He smiles. “Mrs. Dinwiddle enjoys a good gossip.”
I laugh. “True. But . . .”
He sees my confusion and takes pity on me. “It’s our last supper, lass. The occasion seemed to call for flowers.”
“That sounds uncomfortably biblical, but thanks.” I examine his face, fresh shaven and shining. “I see you discovered you own a razor.”
He runs a hand over his jaw. “Aye. I was startin’ to appear a bit cavemannish.” His gaze drops to mine. “You fancy the proper pretty boy look, so I thought it bein’ a special night and all, I’d make an effort.”
“Scruff suits you better,” I say without thinking. “You’re way too manly to be overgroomed. All your rough edges are much more . . .”
Cam is grinning at me like a cat that just scarfed up a nice fat canary.
I huff out an aggravated breath. “Oh, shut up, prancer,” I mutter, and retreat into the kitchen to find a vase.
“No, I don’t think I will, lassie,” Cam drawls, following me. “At least not until you tell me how that sentence ends.” He sits at the kitchen table, threads his fingers behind his head, and beams at me.
“It ends with me jabbing a sharp object into your eye.” I bang around in the pantry and the cupboards under the sink until I find a vase tall enough to fit the sunflowers, then busy myself with arranging them, all the while acutely aware of Cam’s shit-eating grin aimed in my direction.
“Hot? Sexy? Devastating?” he muses aloud, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. “Hmm. She’s mute on the subject. I must be g’tting close.”
“You’re getting close to serious bodily injury. Be quiet.”
His laugh is delighted. I glance over at him and am struck by how different he looks now than he did in all those pictures I saw of him on the internet. He looks happy and at ease, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like he belongs right there in that chair at my kitchen table.
“How come you never smile in photographs?”
His laugh dies, his smile fades, and his eyes take on a strange hardness. I sense I’ve stepped into a minefield, but I’m already here. Might as well jump right in.
“I mean, I see you smiling and laughing all the time, like you are right now, but in pictures you always look kind of . . . miserable.”
Silent, Cam looks at me for what feels like a long time. Then he says, “You can’t really be that naïve.”
His gruff tone surprises me, as do his words. “What do you mean?”
“I mean spend a little time thinkin’ about what you just asked me, woman, and you’ll find your goddamn answer.”
I refuse to be intimidated by him, and send the same fuming stare he’s sending me right back at him. “Why are you mad at me? You said I could ask you anything!”
Our gazes clash like swords, but he’s hurt my feelings, so I won’t be the first to look away. I haven’t done anything but ask an innocent question. It’s not my fault his moods change faster than the weather.
“Ah, lassie.” He scrubs his hands over his face. His low chuckle sounds impossibly sad. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“Yeah, maybe, if you keep acting like a dick. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got pruning shears in my hand.”
He starts to laugh, low at first, building on that sad chuckle, but then he’s into full-blown guffaws, his head thrown back, one fist pounding the table.
“You’re so friggin’ weird,” I grumble, and continue arranging the sunflowers.
“And you can’t see past the end of your nose, but here we are anyway.”
“You and your ambiguous statements are gonna be the death of me, prancer. Speaking of bad vision, I have a question.”
When I turn, I find him smiling. “Of course you do.”
“Do you think I should ditch the glasses?”
“For what, a monocle?”
“Yes, a monocle,” I say sarcastically. “They’re so in style. Can you be serious for a second? This is important.”
He arranges his face into a semblance of sternness. “Aye. This is me bein’ serious. You can tell by my forbidding brow.”
When I just stare at him with a sour look, his fake serious expression is killed by another dazzling smile.
“Okay, okay. Don’t put a hex on me. The question is if I think you should ditch your glasses?”
“That is the question.”
He cocks his head, purses his lips, and takes so long examining my face I begin to blush.
“Take a picture, prancer, it’ll last longer,” I mutter, embarrassed.
“I’m tryin’ to decide how to phrase somethin’ so it won’t offend your missish nerves.”
“Missish? Is that even a word?”
Cam looks smug. “Oh, the fancy editor lady hasn’t heard of it?”
When I continue to glare at him, he relents. “It means demure. Squeamish. Prudish.”
“You’re calling me a prude?”
Mischief glints in his eyes. “No man who’s ever kissed you would call you a prude, darlin’. What I’m sayin’ is that you’re highly sensitive about your looks. One misplaced word and you’ll be locked in your room makin’ a list of all the ways you think you’re ugly.”
I have to take a moment to absorb that.
The first sentence might’ve been an incredible compliment, or he could’ve meant there are far worse adjectives than prude that men who’ve kissed me would use to describe me. Like ghastly or sickening, for example.
Then there’s his observation that I’m sensitive about my looks. Though I probably wouldn’t lock myself in my room to make a list of all the ways I’m ugly, I can easily see myself doing it at the kitchen table. In fact, I’m sure there’s a piece of paper somewhere in my apartment titled Things to Improve On that itemizes “cankles” and “weird moles” among my shortcomings.
Which means Cameron McGregor has my number. If I’m being honest with myself, he has from the start.
“Don’t break your brain overanalyzin’ that, Joellen,” says Cam drily.
“I can’t help it. My brain is set to think things to death.”
He quirks his lips. “You don’t say?”
I close my eyes, sigh, and hear him chuckle.
“All right. Here’s what I think about you ditchin’ your glasses.”
I open my eyes and wait for him to continue, chewing my thumbnail in nervousness.
“I don’t think you should do it.”
Am I relieved? Or disappointed? Annoyed? Lord, the man twists me up like a pretzel. “I have contact lenses, but I never wear them because they make my eyes red.”
“Thank you for sharin’,” he drawls. “Ask me why I don’t think you should get rid of your glasses.”
“Why don’t you think I should get rid of my glasses?”
“Because they make you look smart, and sexy, and like you don’t give a fuck, which is also sexy.”
“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. He called me sexy again. This is becoming a thing.
“I wasn’t finished.”
That sounds fairly ominous, so I start to chew my thumbnail with renewed vigor.
“The main reason I don’t think you should get rid of them is because you prefer them. If you didn’t, you’d wear your contacts or get laser surgery. But you like your glasses, so that’s what you should wear.”
“But . . . don’t most guys think they’re dorky?”
“The number of fucks you should give about what men think of how you look is zero, lass. Every choice you make about your appearance should be about what makes you feel good, not what makes some random lad—or your mother—think you’re cute. Don’t set aside your preferences for anyone.”
He’s deadly serious, all traces of teasing gone. I’m not sure how to respond to this sudden change of mood, but he’s not finished talking.
“And another thing. Learn to stop saying ‘Sorry,’ and say ‘Don’t interrupt me.’ Learn to say ‘No’ and ‘None of your business.’ Learn
to be unapologetic for who you are and what you like and the opinions you hold. I know you think that if other people considered you beautiful, all your problems would be solved, but you’d just have different problems. And they’d all still revolve around the fact that deep down, you don’t think you’re good enough. That’s a lie you learned, and you can unlearn it, but it has to start with you. You have to decide to accept yourself. It’s cliché, but you really do have to love yourself before you can love anyone else.”
He pauses to inhale a slow breath, his eyes burning. When he speaks again, his voice is low.
“My mother was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but she killed herself over a man who wasn’t even worthy to breathe the same air she did. Total fucking waste. All because she didn’t think she was good enough. A lie life pounded into her that she never unlearned.”
“You’re talking about Sir Gladstone?”
Now his tone turns brutally bitter. “Aye. That worthless piece of shit. Thought he could run roughshod over anyone because he was rich. He treated his house staff like slaves, allowing them no voices or power, giving them no appreciation. Unless you were pretty, and then you got the kind of attention a broken soul can confuse with love. He used her for years, until a younger housemaid came along. Then he acted like he never knew my mother. She was replaced, just like that.” He snaps his fingers. “I saw the whole thing comin’, but she’d never hear a word spoken against him. She thought because he came into her room a few nights a week and let me play rugby with his spoiled fucking children, that meant he loved her. But he didn’t. And when she found out, it killed her. She went up to the roof and threw herself off without even tellin’ me good-bye.”
My face is crumpling. I can feel it, along with my heart thumping and my throat squeezing shut. “Oh, Cam. I’m so sorry.”
He looks away, drags a hand through his hair, exhales a hard breath. “Aye. Me too.”
He looks so wrecked, so sad and lonely, that I abandon the sunflowers and go to him. “Stand up,” I demand, tugging on his sleeve. “I’m giving you a hug.”
He stands, and I go up on tiptoe, throw my arms around his shoulders, and hide my face in his neck. He winds his arms around my back and straightens, so my feet dangle above the floor.
I resist the impulse to make a crack about how strong he is to lift my weight, and just breathe into his neck with my eyes closed, feeling his heart thumping against my chest and his arms like a vise around me.
“Promise me something,” he whispers into my hair.
“What?”
“No matter what happens with Michael, we’ll still be friends.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be friends.”
His sigh is a big gust of air. “God, you’re an idiot.”
“That’s probably not something you should say to someone with low self-esteem,” I tease.
He rests his temple against mine and sighs again, but this time it sounds impossibly sad. “Aye, but you know I say it with love, lass. Always with love.”
My face is starting to crumple again. I nod, unable to speak.
We stand there like that until Mr. Bingley decides it’s getting weird and starts batting at my dangling feet. Cam gently sets me down, and we spend the rest of the evening pretending the hug didn’t happen, eating dinner and talking and dancing around the word love that lingers like a ghost in the air.
TWENTY-SEVEN
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 15
Subject: Squash
In a meeting with the head of our European distributor, a man who makes watching paint dry seem fascinating by comparison. I’ve already had three cups of coffee just to try to stay awake. The only thing keeping me going is the thought of you in one of those tiny ruffled skirts on the squash court. The word flounce comes to mind. Among other things.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 15
Subject: Re: Squash
Terribly sorry about your meeting, but being the CEO can’t be all fun and games or it would be unfair, considering the obscene amount of money you make. I hate to disappoint you, but tiny ruffled skirts and I are not on the best of terms. Leggings, perhaps?
Hope all is well in jolly old England. You left at the right time: Denny has debuted his Christmas-themed fart jokes, to everyone’s delight. I had no idea the baby Jesus was so gassy.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 16
Subject: Leggings
You’re intentionally being cruel. Leggings are even more revealing than tiny ruffled skirts. I lost at least five hours of sleep last night picturing your bottom encased in Lycra.
How do you know how much money I make? Maybe I’m only doing this job for the perks. For all you know, I could be donating my time in hopes of catching sight of you in the office. Sharing a smile over the coffee machine. Having you ignore me so aggressively as you’ve been doing for the past ten years.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 16
Subject: Re: Leggings
Ha! You, sir, have a good sense of humor. I’ve attached a picture of my face right after reading your last email. Yes, that is an eye roll you’re seeing. It was so robust I might’ve pulled something. I don’t know how much you make, but I know your haircut costs more than my monthly grocery bill, and that’s a lot.
I haven’t been ignoring you. I’ve been admiring from afar. Go look up the word unrequited in the dictionary. You might be surprised to see a picture of me beside the definition.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 16
Subject: You’re killing me
Stop calling me sir. Not only does it make me feel like my grandfather, but also there’s a vaguely Fifty Shades of Grey/power exchange undertone that’s wreaking havoc on my nerves. If you tell me it’s intentional, I might have a heart attack. (But I’ll be on the next plane home.)
I don’t have to look up the definition of unrequited to know that it doesn’t apply to our situation. The word assumes feelings are unreturned.
“Barely contained” is a more accurate description, at least from my end.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 17
Subject: Re: You’re killing me
This is me responding to your email even though my mind is blank with shock due to your last sentence. And to think all these years I thought this affair was one-sided . . . sir.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 17
Subject: Re: Re: You’re killing me
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
You’re lucky I’m more than three thousand miles away. Send me another picture.
M.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 18
Subject: WHERE IS MY PICTURE?
Don’t make me pull rank and threaten to have you written up for disobedience.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 18
Subject: As you requested
Being inexperienced in the art of sexting, here is a photo of my left foot. I think it’s quite flattering. Good lighting, etc. I tried to take a few more “risqué” shots, but the front-facing camera on an iPhone is designed to kill a person’s soul. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you get back to see the goods in the flesh. So to speak.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 19
Subject: Arrgh
Front-facing cameras are not the only thing that are soul killing. Disobedient copy editors are up there, too. Although your fo
ot is lovely—those arches, you must be very proud—I was hoping for a glimpse of something a bit more intimate. Kneecap? Inner wrist? Hip bone? Even an earlobe would be satisfactory at this point. I had no idea how accustomed I’d grown to seeing you at the office. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve been gazing longingly at your eye-roll photo at night while I’m lying in bed.
Have you ever thought about getting contact lenses? Your eyes are so beautiful, but they’re a bit hidden behind your glasses. I’ve always wondered what you’d look like without them.
And a few other articles of clothing.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 19
Subject: Something to tide you over
Attached is a pic of my earlobe. You’ll be in a kerfuffle trying to discern if it’s the left or right, I’m sure. Ah, the mystery. I am a master of seduction, am I not?
In other news, Portia apparently has a twin who does not breathe fire and snack on little children. I don’t know if she’s on new meds, but she’s been acting human recently. Come to think of it, since you left.
Contacts make my eyes hurt, though I was thinking of wearing them for the holiday party. I’ve even bought myself a new dress. It’s tight and red and makes my boobs look bigger and my waist look smaller. I’ve asked it to marry me, but it’s playing coy and not answering. Such is love.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 20
Subject: Have I told you you’re irresistible?
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 20
Subject: You’ve used the word charming. Irresistible has yet to be introduced.
From: Michael Maddox
To: Joellen Bixby
Date: December 21
Subject: Consider it introduced.
And add captivating, delightful, adorable, funny, and bewitching to the mix. Honestly, there aren’t enough superlatives. You’re wonderful. And those arches! Those earlobes!
I can’t wait to see you again.
M.
From: Joellen Bixby
To: Michael Maddox
Date: December 21
Subject: Speaking of seeing me again . . .
Here’s an awkward but important question: we’re not really allowed to date, right? I mean according to company policy. I wanted to look it up in the online handbook but thought it might raise a red flag somewhere. Who knows how closely Ruth in HR monitors things. She could have a bot crawling the web for hits on “Can I shag the CEO without getting fired?”
Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2) Page 23