Page 10 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
When I turn around, Mr. Bingley is busy lovingly licking the place where his testicles used to be.
“Ugh. Men. Everything you are is between your legs!”
I console myself with the thought of Michael Maddox, who has more class in his pinky finger than that beast across the hall has in his entire body.
When I hear the beast’s door open and close again, I refuse to go to the peephole to get a look at the girl he shagged standing up, even though it nearly kills me.
FOUR
“What did the maxi pad say to the fart? You’re the wind beneath my wings!”
“Denny, it’s eight o’clock on Sunday morning, and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’m not mentally prepared for fart jokes.”
I enter the elevator at work with the enthusiasm of someone ascending the steps of the gallows and slump against the wall, bleary eyed. I had approximately two hours of sleep last night, thanks to the rap concert going on in Kellen’s apartment.
Twice I picked up the phone to call the police to make a noise complaint, and twice I hung up before going through with it. Despite my threats to Cameron, I really don’t like being cast in the role of the grouchy, fun-hating spinster who’s out to ruin everyone’s good time. Even if they are selfish idiots. So instead I slept with a pillow over my head, promising myself I’d invest in a pair of good earplugs in the morning.
I had more fitful dreams of Scottish warriors in battle, only this time they all wore tiny white bath towels around their hips.
I don’t allow myself to consider why all those bath towels had conspicuous bulges in front. I suspect that’s a topic for a trained therapist.
“What do you get when you eat refried beans and onions?”
I heave a sigh and close my eyes. “Denny. For the love of God.”
“Tear gas!”
Denny cackles like a crone at his own joke, while I stand with my eyes closed, pondering the life choices that have led me to this moment.
“Why don’t little girls fart? Because they don’t have assholes until they’re married!”
“Okay, that one’s a little funny,” I admit grudgingly, but only because I’m in a special man-hating mood.
“Yeah, that’s one of my wife’s favorites, too.”
Poor Phyllis. The woman is a saint.
The elevator spits me out on the thirty-third floor right in the middle of another fart joke, this one involving the pope. I say good-bye to Denny and trudge to my desk, expecting to be the only moron at work at the crack of dawn on a Sunday, but to my great shock, I’m not alone.
Michael Maddox stands at the wall of windows across from the cubicle field, gazing out into the gray December morning with his hands shoved into his trouser pockets and his proud shoulders rounded with an invisible weight.
I stop dead in my tracks. My heart leaps into my throat. All my nerve endings sit up and holler rr-ow!, like Mr. Bingley when he wants his dinner.
Michael looks like he might’ve slept in his clothes. His hair is rumpled, his shirt is wrinkled, his normally crisply pressed trousers are distinctly uncrisp. A shadow of stubble darkens his square jaw, and holy hell the man is beautiful.
I must make a little gurgle of lust, because Michael turns and sees me standing there, staring at him in a hazy, hormone-fueled stupor.
“Oh,” he says, startled.
Oh, indeed. How much drool must be coating my chin?
Flustered, I stammer, “I . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean t-to disturb you. I just . . . just . . .”
My lips aren’t working right. My brain is refusing to coordinate with my tongue, which sits inside my mouth like roadkill, trampled to death and gathering flies.
“You’re working again today?”
The universe, taking pity on how utterly pathetic I am, finally allows me the power of speech. “Yes.”
