Melt For You

22

He folds his arms over his chest and peers at me down his nose. Honestly, the man is pretty intimidating when he does that. Now I understand why biceps are sometimes referred to as “guns.” He’s got a pair of howitzers on him, locked and loaded.

“That pie you made me yesterday bought my silence yesterday. You want more silence today? I want another pie.”

I gasp in outrage. “You never said that! You can’t change the rules after we made an agreement!”

“Cameron McGregor can do whatever he likes, lass.” He steps backward and makes a move to close the door.

“Wait!”

He gazes at me with hooded lids, waiting.

“I don’t have the ingredients for another shepherd’s pie, but—”

He closes the door in my face.

I pound on the door, shouting, “But I can make you my grandmother’s meat loaf, you big jerk! It’s even better!”

There’s a pause, then the music lowers slightly. The door cracks open, and Cameron eyes me through the space. “Meat loaf?”

“Yes,” I say, seething. “Meat loaf. A loaf made of meat. It’s friggin’ delicious.”

The door opens another inch. “What kind of meat?” he asks dubiously.

Oh, for the love of God. “Ground turkey.”

He wrinkles his nose like Mrs. Dinwiddle does, and I have to swallow the growl in my throat because I really don’t want to hear his sucky rap music all night.

“It’s fluffy, juicy, and comes with a side of mashed potatoes and gravy. Do you want the dang thing or not?”

He pretends to think, tapping his chin with his finger, and I’d like to kick him in his blasted family jewels.

“All right.” He solemnly nods. “I accept this loaf of meat you offer. But if I discover that you’ve exaggerated its claims of greatness, our deal is null and void.”

My nostrils flare as the urge to commit murder boils in my veins. “I’ll show you null and void,” I mutter, turning my back to him and stomping across the hall, my happiness evaporated. I dig violently through my purse for my keys. As soon as I get the door open, the music cuts off abruptly, then a door slams and Cameron McGregor pushes past me into my apartment.

I watch helplessly as he lowers himself to my sofa and props his huge bare feet on my coffee table. “No, McGregor. No. Get out.” I point to the open door.

His smile is broad and satisfied. He laces his hands behind his head, which shows off all the muscles in his arms and abdomen and makes his tattoos ripple.

“You can tell me all about pretty boy Michael and what a genius I am while you cook.”

Then, because the universe hates me, Mr. Bingley jumps up on Cameron’s lap, curls up, and promptly goes to sleep. Cameron’s smile grows even wider.

I swing the door shut, willing his head to explode like a pumpkin. Unfortunately, I have no such luck, and his big dumb head remains intact.

“If looks could kill, I’d be stone dead, lass,” he says mildly, watching as I dump my purse on the console table in the foyer, shrug off my coat, and head toward the kitchen.

I say over my shoulder, “You’re the reason God created the middle finger.”

He laughs and keeps on laughing, an irritating sound that can be heard over all the clanging of pots and pans as I dig through the cupboard for the loaf pan. Once it’s in hand, I slam it on the counter and head to the refrigerator.

“I’m happy you find me so amusing.”

He abruptly stops laughing. “That’s not exactly the word I’d use.”

Oh, sure. Fat is probably the word, right? I try out Portia’s Glare of Death on him. “You know, I was in a really good mood before I got home.”

“Because my roses worked. By the way, you’re welcome.”

My back teeth are in danger of shattering, I’m grinding them together so hard. But he has a point. “Well . . . yes. And thank you. How much do I owe you for that bouquet?”

“A week of shepherd’s pies. And/or loafs of meat, if this one turns out to be acceptable.”

He grins at the look of horror on my face, then shrugs. “It’s a drop in the ocean compared to what a Manhattan florist charges for one hundred roses, darlin’. But it’s up to you.”

One hundred roses? I do a quick mental calculation of what a dozen roses might cost retail, multiply it by eight, and wind up with a number so large it makes the blood drain from my face. And that’s not including tax and delivery.

But I’m quick to clarify terms because he’s a dirty deal changer. “That includes no music for a week, too, though, right?”

“Sure. But it also includes me eatin’ over here.”

I’m dumbfounded. “Here? Why here?”

He takes a moment to answer, then says with a bland expression, “I like your cat.”

I narrow my eyes and watch him idly scratch Mr. Bingley behind his ears. “Won’t that interfere with your naked poker parties and standing door s*x with strangers?”

Amusement flickers in his eyes. “No, I’ll just move those to the mornin’s.”

I can tell he’s baiting me, which he seems to really love, so I keep my expression as bland as his and ignore it. “So to clarify, the deal is seven home-cooked meals, which you eat here, in exchange for payment on the roses and no loud music.”

He inclines his head, smiling slightly, which makes me suspicious.

“And that’s it?”

“I can throw in a daily viewin’ of the family jewels if you like.”