Page 98 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
My cheeks heat. I swallow the bread as daintily as I can, fearing I look like some kind of farm animal at the trough.
Cam laughs at the look on my face. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s sexy.”
I’m filled with gratitude for the waiter, who appears at our table at that moment, allowing me to escape having to formulate a response to Cameron McGregor calling me sexy again. I doubt my brain has enough cells to tackle that one.
We give the waiter our drink orders. When he’s gone, Cam says, “So.”
“So.”
His smile comes on slow and heated. “D’you wanna talk about your little internet research project first, or pretty boy?”
I stuff another piece of bread into my mouth.
“Okay. Pretty boy it is. No, wait, first tell me who the woman was who stopped by your desk?”
“That was Portia.”
He lifts his brows. “She didn’t seem nearly as bad as you’ve made her out to be.”
“I know. It’s weird. She almost seemed human for a minute there.” I shrug, knowing I’ll never solve that particular mystery. “She was probably just dazed into acting like a person and not a witch because her brain was taking a nice warm dopamine bath brought on by standing three feet away from you.”
Cam’s eyes sparkle with laughter. “Oh? Is that what happens to females when I walk into a room?”
I wave a hand at him. “Oh, please, McGregor. You know the effect you have on women. It’s like you’re one of those magicians who does mass hypnosis tricks, making everyone in the audience crow like roosters.”
He gazes at me for a beat. “Not everyone.”
The waiter returns with our drinks: a water for me and a beer for Cam. He takes our food order and leaves, then Cam mercifully changes the subject.
“Pretty boy’s gonna ask you what the deal is with us, first thing he can.”
“I’ve already told him we’re just friends.”
“You’re gonna have to tell him again. But don’t get drawn into a long discussion about it. Wave your hand like you just did at me, and change the subject. If he insists, tell him that I’m not your type.” His voice darkens. “It won’t take much convincin’ for him to believe it.”
“Why do you say that?”
Cam takes a long swig of his beer, then looks out the window. “Because no matter how much money I have, I’m still just a jobby to him.”
“Jobby?”
“Trash. Unworthy to even be in his presence, much less earn the attention of a woman he fancies.”
I wonder how much of his opinion of Michael is due to his own experience living in Sir Gladstone’s home. I wonder how it was for him, growing up without a father. Knowing his father killed himself, knowing he beat his mother so badly she went into premature labor.
Whatever my parents’ faults, I always felt safe. Maybe not unde
rstood or completely accepted, but safe. Cared for. Wanted. I can’t imagine the kind of demons Cam has had to live with his entire life.
“Spit it out, lass.”
I glance up and find Cam watching me closely.
When I squirm a little under his intense gaze, he says softly, “I already told you, you can ask me anything.”
I busy myself with fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth because it feels too nosy to look at him. Or maybe I’m just a coward. It’s difficult for me to witness other people’s pain, and I think the conversation is about to take a very personal turn.
“I owe you an apology for assuming your life was all butterflies and rainbows. It makes me feel crappy that you probably get that a lot. Assumptions about who you are. Judgments.”
