff out an aggravated breath. “Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter, and retreat into the kitchen to find a vase.
“No, I don’t think I will, lassie,” Cam drawls, following me. “At least not until you tell me how that sentence ends.” He sits at the kitchen table, threads his fingers behind his head, and beams at me.
