Page 21 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
“Stop insultin’ me for a minute and listen. If you really want this bloke, you’re gonna have to play your cards right. You can’t come at him too hot or too cold. It’s like Goldilocks and the three bears.”
“Yeah, you lost me there.”
“The first bowl of porridge was too salty. That’s you, by the way—very salty.”
I murder him with my eyes.
“The second bowl of porridge was too sweet. Not you.”
I sigh and prop my hands on my hips. “Just get on with the damn story, McGregor.”
“The third bowl of porridge was just right. That’s what you have to be for him. Just right.”
I stare at him, waiting for further explanation. When it doesn’t come, and he only smiles at me like he could stand there doing it for hours, I say, “You’re a profoundly strange person.”
“I can teach you how to be what he wants.”
“Pfft! You don’t even know him! How could you possibly teach me to be what he—”
“I know men even better than I know women,” he interrupts, his voice hard. “And I know exactly what makes pretty rich boys tick.”
The vehemence of his words makes me blink. “That sounds a little ominous. Is there a story of dubious sexual consent lurking behind that statement?”
He waves a hand like he’s batting away an insect. “Bein’ in a fishbowl, living like I do, you’re exposed to every kind of person there is. Over the years, I’ve sorta become a student of humanity.”
I laugh, because that’s so ridiculous I simply have to. “You? A student of humanity? The guy who prances around in yellow tights?”
He gazes at me for a beat, a disappointed expression on his face. “You see? You are superficial. You only look at what’s right in front of your face.”
We look at each other as the seconds tick by, and I grow more and more uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“Aye, lass,” he says softly, “you did.” Then he smiles. “But I can take it because I’m not your sensitive pretty boy lover, who’d probably burst into tears if he got a gander at the dragon that hides under that unassuming exterior of yours.”
My chagrin evaporates as quickly as it arrived. “Unassuming. That’s a polite way of calling me a dog.”
Cam looks at the ceiling and sighs. “You’re not a dog, darlin’. You’re just not doin’ yourself any favors.”
“Jesus, between you and Mrs. Dinwiddle, my inferiority complex should reach new heights!”
His eyes flash to mine. They have that dark look again, the dangerous one that seems to come and go at will. He growls, “You’ve nothin’ to feel inferior about, idiot.”
“So we went from darling to idiot in the space of a few minutes. Excuse me while I go get my neck brace. I’m getting whiplash.”
A corner of his mouth curls up. He studies me in silence for a moment, then lifts a shoulder. “Suit yourself. Don’t take my help. But don’t come cryin’ to me when pretty boy keeps right on not knowin’ you exist.”
“Stop calling him that!”
“Stop pretending you’re a mouse, dragon lady, and go after what you want. In fifty years, we’ll all be dead. Carpe diem.”
He moves past me to the stove, picks up the dish from the stove top with the pair of oven mitts, and leaves without another word.
I stand in the kitchen for another ten minutes, going over everything he said, trying to put my finger on what I’m missing. Why would he want to help me? What’s in it for him?
I go to bed and fall asleep to his last words stuck on repeat inside my head.
Carpe diem. Seize the day.
For the third night in a row, I dream of Scottish warriors.
