Page 89 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
There’s a fraught pause, then he exhales. “Me neither.”
“Are you still mad at me?”
“I was never mad at you, lass,” he says quietly. “You bloody hardheaded woman.”
Thank God, we’re making up. I’m giddy. “Good, because if I had to listen to your music again, I’d throw myself out a window.”
He chuckles. “That’s a little dramatic, don’tcha think?”
“Plus I owe you two more home-cooked meals.”
“Is that right? You’ve been countin’?”
His voice is classic McGregor I-know-you’re-in-love-with-me smug. “So have you,” I shoot back playfully, “and don’t even try to deny it, prancer. My meat loaf is the best part of your day.”
“Aye, lass. Your loaf is almost as good as your pie.”
I smile, twirling the phone cord between my fingers. “Speaking of my pie, any requests for your last two meals?”
Cam’s voice changes, goes a little rough. “Well of course I want that pie, lassie. I love that pie. Sweetest thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.”
Heat flashes over my entire body. An image of his face when he broke the kiss on the couch floats into my head, and I squirm in my chair. A new subject is in order or I’ll need to change my panties.
“There’s a picture of us on the internet. A celebrity gossip site.”
He curses under his breath. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, and you don’t have to be sorry. I think it’s raised my cred around the office. The girl who sits next to me is treating me like I’m Beyoncé. And a couple of the guys in accounting said hi to me on the elevator. I think next they’re going to ask me to get your autograph.”
Cam sighs. “It’s not me the guys from accounting are interested in, you wee daft bugger.”
That makes me feel good. If I had a mirror in front of me, I’d be preening into it, petting my hair like a horse’s mane. “You’re very good for my ego, you know that?”
He snorts. “Well, you’re shit for mine, so at least one of us is happy.”
He’s unhappy? I don’t want him to be unhappy, especially not because of me.
“Don’t forget I called you beautiful, prancer.” When he doesn’t respond, I hurry on, worried he’s thinking I was lying. “I meant it, too. You’re like this big, gorgeous, mountain of a man, who also happens to have a great sense of humor and an excellent vocabulary. You’re a catch.”
His continued silence terrifies me. Just when I’m about to ask him if he’s still there, he says, “Sounds like I deserve a sonnet. We’ll call it ‘Mountain Man.’ What rhymes with enormous muscles?”
I laugh, relieved I didn’t just stick my foot into my mouth. “I already wrote you one. But it wasn’t about your muscles, it was about your eyes.”
As soon as it’s out, I want to commit seppuku with the metal letter opener in the pen cup next to the computer. I close my eyes and bang my head softly against my desk.
Cam lets me off the hook with an easy laugh. “Sure, lass.”
He doesn’t believe me. Thank God. Because what possible reason could I have to be writing sonnets about his eyes? There isn’t one. Not a rational one, anyway. It just . . . happened. I can’t be held responsible for the doings of my muse!
“Why’re you breathin’ funny?” asks Cam when I don’t say anything. “That pesky intestinal gas botherin’ you again? You want me to stop by the store and pick you up a few pairs of your charcoal panties?”
“Ha.” I swallow loudly, trying to get myself together.
“Wait.” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t tell me you really did write me a sonnet.”
My groan is the sound of someone watching a casket being lowered into the ground.
“Lassie. You know what happens if you lie to me.”
