Page 83 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
But now that Michael has his hand on my bare skin—hopeful slut that I am, I didn’t wear panty hose—I think it might have been a bad idea, because the effect of his warm palm on my knee is what I imagine the three wise men felt when they first glimpsed the baby Jesus in the manger.
Namely, rapture.
“Thank you,” says Michael, his voice husky, his gaze on my lips. “I find you very attractive, too.”
He leans in until he’s so close I can smell his breath, sweet and aromatic with the dry spice of wine. He’s going to kiss me. Oh God. Oh shit. It’s really going to happen!
But then it’s not happening, because I’ve flattened my hand on his chest and held him back.
He stares at me. I stare at him. We’re both not sure what’s happening.
“Um . . . you’re technically still married, right?”
He blinks. Frowns. Shakes his head. “We’ve filed for divorce.”
Right! He’s a free agent! Get in there, girl!
My inner slut seems to have no conscience, but apparently I do. “I mean . . . it only just happened. Like, last week. Maybe you should . . . give yourself a minute to . . . adjust.”
His heart thuds hard and fast under my palm. I find it exquisitely erotic. Also I’d like to punch myself in the face.
“You’re probably right,” he says reluctantly, as if he doesn’t think I’m right at all. He pulls away slowly, looking confused.
I’m sure the man has never been denied anything in his life, but for some reason, here we are, in an alternate universe where it makes sense for a girl like me to turn down a man like him.
“No, you’re absolutely right.” He shakes his head as if clearing it, and now he looks appalled. “Good God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m thinking. I keep put
ting you in these terrible positions. Next you’ll probably think I’m some kind of lecherous creep, expecting favors for advancement in the company!”
The thought had never crossed my mind, but now I’ve got Cam in my head, standing there staring at me with his arms folded over his chest, tapping his foot like I told you.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I shout. Michael looks startled by my volume. I decide it’s time to guzzle more wine and do so with gusto.
The waiter reappears, asking if we’d like to order something to eat.
Michael takes charge. “Yes. We’ll each have filets, rare, and we’ll share the Caesar. And another bottle of wine.”
“Very good, sir.”
The waiter bows off, Michael reaches for his glass, and I sit in misery, wondering how this could have gone so wrong so fast.
I hate rare meat. I’m allergic to anchovies. When a man orders food for me without asking what I want, I don’t feel taken care of, I feel disrespected and honestly a bit murderous. And I can’t stop thinking about Cam, which is making me confused, uncomfortable, and irritated with myself, a trifecta of negative emotions that add up to an overwhelming urge to flee.
Oh, no. I’m about to do something stupid.
I turn to Michael with a brittle smile. “I’m gonna go. Thanks for the wine.”
“What? You’re going? You just got here!”
I scoot out of the booth before I can change my mind. “Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m sorry. See you at work.”
“Joellen, wait! Don’t go! Please, just sit down and talk to me!”
I hesitate because it’s the first time he’s used the word please. Everything else has been an order. I glance back at him. He’s standing at the side of the table, looking contrite, confused, and devastatingly gorgeous.
But something about this still feels wrong.
“Thank you so much for inviting me here, and thank you again for the wine, but I can’t stay for dinner. I . . . I already have dinner plans.”
