Melt for You

by J. T. Geissinger

  Cam sits at my kitchen table with a lazy smile on his face and the cat in his lap.

  I thunder, “WHAT THE HELL, MCGREGOR?”

  His gaze piercing, he replies calmly, “You thought I had a woman in my bathroom earlier, didn’t you?”

  My heart gallops so hard I can’t catch my breath. I start to splutter and shake, furious but also—again—horrifically embarrassed. “You . . . you jerk! You can’t just waltz in here unannounced any time you like! This is my home! My private home!”

  “As I recall, you waltzed into my place unannounced only a few hours ago. At least you’re clothed.”

  His smile is smug, and I want to kill him. “Get out!”

  “No.”

  “Yes!” I stamp my foot and point at the door. “Out!”

  His brows lift, but he doesn’t budge an inch. “A question for you, Miss Snufflebottom: Why would you care if I did have a woman in my bathroom?”

  “I wouldn’t! I didn’t! I don’t!”

  His steady gaze never wavers from mine. He says softly, “What did I tell you about lyin’ to me?”

  He stands up, and my heart stops. When he takes a step forward, I take one back and put my hand out. As if that will help anything.

  “Cam. Stop. Whatever you’re thinking—”

  “You know exactly what I’m thinkin’, lass.” His eyes are alight, his lips tipped up at the corners.

  What happens inside my body when I hear the tone of his voice and see that look in his eyes is indescribable. I want to throw something sharp and heavy at him, but at the same time I’d like that something to be me.

  When he takes another step toward me, I skitter away into the corner, panting. “Cut it out! This isn’t funny!”

  “I’d stop if I thought you were really scared.” His eyes burn as he takes another step. “Are you scared, lass? Tell the truth.”

  Panicking, I make a sound like a door that needs its hinges greased.

  He chuckles. “That wasn’t a yes.”

  He gets right up into my face, braces his arms on the counter on either side of me, and stares into my eyes. I shrink away as far as I can until the back of my head thunks into the cupboard. He’s so close, I’m certain I can hear his heart beating.

  After a moment when he doesn’t do anything, I whisper, “I actually am pretty scared.”

  He glances at my mouth before his eyes flick back up to meet mine. “But not one hundred percent scared.”

  I close my eyes and swallow. “What’s your point?”

  His warm breath brushes my ear, raising gooseflesh on my arms. “My point is . . . what’s the other percentage?”

  I bite my lip to catch the groan threatening to break from my chest and swallow again. “Twelve.”

  “Twelve?”

  I hear laughter in his voice, so I open my eyes. When I find him grinning, I snap. “Yes, twelve! Satisfied?”

  His grin quickly fades, and his voice turns husky. “No, lass. Not at all. Not yet.” He moistens his lips, then sinks his teeth into the bottom one.

  Daaaaaammmmn, says my uterus, fanning itself.

  Just when I think my knees will give out and I’ll slither to the floor, Cam pushes away from me and strolls out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I had a meetin’ with one o’ my attorneys last night, lass. I came home alone. Not that you care, right?”

  The front door slams, and he’s gone.

  It’s a good thing Mr. Bingley is deaf, because my scream of frustration would scare the bejesus out of him.

  I spend the remainder of the day inside with the door locked. I check it three times just to make sure. I do laundry, clean the apartment, fiddle with some of the beauty products Mrs. Dinwiddle gave me, and try to keep Cameron McGregor out of my head.

  Irritating space invader that he is, he doesn’t comply, so I’m stuck with a smug, imaginary Cam inside my brain, lounging naked on a mattress with one leg swinging slowly back and forth off the side.

  At six o’clock on the nose, rap music blasts through the walls.

  Prince Pantydropper is summoning his dinner.

  Muttering made-up voodoo curses, I bang around the kitchen until I’ve got something for him to eat. When I knock on his door, the music lowers instantly.

  “Hullo, lassie,” he says when he opens up. “What brings you by?” He grins, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded over his chest so his biceps bulge out everywhere, just as insufferably smug as he is.

  Resisting the urge to kick him in the shin, I smile instead. “I haven’t forgotten our bargain.” I lift the platter I’m holding. “Pasta primavera with a garden salad. Here you go.”

  He looks at the platter, then back up at me. “Here I go? Here I go where?”

  My smile turns brittle. “Take your food, prancer.”

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. Our deal was that you make me food and I eat it over at your place. Forty-five minutes, remember?” He swings his door open wider, and the rap music swells out louder into the hall. “Or would you prefer to spend your evenin’ with my good friend Ol’ Dirty Bastard?”

  He stares at me with a challenge in his eyes, his smile growing wider in obverse proportion to how mine shrinks.

  Without a word, I turn around and march back to my apartment. I leave the door open behind me because he’ll find his way inside whether I want him to or not. The man is insidious, like an infestation of termites.

  But he’s not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

  I leave the platter of food on the kitchen table. As soon as I hear Cam’s music cut off, I retreat into my bedroom with the cat and shut the door.

  And lock it.

  Then I call my mother. She picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Mom. It’s Joellen.” I always feel the need to remind her who I am, in case she’s forgotten she has two daughters since we last spoke.

  “Oh, hi, honey! I was just thinking about you!”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  She laughs. “Nothing’s wrong, silly, I was just thinking I’d call you tonight. How are you?”

  From beyond my bedroom door, Cam calls, “You better not be skippin’ dinner, lass!”

  I stick my tongue out at the door. “I’m good. Great, actually. I got a raise at work.”

  “Oh, honey, that’s wonderful!”

  She sounds thrilled, which makes me smile. “Plus, I’m up for a promotion.”

  “A promotion, too?”

  “For an associate editor position. I already put the application in. I’m just waiting to hear back.”

  “That’s fantastic! When will you know?”

  Cam knocks on the door. “Is that your mother, lass? Tell her I said hullo!”

  I stare at the door with slitted eyes, wishing for whatever the superpower is that lets you shoot lasers from your eyeballs so you can blow people to smithereens through solid objects. “Probably soon, maybe next week? I’ll call you as soon as I know. How’s Dad?”

  “Who’s that with you?”

  Shoot! Mother hearing strikes again. I turn away and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me so now there are two doors between me and the Incredibly Irritating Man. “Hmm?”

  “I heard someone’s voice, honey.”

  “It’s the TV. I’ve got the news on.”

  “So it’s not Cameron McGregor?”

  The hope in her voice makes me want to vomit. “No, Mother, it’s not Cameron McGregor.”

  A voice faintly calls, “I can hear you talkin’ about me!”

  These people should work for the CIA! I turn the shower on full blast, go into the closet, and crouch down beside my dirty-clothes hamper, feeling like a refugee fleeing from a totalitarian regime. Which really isn’t too far off the mark.

  “Listen, I wanted to apologize for that remark I made about him the last time we spoke.”

  I sigh, scrubbing a hand over my face. “Forget about it, Mom. I was just being sensitive.”

  Th
ere’s a short pause. “I feel like we’re talking about two different things.”

  “I’m talking about when you said a man like him couldn’t fall in love with a girl like me.”

  Her exhalation sounds disappointed. “Oh, honey, let’s not go over that again. It’s just reality. Everyone has to box in his own weight class, as your father would say. Birds of a feather and whatnot. What I’m talking about is when I called him a sex object. That was a little . . .” She laughs uncomfortably. “I can’t call myself a feminist if I’m guilty of the same thing men are always doing to women. Namely, objectifying them.”

  I’m having a hard time following her logic because now I’m steaming mad. She’s sorry she called a man she’s never met a sex object, but she’s not sorry she made her daughter feel undeserving of a successful, attractive man’s love. Twice.

  “Mom.”

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I know I’m not beautiful like you and Jacqueline, but sometimes you make me feel really shitty about it.”

  She sounds surprised. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  Is she being willfully ignorant? Years of pent-up frustration at being the ugly duckling in a family of swans starts to gather steam.

  “I’m talking about boxing in my own weight class! I’m talking about how you like to make ‘jokes’ about me not being a size two like you guys! Calling me ‘plumpy’ isn’t an affectionate nickname, it’s a personal attack! And just because I’m not tall and willowy and blonde doesn’t mean I’ll never feel the touch of a man—”

  “Joellen!”

  “—or deserve to be loved—”

  “Now wait just a minute!”

  “—or get treated with respect by my family, the ones who I’m supposed to be able to trust and be myself with. I’ve had total strangers say nicer things to me than you do! Somebody told me the other day I have beautiful skin, and I almost fainted from shock!”

  “Of course you have beautiful skin, sweetie! You get it from me!”

  She’s defensive. And completely missing the point. I might as well explain my feelings to a brick wall, because I certainly won’t be getting any understanding from her.

  Same old shit, different day. The emotion I’ve worked up fizzles out, and I’m left feeling nothing but drained. “Okay. Good talk, Mom. Later.”

  I hang up the phone, drop my head onto my knees, and sigh. Mr. Bingley rubs his furry face against my leg. “You love me no matter how I look, don’t you, Mr. Bingley?”

  His deep rumbling purr assures me that he does.

  I pet the cat for a few minutes before girding my mental loins to go out and face Cam. I leave the closet and turn off the shower, then head into the living room with the cat trotting at my heels.

  Sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of his meal, Cam takes one look at my face and sets his fork down. “What’s wrong?”

  I take a seat across from him, trying not to feel rejected when Mr. Bingley jumps into Cam’s lap instead of mine. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  “Of course, lass. Ask me anything.”

  “Is life easier, being beautiful?”

  He stares at me in silence for so long I grow uncomfortable.

  “Yes, fine, I’m admitting I think you’re beautiful.” I wave a hand at his body, a gesture of disgust. “You look like you were carved from a perfect piece of marble by a master sculptor. Happy?”

  He’s so still it’s unnerving. Finally he says quietly, “Who were you talkin’ to on the phone?”

  “My mother. Are you going to answer my question?”

  A muscle in his jaw flexes. I sense he’s angry, but I don’t think it’s directed at me.

  “All right. Here’s your answer: my life has never been easy.”

  My laugh sounds like a noise someone would make at a funeral. “Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks pretty good.”

  His eyes flare. “Aye? How so?”

  “C’mon, McGregor. You’re famous. You’re good-looking. You’re probably super rich. You’ve got your pick of women—and men, by the looks of it. For you the world is just one big banquet of choices.”

  “Is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  We stare at each other. The temperature in the room seems to warm by several degrees. Holding my gaze, he says, “What did she say that hurt your feelin’s this time?”

  He puts a slight emphasis on “this.” I hate that emphasis and everything it implies. I hate it more that the implications are spot-on. But I hate it most of all that he can so easily guess what this whole conversation is about because the damn man has X-ray vision and can see right through me.

  I look away, ashamed at being caught.

  “Joellen.”

  I close my eyes, squeezing them against the hot prick of tears the tenderness in his voice evokes. He feels sorry for me. God, I’m pathetic.

  Then he’s on his feet and pulling me up with his hands around my wrists. Before I can react, he’s engulfed me in a bear hug.

  With his strong arms wrapped around my back and his head bent next to mine, he says, “People can be arseholes. Sometimes those arseholes are family. It sucks, but it doesn’t mean you have to take on their bullshit. Your mother’s BS is about her, not you. You’re perfect just the way you are, lass. Anyone who tells you different is a stupid bloody arsebadger.”

  My throat closes. My face crumples. A whimper rises from somewhere deep inside my chest, impossible to prevent. Oh, no. Don’t cry. Do not cry, for God’s sake—

  I burst into tears, bawling into his chest—loud, ugly-cry bawling, complete with sobs and snot, my body shaking, my hands fisted into his shirt.

  He exhales slowly, his arms cinching me tighter against him. His next words are spoken low and soft, with the weight of a vow.

  “Ah, lassie. If it were anyone else but family who made you cry like this, they’d already be in an ambulance.”

  I don’t know why, but that makes me cry even harder.

  NINETEEN

  I wring myself out against him, helpless to stop myself from being such a sad spectacle. Years of anger, hurt, and loneliness pour out of me like a tap has been opened. I cry until I’m exhausted, sniffling and hiccupping, trembling with shame.

  Then Cam performs a miracle and picks me up in his arms.

  I’d protest, but I’m too tired, so I allow him to carry me over to the sofa while I marvel at how effortless he makes lifting the weight of a baby elephant seem.

  He settles me onto the sofa, props a pillow behind my head, pulls a blanket up to my chin, and strokes a lock of hair off my damp forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he leaves, I burrow under the blanket, tucking my legs up and hiding my face. My wet, undoubtedly splotchy and swollen face.

  Some women can cry prettily, with dainty little feminine tears and elegant noises of distress, but I am not one of those women. I cry the same way I eat: messily, loudly, and with total abandon.

  I am unruly in emotion and appetite. I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to not be unruly, to be smaller, more contained, more acceptable, but underneath it all I’m still myself. All the passions and desires and tempestuous needs, all the wants and hurts and sorrows, all the ugly and wonderful things. I am just unruly, peculiar me, and I’m so tired of pretending otherwise.

  At least with Cam I don’t have to.

  He returns from his apartment after a few minutes, bearing gifts.

  He lifts my legs, sits on the sofa, and places my legs over his lap. “C’mon out, lassie. I’ve got treats.”

  I flip down an edge of the blanket and peek out. Cam is looking at me expectantly, holding a white ceramic bowl and smiling.

  “Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.

  “Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”

  My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”

  “No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice
cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.

  I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.

  “S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”

  “That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”

  He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”

  “I know.”

  We smile at each other.

  “But am I a good kisser? That’s the real question, lass.” He eats more ice cream, waiting for my response with lifted brows.

  “You waited until I was in a vulnerable state to ask that, didn’t you?”

  “I’m not that stealthy. Here.” He holds out the spoon.

  I savor the mouthful of creamy goodness, trying to make it last as long as possible as I wrack my brain for a neutral answer that doesn’t reveal just how thermonuclear I thought our kiss was. I decide on, “You seem very experienced.”

  He makes a face. “That’s awfully clinical.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego throwing a tantrum because I didn’t say it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had?”

  He’s about to put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth but pauses, holding the spoon to his lips. “Was it?”

  Those damn piercing hazel eyes. I look down at the blanket, picking at a frayed bit of yarn. “It might . . . be up there.”

  When he doesn’t say anything, I glance up at him under my lashes and find him grinning at me.

  “Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter.

  He wolfs down the bite of ice cream, smacking his lips. “For the record, it might’ve been up there for me, too.”

  I’m startled and commence blinking rapidly like a crazed owl. “Really?”