Page 12 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Dear Jesus, just take me. Please just kill me now.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Overcome with the urge to slam my face over and over onto my desk, I nod like a bobblehead. “But he lives right across the hall from me, and I wouldn’t want to have to see him after that. He’d know it was me who snitched on him because I’ve already confronted him about it.”
A small, adorable crease forms between Michael’s eyebrows. “Are you worried he’ll retaliate? Is this guy some kind of thug?”
I know it’s only my imagination that makes Michael’s expression and tone of voice seem concerned, but my heart doesn’t care. It begins to beat wildly against my rib cage like it’s attempting to break out of prison.
My rabid badger smile makes a reappearance. “Well, he is a rugby player! Who knows what the guy is capable of!”
Joellen, you’re as useless as snake mittens.
But Michael seems to find truth in my ridiculous statement, because his eyes widen in alarm. “Good God, you live next to a rugby man? That’s like living next to a silverback gorilla! Definitely don’t confront him again, Joellen. Let the authorities handle it.”
“Really?”
He nods vigorously. “Believe me, I had my share of run-ins with the daft buggers when I was at Oxford. They’re animals. Animals who’re in love with themselves. Rugby players take the term egomaniac to a whole new level.”
I find myself nodding my head, too. “Yeah, that basically describes Cameron McGregor in a nutshell.”
Michael’s brows shoot up. “Your neighbor is Cameron McGregor?”
Why does he look so horrified? “Um, yes?”
“The captain of the Scotland national union team, the Red Devils? That Cameron McGregor?”
“Honestly, I have no idea what team he plays for—”
“Six foot six, messy brown hair, built like a skyscraper, covered in tattoos?”
“That sounds like him, yes.”
Michael pulls a face. “Christ. You might want to move.”
My heart sinks. “Oh God. That sounds bad.”
“I don’t know how closely you follow sports, but your neighbor is all over the papers, and usually not for his performance on the pitch. Bar fights, sex scandals, being drunk and disorderly in public . . . McGregor’s temper is almost as notorious as his women. The UK gossip rags call him Prince Pantydropper because of the sheer number of his conquests.”
Michael wrinkles his nose as he says the nickname, proving beyond a doubt that he’s a gentleman of the first order. Only a truly fine man of exceptional character would look down on the ability to cause a horde of women to drop their drawers.
“He’s well on his way to earning that title on this side of the pond, too,” I grumble, thinking of stand-up sex and strip poker parties. I’m afraid of what I’ll go home to tonight. The kiddie pool Jell-O wrestling match suddenly doesn’t seem so far-fetched. I sigh, shaking my head. “I hope I don’t run into him in the hallway again.”
“Steer clear of him, Joellen.”
Michael says that with thrilling firmness, with dominance, like it’s an order he expects to be obeyed. Why that should make my ovaries sit up and beg—tongues out, tails wagging—I don’t know, but Lord I wish he’d use that tone again.
Preferably while I’m bent over his knee with my knickers around my ankles.
Inspecting my face, Michael cocks his head. “Your cheeks just turned bright red. Are you feeling all right?”
“Yep. Peachy keen,” I say, my voice strangled.
Jesus? Satan? Aliens from outer space? Anybody who feels like claiming the life of a sad-sack copyeditor can step right up. Bonus points if you hurry.
“Did I say something wrong? I hope I haven’t offended you.”
Now he looks at me with alarm evident in his baby blues. It’s probably only because he’s my boss and he doesn’t want to get sued for sexual harassment, but for a moment I allow myself to simply bask in the pleasure of being the object of worry from a beautiful, elegant man.
Looking at my feet, I mutter, “Nothing you say could ever be offensive to me. I’m just . . .”
