Melt For You

5

“Well, hello there.” He stops by my desk and smiles at me, and I swear I hear angels singing. “I see I’m not the only unlucky sod working on the weekend. How are you, Joellen?”

He’s originally from London, so he has this incredibly suave British accent, which is made even more incredible as it caresses the vowels in my name. That he remembers me at all makes me quiver all over.

“Good morning, Mr. Maddox.”

Thank you, God, for allowing me to sound like a human being and not the screaming playground of kindergarten children that I am inside.

He quirks his lips. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Michael?”

I nearly faint. Not only does he remember my name, he remembers having talked to me before. Sweet baby Jesus, Christmas came early this year.

“Michael.” I say his name with such reverence I’m surprised tiny confetti hearts aren’t spilling off my tongue. Don’t be weird! Stop staring at him! Close your mouth!

I look down, cheeks flaming, and realize I’m clutching the manuscript so hard my knuckles are white. I force myself to breathe, which is probably the most difficult thing I’ve done in years.

“I hope we’re not working you too hard.” Michael frowns at the death grip I’ve got on the manuscript.

I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Just a little catch-up. Trying to get ahead for next week.” Lies, lies, all of it lies. You are one big fat liar. I wonder if his hair is as soft as it looks?

“Jolly good! I love to see initiative.”

His eyes—the blue of summer skies over an undiscovered tropical paradise—smile along with the rest of his face. He has little crinkle lines around them, which somehow only add to his beauty. Unlike mine, which make me look haggard.

“Well, I do love to take the initiative.”

As soon as the words are out, I want to stuff my fist into my mouth so I won’t say anything else, because I somehow managed to take an innocent expression and make it sound like I was propositioning him for s*x. Which is proven beyond a doubt when Michael’s perfectly sculpted brows lift.

“Do you now?” he murmurs, sounding amused.

Why am I like this? I silently beg the universe. Why can’t I be a normal person? When are you going to drop a piano on my head and put me out of my misery?

After an excruciating moment wherein Michael watches my face burn and my hands act like big pale moths fluttering helplessly around the manuscript, he takes pity on me.

“I’ll let you get back to it, then. Can I get you a cup of coffee? I’m just on my way to the kitchen for a refill.”

I shake my head, too embarrassed to speak or even look at him.

“All right. Cheers.” He lifts his mug in farewell, then heads off toward the kitchen.

As soon as he’s out of sight, I slump facedown on my desk and groan.

I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.

I don’t see Michael again for the rest of the day. He might’ve thrown himself out a window to avoid having to speak to me again for all I know. Not that I’d blame him. I’m such a loser, it’s probably hard for someone like him to breathe the same air as me.

When I leave, it’s dark and cold, like the inside of my heart. And a few other places in my body. I’m so deep in self-recrimination mode when I get off the elevator on my floor that I walk right past Mrs. Dinwiddle standing in her open doorway.

“Ducky! Ducky!” she calls in an excited voice.

I turn around and blink at her. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Dinwiddle. Sorry, I didn’t see you there. I’m a little spaced out today.”

She makes a sweeping gesture with the hand she’s holding her martini in, causing gin to slosh out and spray the wood floor. “I’ve got news!”

Penelope Dinwiddle is a retired stage actress from Yorkshire, England, who found her fame and fortune in a Shakespeare troupe that toured Europe during the fifties and sixties. Now somewhere north of eighty, she hasn’t lost a bit of her theatrical nature. She stands in her doorway wearing red lipstick and false eyelashes, a flowing lavender chiffon robe and matching negligee, a white feather boa, and all her jewelry, including the diamond tiara given to her by some minor prince of the Saudi royal family.

She’s been married eight times. Kellen and I call her the Elizabeth Taylor of SoHo.

Giddy with excitement, she waves me over. Somewhere in the apartment, her Filipino caretaker, Blessica, shushes the yipping trio of Pomeranians named Fee, Fi, and Fo.

“So you know Kellen went to Scotland for the holidays.” Mrs. Dinwiddle adds emphasis every few words because there’s nothing she loathes more than a dull delivery.

“No, I didn’t know that. I haven’t talked to him in a few—”

“And his cousin the rugby player is staying in his apartment! They traded off, you see?” She tries to clap but only manages to spill more of her martini.