Page 50 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
This is a disaster of Hindenburg proportions. It’s clear what Portia thinks Michael meant by eager and what she thinks I’m up to.
With one knuckle brush, I’ve become the office harlot, sleeping my way to a promotion I wouldn’t otherwise deserve.
My voice strangled, I say, “I’ll just be getting back to work now.”
I slink away, tail between my legs, skirting Portia with my gaze on the ground. As soon as I’m out of the kitchen, I break into a breathless run, headed back to my desk where I plan to spend the rest of the day designing myself various size scarlet As to wear on my clothing.
If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.
A few minutes before five o’clock, my desk phone rings.
“Joellen Bixby speaking.”
“Joellen, it’s Michael.”
My heart slams against my rib cage. I look around surreptitiously, as if Portia might be lurking around the corner of my cubicle, then sink into my chair and cover the phone’s mouthpiece with my hand. Why I suddenly feel like I’m in a spy movie, I don’t know.
“Um. Hello, sir.”
He sighs, and even that sounds beautiful. “Please, stop with the sir. Everyone calls me sir. It makes me feel like my grandfather.”
“Sorry. Habit. You being the CEO and all.”
Michael clears his throat. “Yes. About that.” There’s a short pause, then he exhales in a gust. “I’m sorry for what happened in the kitchen. That was inappropriate of me. I hope you can accept my sincere apologies. I clearly made you uncomfortable, and it was absolutely out of line—”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.”
Silence.
Strangely emboldened by his lack of response, I drop my voice to a whisper. “I mean, I was, but in a good way.”
Another exhale, this one longer and slower.
“You’re not saying anything.”
“I’m relieved.” His voice drops an octave. “And . . . really happy to hear that.”
I hold the phone away from my face and scream silently, kicking my feet up and down and bouncing in my chair like a lunatic. When I put the phone back to my ear, I dredge up every ounce of courage I have and ask him the $64,000 question.
“Why?”
After a nerve-wracking pause, his response is even lower than before. “You know exactly why, Joellen.”
My panties are curling off me like burning paper. My glasses are fogging like they did the first time I read Fifty Shades of Grey. My heart is in danger of exploding inside my chest.
I whisper, “No, I don’t. Tell me.” Who is this person? This bold, flirty person? A body snatcher has apparently consumed me.
I hear some rustling, the squeak of a chair, what sounds like footsteps echoing off tile. “What are you doing?”
“Pacing.”
He’s pacing. And his voice is rough. And he’s happy that I wasn’t uncomfortable in a bad way, but won’t answer when I ask why.
“Michael,” I whisper.
“Yes, Joellen?”
“What’s happening?”
