Page 53 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
He doesn’t laugh. “You look . . .”
When he fails to complete the sentence, my face flushes. “Like a person in a dress? Why thank you, what a spectacular compliment.”
His gaze flashes up to mine. “Great, I was gonna say . . . you look really great.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he gives no indication that he’s making a joke.
I swear this dress has magical powers. I might wear it every day from now on. “Thanks. So, if you don’t drink wine, what do you drink?”
“Beer. But dark beer. Lager, ale, nothin’ you can see through.”
“Because real men don’t drink sissy, pale-colored beer.”
“Exactly. I knew you thought I was a real man.”
“The jury’s still out, pal. You wear an awful lot of skirts. I’m afraid I might find you raiding my closet one of these nights. But if you need a friend to talk to about it, I’m down. I’ll even let you try on my bras.”
We grin at each other. He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Today he’s wearing an actual outfit, composed of white T-shirt, black boots, and those faded blue jeans slung low on his hips. With all the tattoos on his biceps, his shaggy hair, and the dark scruff on his jaw, he looks like he could be anything from an outlaw biker to a rock star.
I might be able to see the appeal that had all those women in the supermarket drooling.
“What’s that look you’re wearin’, lass? Your face is funny. You havin’ an episode of intestinal gas?”
Embarrassed, I go with sarcasm, my usual first line of defense when called out.
“Yes, McGregor. I’m having an episode of intestinal gas. And I’m not wearing my charcoal panties, so stand back or be blasted.” I give him a little shove in the chest, which is like trying to shove a brick wall and exactly as effective.
“Ach, I’m sure your farts smell like rose petals, luv.”
I burst out laughing. “Please don’t talk to me about farts! There’s a guy at work who tells me fart jokes 24-7. I don’t need anyone else bringing up the subject!”
Something flickers over McGregor’s face—a flash of tension, there then quickly gone. “There’s another guy at work you’re interested in?”
“No. Ew. Denny is like seventy years old. And fart jokes aren’t exactly the thing to make a girl swoon. But speaking of work . . .”
I set my wine on the counter and clap, hopping a little because I’m so excited to share the news. “Michael almost kissed me today in the company kitchen.”
After a pause, Cam strolls over to the kitchen table and sits in one of the chairs. From under lowered brows, he levels me with a look. “Don’t take this the wrong way.”
“Oh my God. You’re already ruining it!”
He ignores me and goes straight to the point. “If you had a girlfriend who told you her still-married boss almost kissed her at work, what would you say?”
Some of the air leaks from my Michael love balloon. “It sounds bad when you say it.”
He makes a gesture with his hand, like Because it is.
I pour myself more wine. “Okay, but you haven’t heard the whole story.”
He quirks his lips. “I’m breathless with anticipation.”
I launch into the entire explanation of what happened, including all the details, what I said, what Michael said, how Portia walked in on us, then the phone call where Michael admitted he was about to kiss me. When I’m done talking, Cam looks disturbed.
“What?” I chew my thumbnail in anxiety.
“You think you’re old?”
Utterly confused, I stare at him.
