Page 18 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Cam sits at my kitchen table with Mr. Bingley in his lap, absentmindedly stroking the cat while watching me, taking up far too much space for a single human being. The man has an atmosphere. His gaze has actual weight, like a touch. It’s unnerving. Like one of those haunted oil portraits, his eyes follow my every move.
“Stop staring at me—you’re freaking me out,” I grouse, watching the timer on the oven and willing it to speed up. Only a few more minutes to freedom.
“How long have you been in love with your boss?”
“None of your business.”
“Oh, c’mon, you can tell me, lass. It’s not like I’ll ever meet the man. Besides, I go back to Scotland in a month when the new season starts, and you’ll never have to see me again. Get it off your chest.”
I shoot him a glare, then go back to staring at the oven. “Why do you care, anyway?”
I hear the shrug in his voice when he answers. “I don’t really, but I guess I can’t understand why a woman would waste her time pinin’ over a man who doesn’t want her when she could be focusin’ on findin’ one who does. And—forgive me—especially at your age.”
I’m too depressed to be insulted. “God, you sound exactly like my mother.”
I’m not looking at him, but nonetheless feel his gaze sharpen. “So you’ve talked to your mother about this. Which means it’s serious and has probably been going on for years.”
Exasperated, I throw my hands in the air. “How on earth would you know what it means?”
“I know women.”
I don’t have a pithy comeback for that, because it’s obviously the truth. He says the words with no bragging or smiles, just a simple statement of fact, backed up by the thousand pairs of panties he probably has stuffed into his closet as souvenirs.
“Fine. Yes, it’s serious and has been going on for years.”
“How many years?”
I stare at him. “Are you writing a book or something?”
He chuckles. “Just gettin’ my facts straight. Answer the question.”
I can tell by his determined expression that he won’t give up until I tell him what he wants to know. So . . . what the hell. I draw a breath and admit, “Ten years. Since the first day I started working at my job. Since the first minute I laid eyes on him.” I say it in a muted voice, knowing how pitiful it sounds.
Silence follows. After a moment, I chance a look at Cam. He’s gazing back at me with an inscrutable expression, his brows drawn together, his head cocked to one side.
“And what,” he asks quietly, his eyes intense, “is so special about him that would make you flush a decade down the toilet?”
I glance away. Heat rises in my face, and I have to swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Aye, I would, lass. I understand obsession all too well.”
When I look at him again, arrested by the new tone in his voice, the darker, more complicated tone, he meets my stare unflinchingly. A flicker of something crosses his face—longing or loneliness, some bottomless despair—but it’s gone so quickly I must have imagined it.
I shift my gaze to the oven timer. Three minutes. Then I cross my arms over my chest, close my eyes, and decide on a whim to tell him the truth.
“He’s just . . . perfect. In every way.”
Cam sounds irritated by my dreamy tone. “Barf. Can you be more specific?”
“He’s educated. Cultured. Sophisticated. Kind. Brilliant. Gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous?”
I nod, keeping my eyes closed. “He looks exactly like Christopher Reeve in his Superman days. Heroic. Cleft chin and everything. And he’s a gentleman. His manners would put the queen of England to shame. And he dresses beautifully. And he knows all about literature, and opera, and ballet, and art—”
“So he’s gay.”
