Page 48 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“I have a date,” I blurt so loudly Michael blinks.
“Oh?” His gaze flickers over me, up and down, head to toe, assessing. “Well, whoever he is, I envy him.”
My fingers curl so hard into the Formica counter I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. I attempt a coquettish laugh but end up sounding like I’m trying to expel a hair ball.
Michael must sense my impending mental break, because he cocks his head, his smile growing wider. “Do you mind?” he motions to the coffee maker directly behind me.
“Oh! Of course, sorry!” I leap out of the way and stand to the side, where I can admire his beauty from a safe distance.
Michael wordlessly holds out the mug of coffee I left on the machine. I take it with shaking hands, avoiding his eyes because all my nerve endings are pulsing with lust and I’m afraid he’ll be able to see it if we make eye contact.
He smells crisp and clean, like fresh linen. Like new one-hundred-dollar bills.
Busying himself with brewing his own cup of coffee, he says casually, “I reviewed your application for the associate editor position.”
I stop breathing. It’s a good thing I don’t have a mouthful of liquid because it would be all over his elegant suit right about now.
He glances at me from beneath thick black lashes. His blue eyes sparkle. A dimple flashes in his cheek. “Sonnets?”
Instantly, my face blazes with the heat of a thousand suns.
On the application was an area that asked for any additional information not included on your résumé that would be pertinent to your job performance. Special skills, relevant hobbies, any experience outside your formal education or work history that might give you an edge. On a whim, I’d listed the only thing I thought might fit, this being the publishing industry and all.
I write sonnets as a hobby. Classically structured, Shakespearean-style sonnets, because I am a pathetic human being with a nonexistent love life who will someday die alone surrounded by my cats.
Looking at my shoes, I mumble, “Um. Yeah.”
“It’s all right,” says Michael with a laugh. “Don’t be embarrassed. I think it’s quite charming.”
Charming? Did the man of my dreams just describe me as charming? I’m not sure what a heart attack feels like, but it’s probably close to this.
I look up at him, thrilled by the warmth in his eyes, but my thrill quickly turns to horror when he says, “Recite me one.”
My blood ceases to circulate through my veins.
“Oh, come on,” he urges gently, seeing the look on my face. “I want to hear one of your sonnets, Joellen. Please?”
Oh God. OhGodohGodohGod. My mouth is a desert. My palms start to sweat. I feel a case of the runs coming on, but Michael Maddox is standing two feet away, looking at me with expectation after uttering the word please. I’m doomed to obey him, no matter how much I’d prefer to suffer a massive stroke and die on the spot.
I moisten my lips. My voice comes out as a whisper, barely discernible over my thundering heart. “Please don’t laugh.”
His expression turns deadly serious. “I promise I won’t.”
“Okay.” I inhale a deep breath I hope will give me courage, which utterly fails. “This is called ‘Ode to Old Chicks.’”
Michael’s brows shoot up.
“I said don’t laugh!”
He lifts a hand, shaking his head. “I swear on my mother’s grave I’m not laughing. You have my word. Please continue.”
After a moment of inspecting his face, I see no hint of amusement, so I swallow my fright and begin.
When Life’s midcrisis has begun
And the bloom is off the rose,
We women of a certain age are glum,
