Melt For You

24

“Interestin’ that he noticed. Interestin’ that he took the initiative. Interestin’ that he made it happen so fast. Interestin’ that he dropped by to make sure it was done. All of it made even more interestin’ because you’re of the opinion he doesn’t know you exist.”

I lean forward, my eyes wide. “That’s what I thought!”

“What did he do when he saw the flowers?”

“He sort of . . . glared at them, like he wanted to throw them away.”

A muscle flexes in Cam’s jaw, but he’s silent.

“What’s part two?”

“That you care if I get mad when you’re too hard on yourself.”

I wave that away because I want to get back to Michael. “So, what do you think it all means?”

“I think it means he likes you.”

Though I’m thrilled by the possibility that what he’s saying might be true, I know it’s not reality. “Much as I’d love to believe that, I can’t.”

“Maybe you should take my word for it, lass.”

“This from the man wearing nothing but a plaid skirt who insists I’m desperate to have his babies.”

Cam’s smile comes on slow and heated. “Aye. And what bonny wee bairns they’d be, too. Pretty little devils with their mum’s salty tongue.”

“Being around you is slightly exhausting, McGregor.”

“Only slightly? I’m takin’ that as a compliment, lass.”

I can’t help it. I start to laugh. Weakly at first, but then I give in to the hysteria I’ve been holding back all day, brought on by my morning encounter with Michael, and laugh with gusto, my head thrown back, pounding a fist on the table.

“You see?” Cam sounds smug. “You’re mad about me. Only a woman in love can laugh like that.”

Wiping tears from my eyes, I try to catch my breath. “You were dropped on your head a lot as a baby, weren’t you?”

“Not as a baby,” he answers softly, the smile fading from his face. “That came later.”

That statement shoots my laughter from the air like clay birds. I stare at him―he’s suddenly serious, his jaw tense―and wonder if I’m supposed to pretend he didn’t say anything or take it as an opening to delve into his personal life. And if I want to open this particular can of worms.

“I can hear the gears turnin’, lass,” he says, watching my face. “Don’t break your brain—just go ahead and ask.”

“Um. Sheesh. I don’t know where to start.” After a moment, I ask tentatively, “You . . . had a rough childhood?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you haven’t googled me.”

“Of course I haven’t googled you! Why would I do that?”

“Because I’m Cameron McGregor, that’s why.”

I have to blink at his casual delivery, like he takes it for granted that every person who comes into contact with him rushes to the internet immediately after they meet to discover all the intimate details of his background.

If I thought he had a big ego before, now I think it’s positively colossal. “Okay, not to be mean, but I literally had never heard of you until you moved into my building.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be daft. Everyone’s heard of me.”

“Dude. You’re not Mick Jagger.”

“No, I’m much more famous and better-looking.”

“No, you’re not.”

He sits forward, dropping his casual demeanor for a challenging one. He stabs a finger at his chest. “You’re saying you think Mick bloody Jagger, that grizzled old Englishman, is better-looking than me?”

“Easy, tiger. Don’t get your skirt in a bunch. I’m saying you’re not as famous as Mick Jagger.”

He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, and looks at me down his nose like he so enjoys doing, making a clucking noise with his tongue. “You’re sadly misinformed, darlin’. I’m the most famous athlete on the planet.”

“Okay, number one, rock stars are more famous than athletes, hands down. And number two, you’re not more famous than Michael Jordan.”

He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “I’m way more famous than Michael Jordan!”

“Maybe in your own mind, but here in the land of the sane people, you’re definitely not.”

His sigh is a big gust of air, filled with disappointment. “Ach, lassie, you really don’t get out enough.”

“On a side note to this stupid conversation, McGregor, here in the States, Lassie is a famous television dog. So when I hear you call me lassie, I’m hearing you call me a dog.”

He considers that for a moment. “What kind of dog?”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

“I’m bein’ serious! Is it a pretty dog? A mangy dog? A pit bull? I’ve never heard of this Lassie character. You need to clue me in.”

“You were kicked out of Scotland because you’re so annoying, right? Everyone got together and agreed to throw you out for the greater good of the country?”

He’s trying not to laugh, pressing his lips together. “You’d know if you googled me.”

“I am not googling you, egosaurus.”

“C’mon, you know you want to. We can do it together!”

I stare at him, shaking my head. “You have serious mental problems that require professional help.”

His hazel eyes sparkle. “All part o’ my charm, sweetheart, all part o’ my charm.”

I look at the timer on the oven, wondering how much longer this torture has to continue, when Mr. Bingley wanders into the kitchen and jumps up into Cameron’s lap.

Cam looks at me, smiling triumphantly.