Page 97 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“How nice! You work so hard, Joellen. You deserve to take a long lunch. I’ll speak to you later this afternoon. I just wanted to go over your current workload with you. It can wait. Gentlemen.” She nods at Michael, then at Cam, then leaves with a spring in her step.
I gape at her retreating back, convinced I’ve suffered a recent traumatic brain injury. There’s no way that just happened.
“C’mon, lass. I know how you get when you’re hungry.” Cam’s voice holds an undertone of familiarity that makes Michael’s mouth take on a ruthless slant. It’s an odd reaction and one I don’t like. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen his face be anything but beautiful.
Michael catches me looking at him, and the hardness in his mouth disappears as quickly as it came. He smiles. It’s so sweet I wonder if I didn’t imagine the whole thing.
“Have a great lunch. See you later. Mr. McGregor”—he turns to Cam with the same genteel smile—“it was a real treat to meet you.”
I hear the undertone of sarcasm, but if Cam does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His grin is wide and bright. “I get that a lot.”
Michael straightens his tie, obviously wishing it were on Cam’s neck instead of his own, with the loose end knotted around a tree branch. He turns and strides away.
I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Holy hell, McGregor,” I say shakily, watching Michael go. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Cam watches Michael go, too. “Sure I do. I’m wagin’ war.”
When I look at him, he winks. “If that prissy little peacock wasn’t in love with you before, he definitely is now. There’s nothin’ his kind hates more than a lower-class grunt gettin’ uppity and poachin’ his property.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, McGregor. Michael doesn’t think I’m his property.”
“Aye, lass, he does. The question is whether or not you’re gonna enjoy it when you find out what bein’ the property of a man like him is like.”
He grabs my handbag from my desk, slings it over his shoulder, and saunters away down the hall, leaving me no choice but to follow.
I ignore Shasta’s desperate hiss of, “Bitch, what the hell?” as I go.
We go to a little Italian place I’ve been dying to try that’s owned by a couple who met on a blind date and fell instantly in love. When we’re seated at the table, I sigh in happiness, looking around at the cozy, comfortable interior, a perfect replica of the Italian place the couple went to the night they met.
I find the whole story incredibly romantic. Tales of fated lovers are my Kryptonite.
“I love Italian food,” I tell Cam, petting the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth.
“I know.” He snaps a white linen napkin over his lap. When I look at him in surprise, he adds, “Mrs. Dinwiddle told me it’s your favorite.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m always trying to get her to try my lasagna, but whenever I suggest it, she looks at me as if I’ve farted in church.”
“The British aren’t exactly known for being adventurous eaters.”
“I’d hardly call noodles and tomato sauce adventurous.”
Cam smiles. “You’re not British.”
“You’ve got me there.”
“But pretty boy certainly is. He’d give the Prince of Wales a run for his money in the silk-pocket-square-and-stuffiness department.”
I smile at Cam’s dry assessment. “He’s just reserved.”
“Repressed, you mean.”
I roll my eyes and stuff a fluffy piece of bread, still warm from the oven, into my mouth. I moan at how delicious it is. It’s the first piece of bread I’ve had in what feels like forever. “Carbs are proof that God loves us, don’t you think?”
“I think Benjamin Franklin said that about wine.”
He watches me eat for a moment, until I become uncomfortable. “You’re staring.”
“I like watchin’ you eat. Your enjoyment of food is obvious. It’s not often a woman allows herself that pleasure in public.”
