The smug, grinning bastard. I oughta knee him right in his balls.
“You make me feel violent, McGregor. I wish I were a man so I could kick your ass.”
He laughs like I’m being silly. “Cute. But there isn’t a man alive who could kick my arse.” He flexes his arms, causing his ridiculous biceps to pop out and shine.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a migraine coming on.
“Listen. While you were tellin’ your sad story about your unrequited love for pretty boy Michael, a thought crossed my mind.”
“Must’ve been a long and lonely journey,” I mutter.
“I’m gonna help you get him.”
Startled, I look up at Cam. He’s standing there smiling like he’s just said the most intelligent, amazing thing ever spoken by a person in the history of humanity.
“You’re . . . what?”
“I’m an expert at two things, lass.” He holds up two fingers for emphasis, as if perhaps I’m unable to count that high. “Rugby, and the art of seduction.”
A disbelieving laugh breaks out of me. “Did your parents ever ask you to run away from home?”
“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.
Only this time it isn’t Mel Gibson who’s leading them into battle.
SEVEN
I’m right in the middle of an enormous yawn the next morning at work when Portia soundlessly appears beside my desk like she’s been teleported to the surface of the planet from the starship Enterprise.
“Good morning, Jillian!”
Startled, I jump, sloshing coffee from the mug I’m holding all over the front of my white blouse. I swear she barks like that just so she can watch me freak out.
“Portia. Hi.” And it’s Joellen, you witch.
She watches with an expression of distaste as I mop up the coffee as best I can with the spare napkins I keep in the top drawer of my desk for emergencies such as these, which occur with depressing regularity. In an ice-blue dress that matches the color of her heart and with her hair swept off her face and tied into a low chignon that showcases her elegant neck, she’s immaculate.
Beside her, I feel like a mangy donkey next to a thoroughbred racehorse.
“Have you finished the edit on Maria’s manuscript?”
I can tell by her tone she’s expecting an excuse, so it gives me satisfaction to hand her the sheaf of banded papers with a smile. Lips pursed, she takes the manuscript from me and thumbs over a few pages, checking my work like a grade school teacher.
If I didn’t desperately need the rest of the coffee in my mug, I’d be tempted to hurl it in her face.
“I understand you spoke with Michael this weekend,” she says offhandedly.
I freeze.
If she knows I spoke to Michael, it must be because he told her. Why would he tell her we spoke? What could that mean?
“Uh . . . I . . . yes. He was working, too. We said hello.”
Her sharp gaze flashes to mine. “You said ‘hello’?” she repeats frostily.
I cringe, wondering what on earth she could find so offensive about me speaking to Michael and how she gets her mouth to pinch like that. It looks painful. “Um . . . yes.”
She stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t—because I’m too worried about what might fly out of my mouth—she hugs the manuscript to her chest and starts to aggressively tap one manicured fingernail against it.
“Joanna.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we expect a certain level of . . .” Her gaze travels over my coffee-stained blouse, my unruly hair, my makeup-free face. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Professionalism here at Maddox Publishing.”
A flush of heat crawls up my neck. The words are out before I can stop them. “You mean like calling the employees by their correct names?”
The tapping ceases. She blinks—once, slowly—and it’s terrifying.
I’m saved from certain death by a uniformed delivery man carrying an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. He stops at the cubicle next to mine. “Is there a Joellen Bixby around here?”
“Right there.” Shasta, the girl who sits at the next desk, stands and points at me accusingly over the top of the cubicle wall like she’s an informant for the Nazis.
The delivery guy ambles past Portia, inadvertently swat
ting her with foliage, and deposits the vase on my desk with a relieved sigh. It’s so huge it takes up almost all the available square footage.
“Man, that sucker’s heavy. Sign here, please.” He thrusts a clipboard into my face while pointing at a signature line on a routing slip.
My hands shake so badly I’m barely able to manage my signature.
Could it be? Could Michael have sent me flowers?
The delivery guy walks off, whistling, while Portia, Shasta, and I stare in disbelief at the roses.
“Well, who’s it from?” demands Shasta.
I swallow, pluck the little white envelope from its plastic holder, and open it, my heartbeat like thunder in my ears.
Your pie is the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
Sweet. Succulent. Melting on my tongue.
I want more. Tonight.
Oh, that cocky son of a—
“So what does it say?” asks Shasta too loudly, making me wonder what her problem is while simultaneously realizing that everyone in the cubicles around me is looking curiously in my direction.
Portia snatches the card from my hand, then reads aloud, “Your pie is the most delicious . . .”
She trails off into silence, her eyes growing wide.
Hearing muffled giggles, I remove the card from her fingers, tear it into bits, and toss it into the wastebasket. I turn stiffly back to Portia and say through gritted teeth, “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
I know it’s only my fury at Cameron that makes my voice so hard, but Portia seems to think it’s directed at her. Her chin lifts. She sniffs, sends me an outraged glare, then turns on her heel and stalks off, trailing smoke from her nostrils.
“Dude,” says Shasta, watching her go. “That was awesome.” She looks at me and grins. “High five, bitch!”
In a daze, I slap palms with Shasta, who has spoken more words to me in the past three minutes than she has in the past two years since she’s been sitting next to me.
My desk phone rings. I snatch it up, grateful for a legitimate escape from my new bestie. “Joellen Bixby speaking.”
“Wow, your professional-workin’-lady voice is hot. You ever think of goin’ into the phone-sex-operator field? You’d make a killing.”
“You!”
The low rumble of a laugh comes over the line. “Aye, it’s me, lass, your favorite neighbor.”
“The prancer.”
“Ha! No, the exquisite physical specimen of a man you’ve been’ dreamin’ about since we met.”
I balk, shocked that Cam somehow guessed that, but realize he’s joking before I blurt something stupid like How did you know? “Very funny. What do you want? And how did you know where I work?”
“I asked Mrs. Dinwiddle. Did you get the flowers?”
I glance at the colossal bouquet of roses leering at me from two feet away. “Yes. And your charming note. Shakespeare you’re not, my friend.”
“Oh ho! So we’re friends now!”
“No. I’d still like to push you into traffic. Why’re you calling me?”
“To discuss phase one of Operation Pretty Boy.”
I collapse into my chair and sigh. “Give me a slight break, would you?”
He breezes right past that request. “I’ve already kicked things into gear with the flowers. If you’re on his radar at all, that’ll pique his interest.”
“Pique? Did Cameron McGregor just use the word pique in a sentence?”
He chuckles. “You’ll be happy to know, darlin’, that Cameron McGregor has an exceptional vocabulary. Extraordinary, anomalous, remarkable, and preternaturally unprecedented.”
I pull the phone away from my ear and make a face at it. When I listen again, he’s still talking.
“. . . men are competitive by nature. If he likes you even a little, knowin’ another man is sniffin’ around will arouse his instinct for—”
“Sniffing around? How romantic.”
“Quit bustin’ my balls, lass. I’m helpin’ you get your heart’s desire. A little gratitude would be nice.”
“I still don’t understand why you’re interested.”
He pauses just long enough to make my ears perk up. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Yikes. That sounds scary.”
“Maybe I just want you to keep givin’ me that sweet, sweet pie of yours, lass. You ever think of that?”
His voice is warm with teasing laughter, and he’s lucky he’s not standing in front of me, because I’ve got a brand-new pair of scissors in my top drawer that would look lovely protruding from his eye socket.
“It’s too bad you got stuck in puberty, McGregor—you might’ve been a productive member of society one day.”
“Oh, I’m plenty productive, lass.”
“Name one way you’re productive that doesn’t involve the amount of sperm you produce. I’ll wait.”
He dissolves into gales of laughter that seem to continue forever. I listen, trying not to smile, until he’s caught his breath and comes back on the line. “Ach, you’re a hoora salty lassie. Pure dead brilliant.”
“Thank you. I think.”
“Now listen, this is important.”
I say drily, “I can hardly stand the anticipation.”
“When pretty boy asks you who gave you the flowers, just give him a little Mona Lisa smile and shrug. Don’t answer. Be coy as shit. If you can’t manage it, pretend you’re Mrs. Dinwiddle and do whatever you think she’d do.”
“I don’t have a mink coat and a silk fan handy. A girl needs props to make that kind of Scarlett O’Hara routine work. He’ll think I’m lame!”
Cam sighs. “He’ll think you’re mysterious. The less you say, the better.”
“Ouch. I know I’m awkward and weird, McGregor. You don’t have to rub it in.”
Over the line comes a blistering silence, then Cameron’s voice, hard as stone. “I don’t ever wanna hear you put yourself down again, Joellen. Don’t do it out loud, and don’t do it in your head, either. Show yourself some damn respect, woman, or no one else will.”
My cheeks heat. I chew the inside of my lip for a while, composing various scathing retorts, but none of them have any teeth because I know he’s trying to be supportive. Plus, he’s right.
Grr.
“Understood?” he prompts.
“Yes. Fine. Okay.”
“Good. Now get back to work. And Joellen?”
He still sounds mad, so I’m hesitant when I answer, “What?”
There’s a pause. He exhales, then says softly, “You’re not weird. You’re unique. There’s a difference.”
He hangs up before I can reply, leaving me staring at the phone in disbelief. What the hell just happened?
I can’t dwell on it, though, because Denny has arrived at my cubicle with a large cardboard box on a dolly. “Hey, kiddo! Special delivery!”
Shasta pops back up over the cubicle wall like a groundhog, eyes bugging out. “Another delivery? What is it?”
Why is this girl suddenly so interested in my business? “I wish I could tell you, but unfortunately my X-ray vision isn’t working today.”
She’s too busy ogling the box to be put off by my sarcasm.
Denny parks the dolly upright and removes a folding work knife from a pocket of his trousers. He slices open the tape on the top of the box. “It’s a new chair for you, kiddo. Mr. Maddox put in a requisition over the weekend.”
The breath leaves my lungs in a wheeze. Shasta and I gape at each other.
Denny makes a great show of unpacking the box, cutting at the cardboard so the chair is revealed all at once when the sides fall away.
“That’s the new ergonomic model,” whispers Shasta, agog.
I don’t know about ergonomic, but it makes my current chair look derelict.
“Oh, fantastic, you brought it up!” says a male voice to my left, and my heart stops.
It’s Michael, watching approvingly as Denny dusts off the chair with a rag tak
en from his back pocket, even though there’s not a speck of dust on the thing.
“Yes, sir! You said first thing Monday, so I made sure to do it before my regular rounds.”
Shasta and I share a stunned glance, and I know we’re both suffering the same brain meltdown. Michael ordered Denny to bring me a new chair “first thing.” Like it was a priority. And then he showed up to make sure it was done!
Don’t get ahead of yourself—he’s probably just about to tell you you’re not getting the raise you requested!
He looks perfect today, so perfect he’s almost blindingly beautiful. Smooth hair, gorgeous navy-blue suit, freshly shaven jaw. He obviously didn’t spend another night on his office sofa. He turns his gaze to me and dazzles me with a killer smile.
“Good morning, Joellen.”
I love you and want to have all your babies. “Uh . . . morning.”
He sends a friendly nod to Shasta, who giggles. “Hi, Mr. Maddox!”
“Good morning, Shasta. What a lovely sweater you’re wearing. That color suits you.”
I can tell Shasta wants to run over to him, throw her arms around his neck, and lay a big wet one on him, but she manages to control herself.
“Thank you. Blue’s my favorite color.”
“Mine, too,” says Michael, causing Shasta to furiously blush.
I’m not surprised. Making females swoon is his superpower.
Then Michael notices the bouquet of roses on my desk. He does a comical double take, blinking in surprise. “That’s quite the enormous bouquet. Is it your birthday, Joellen?”
It stings a little that he’d assume the only reason I’d ever get flowers is for a birthday, but who am I kidding? I don’t even get them then. “Oh, no, those are just from—”
I bite my tongue just in time. Then, frantically trying to think of how Mrs. Dinwiddle would handle this situation and remembering Cam’s suggestion that I should act “coy as shit,” I gaze fondly at the roses as if remembering a night of passion.
On a dreamy sigh, I say, “A friend.” Then I bat my lashes and look demurely at my feet.
When Michael is silent in the wake of my theatrical performance, I’m convinced I’ve made a colossal fool of myself. But when I glance up at him, he’s staring at the roses with a new expression.
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