Page 6 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
From a pocket of her robe, she produces a Chinese silk fan. She snaps it open with a flourish and begins to fan her face, rolling her eyes in ecstasy at the thought of a large, good-looking athlete living on our floor.
“Yes, he’s huge. And noisy. I could hardly sleep with all that commotion last night.”
The fanning ceases. She peers at me, perplexed. “Commotion?”
This is when I remember that Mrs. Dinwiddle starts drinking at one o’clock in the afternoon every day because that’s cocktail hour in London. Her entire life is still run on London time. By nine p.m., she’s anesthetized in a snoring dog pile with Fee, Fi, and Fo on her pink satin bed.
“Never mind. Anyway, I was thinking of making lasagna for dinner tonight.”
Mrs. Dinwiddle crinkles her nose. “Italian?”
I resist the urge to sigh. Because I’m pathetic and have zero social life, I always cook dinner for Mrs. Dinwiddle on Saturday nights, but unfortunately my first few suggestions are usually met with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Divas are notoriously picky eaters.
“How about shepherd’s pie?”
“Oh, lovely!” She brightens, batting me coyly with the fan. “I haven’t had that in ages. It reminds me of the time I played Lady Macbeth at the Piccadilly and I met this strapping stagehand who was studying to be a chef—”
“I’ll see you in an hour,” I interrupt before she can wax poetic about one of her boy toys of yore.
“All right, Ducky! Ta!”
“Ta,” I mutter, stomping down the hall, irrationally angered that an eighty-year-old woman has better memories than anything I could possibly conjure in my most prurient fantasies.
My sexual dry spell has been going on so long it’s less of a drought and more of a biblical pestilence.
I open the door to find the cat sprawled in the middle of the living room floor like he’s been shot by a game hunter. “Hi, Mr. Bingley.”
He doesn’t lift his head until the door slams shut behind me, then he leaps to his feet like someone poked him with a hot iron and looks wildly around. Spotting me, he then pretends nonchalance and starts to groom his tail.
“You don’t fool me, kitty. You’re not that cool. C’mon, help me make dinner.”
He follows me into the kitchen, but not too quickly, making sure I know it was his idea and not mine.
I feed him, open a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips to snack on while I make dinner, then get all the ingredients ready for the shepherd’s pie. I preheat the oven, dice the vegetables, and put a pot of salted water to boil on the stove for the potatoes. I’m in the middle of browning lamb, garlic, carrots, and onions when the music starts up across the hall.
It comes on full blast abruptly, like someone’s been listening to earphones and yanked the plug out of the receiver—all hard, squealing guitar riffs and thundering drums, loud enough to rattle my windows. Then the chorus kicks in, sung by a man who sounds as if his hobbies are smoking crack and swallowing razor blades.
Got yo BACK, muthafucka
I be WITH ya, muthafucka
We be gangstas, muthafucka, for LIFE!
“He’s got to be kidding me,” I say to the cat, who blandly slow blinks in response, like, He’s obviously not.
I turn off the burner, set down the wooden spoon, and, for the second time in twenty-four hours, march my butt across the hall to knock on my new neighbor’s door.
THREE
This time when the door opens, I’m prepared. Or I would’ve been, if the Mountain had been wearing his kilt, or his sweats and hoodie, or pretty much anything else but what he’s wearing.
An itty-bitty white bath towel, held closed with one meaty fist, and nothing else.
His hair is wet. His broad, tattooed chest glistens with droplets of water. The towel is so small it splits open over one leg like the slit in a skirt, giving a view of bare muscular thigh so provocative it’s probably illegal in some countries.
Staring wide eyed at his leg, I say, “Uh . . .”
The Mountain grins at me. “That’s the second time I’ve left you speechless, lass. Imagine what would happen if I dropped the towel. I’d probably have to call you an ambulance.”
