Page 44 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“I got a raise.”
Cam stops chewing.
“And there’s an associate editor position open, which the HR director encouraged me to apply for.” I beam at Cam as he swallows his mouthful of food.
It’s a moment before he answers. “Congratulations, lass. You deserve the raise, I’m sure.”
There’s something funny in his voice that gets my hackles up. “Why does that feel like one of those backhanded compliments I get on blind dates, like ‘It’s great that you’re not obsessed with how you look’?”
Cam takes a swallow of water from his glass before answering. When he does, he keeps his gaze on his plate of food. “Just seems a little coincidental is all.”
“How is it coincidental? I applied for the raise a month ago!”
His gaze flashes up to mine. “Uh-huh. And you’re gettin’ it the week pretty boy replaced your chair and I sent you roses.”
“God, you’re a buzzkill.”
“Just pointin’ it out. What’s the deal with the position that’s open?”
The memory of Ruth’s face when Michael stuck his head in her office gives me a moment’s pause, as does the odd way she cut him off when he was talking about Maria. At the time I was too busy being thrilled to notice how strange it was, but now . . .
“The girl who had the job left suddenly.”
As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s a mistake. Cam’s brows fly up. He leans back into his chair and pins me with a pointed look.
“McGregor, your imagination is almost as overactive as mine. There’s no conspiracy here, you big lug! It’s just an open position! People leave their jobs all the time!”
He stares at me without blinking. “Do they?”
The urge to smash his plate over his head is strong, but I’m still in too good a mood to go for it. “So this is interesting. I’m discovering new aspects to your personality every day. Giant ego, check. Fetish for tight leg wear and bad music, check. Ingrained suspicion of good luck and active paranoia, check.”
“It’s not paranoia if you’re right.”
“Let me get this straight.” I sit back in my chair, pushing my glasses up my nose so I can see him better. “Your theory is that Michael Maddox has targeted me . . . for career advancement?”
Cam lifts a shoulder and goes back to shoveling food into his mouth.
“You could make Mother Teresa go on a multistate killing spree, you know that?”
“You give the best compliments, darlin’. Get yourself a plate before I finish all this food.”
“I’m not eating.”
A wolf’s growl fills the kitchen.
“Be quiet, White Fang. You’ll frighten the neighbors.”
“Did you eat today?” he demands, inflating in that Wolverine way he has.
“Yes.”
He glares at me. “Besides the protein drink I gave you this mornin’?”
I purse my lips and inspect my cuticles.
Cursing under his breath, Cam shoves his chair back from the table and stomps over to my cupboards. I let him bang around for a few moments before telling him the plates are in the cupboard above the coffee maker.
More stomping, more banging, some aggravated huffing. It’s as if I’ve got a wildebeest roaming around in my kitchen. Then he’s at the stove, spooning pasta onto a plate with more force than necessary. He adds garlic bread and salad and sets the plate on the table in front of me with a clatter.
