Page 7 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Okay, I’ll give him this: the accent is hot. Those rolling Rs—whew! My ovaries are fanning themselves. But he’s obviously full of himself. And who answers the door half-naked? Twice!
A narcissist with terrible taste in music, that’s who.
I square my shoulders and force myself to look into his eyes. “Can you please turn down that music? It’s very loud, and I had to listen to it all night last night—”
He puts his hand to his ear and shakes his head, as if he can’t hear me.
Grr. I shout, “Can you please turn down the music?”
But he’s lost interest in what I’m saying and is now sniffing the air, leaning forward with his eyebrows furrowed and his nose up, like a hound.
“What’s that smell?”
In my haste, I left my apartment door open behind me. The scent of simmering lamb permeates the hall. “Shepherd’s pie!” I shout over the din. “Can you please—”
He walks right past me, crosses the hall, and waltzes into my apartment l
ike he owns the place.
“Hey!” I start after him but decide to run into Kellen’s apartment and switch off the music first. I’ve been in there a few times, so I know where the stereo is, and I quickly hit the power button. Merciful silence instantly follows. Then I scramble back to my place in a panic, frantic to throw a blanket over the mound of clean laundry I haven’t yet folded, which is strewn all over my sofa.
It’s a load of socks and underwear, of course.
I find the Mountain standing over my stove, eating out of the pan of lamb and vegetables with his fingers.
“Hey! What the heck is wrong with you?” I flutter around him like a butterfly around a lion, slapping feebly at his hands. “Get your paws out of my dinner!”
“They’re clean,” he says innocently, licking his fingers. “In case you couldn’t tell, I just got out of the shower.” Then he winks at me.
Winks. The man has obviously had one too many concussions.
I snatch the pan off the stove and stand in the middle of the kitchen, clutching it by the handle and glaring at him. “Could you please leave now? And keep the music to a dull roar? Other people live in this building besides you, you know.”
He licks his lips and runs a hand through his wet hair, which makes all the muscles in his arm bulge. I wonder how often he’s practiced that move in front of a mirror, the preening peacock.
“You’re not gonna invite me over for dinner? I could help you fold your laundry.”
I ked help ye fold yer londray.
He says it with a twinkle in his eye, and I enjoy a brief but satisfying fantasy of smashing the pan against his thick, conceited skull. Jamie Fraser from Outlander, he’s not.
“I’m Cameron, by the way. I’m stayin’ at my cousin Kellen’s for—”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off. Why won’t he leave?
“And you are . . . ?”
“Joellen. Nice to meet you. Good-bye.”
He glances around my apartment. “What, you don’t want to introduce me to your boyfriend?”
“What I want is to finish my dinner and not have a wet, half-naked stranger with more muscles than manners standing in my kitchen.”
Cameron’s grin comes on in full, dazzling, I’m-so-irresistible mode. “So you’ve noticed my muscles. And you don’t have a boyfriend.”
For a moment, I’m stupefied. Is he flirting with me?
Then I realize no, he’s not flirting with me. He’s teasing me. Because obviously a woman like me—big, bespectacled, alone on a Saturday night with her cat and a basket full of granny panties—doesn’t have a boyfriend.
