Page 79 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
heard. Crouching back down, I go into full-blown panic mode, complete with sweating palms and heart palpitations. “Oh God. What should I do?”
“Girl!” thunders Shasta, making me wince. “What you should do is tell me what the hell is going on with you and Cameron McGregor!” As I cringe and beg her to keep her voice down, she peppers me with questions, each more invasive than the last.
“How did you meet him? How could you keep it a secret? Are you two a thing? Is he amazing in bed? Oh, cripes, I bet he’s crazy in bed. Is he hung? You have to spill—oh! How long can he last? Is he freaky? I bet he’s super freaky, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows salaciously, and is about to continue her tirade, until a familiar voice interrupts and we both freeze.
“Ladies. Hard at work, are we?”
Shasta and I gulp and make guppy eyes at each other. Slowly, I straighten and turn to face the music, edging over a few inches in an attempt to block Shasta’s computer screen.
“Um. Good morning, Mr. Maddox.”
He glances at Shasta, hiding behind me, then at the screen, which I’m sure is still at least partly visible, then looks back at me. “Good morning.”
He answers smoothly, not a ripple of emotion in his voice, but his eyes are pinwheeling like a crazy person’s, which is how I know I’m totally busted. He already knows about the story.
Shasta offers a weak, “Hi,” then goes back to hiding behind my big butt.
“Joellen. I had a question about your application.” He looks at Shasta meaningfully, and I understand. “Walk with me.”
He turns and leaves without waiting for an answer, because of course he doesn’t have to wait. He’s the beautiful CEO, and I’m the lowly scullery maid who’d be happy to scrub his floors for all eternity for crumbs of his time and attention.
I lurch after him, sweating profusely.
His legs are long, and he’s set a strenuous pace, so it’s hard to keep up. It feels like we’re running from someone. I’m consumed with guilt for no other reason than it seems like I should be as we stride down the corridor at a breakneck clip.
“So you’re in the news.”
His voice is terse, his jaw is set, and his eyes are roving back and forth like he’s watching for incoming missiles. It makes me feel a little better that he’s uncomfortable, too.
“Um . . . yeah. How’d you hear about it?”
“Word gets around fast. Was he the date you said you had?”
“No!” I say, too loudly. “He’s my neighbor!”
Several people look at us from their cubicles as we storm past. He nods at one of them, ignores the rest. “So you said.”
I have no response to that, not understanding if it’s a challenge or what. Does he think I’m lying? “He’s just helping me with a . . . um . . . project. There’s nothing going on between us.”
We turn a corner, almost colliding with someone coming from the other direction, but quickly regain equilibrium and continue our strange walk-run, looking straight ahead.
“So you two made up?”
“Huh?” I am a sparkling fount of intelligence.
“His music. You said he was disturbing you with his music.”
“Oh. Right. That. Yes, we made up.” That sounds too lovey-dovey, like a lovers’ reconciliation, so I quickly amend it. “We called a truce, I mean. And then, uh, he needed help shopping for his, uh, girlfriend. In Scotland. For a Christmas present.”
For the love of God, Joellen, just stick your entire leg in your mouth and get it over with!
Michael adjusts his tie, yanking at it as if it’s strangling him. He’s in a beautifully fitted navy suit, his skin glows with health under the florescent lights, his face is clean shaven, and his hair is perfect. Everything about him is so perfect.
Too perfect?
Disturbed by my betrayal, I stumble on nothing but quickly right myself.
“Meet me after work for a drink.”
