Melt For You

26

He stands and braces his hands on his hips, towering over me. Mr. Bingley hops to the floor and waits patiently at his feet.

Cam says, “Look at me, lass. Look at this body.” He throws out his arms, juts out his chin, and puffs out his chest. “You think I got this perfect physique by starvin’ myself? You think I became the world’s most famous, beloved athlete by tryin’ to be skinny?”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat the question? Your ego is blocking my ears.”

“The human body is a complex machine. A temple, as they say. You have to treat it like one!”

“Yeah, well, my temple is more like an abandoned ruin the jungle has taken over and a herd of billy goats is living in.”

I can tell Cam wants to laugh, but he’s trying hard to keep his serious face because he’s not finished with his scolding. He wags a finger at me like Granny Gums does when she’s warning that my biological clock is on a death-spiral countdown.

“What you need is a customized diet and exercise program.”

“Incorrect. What I need is liposuction.”

He shudders, as if the thought repulses him, and drops back into his chair, which creaks in protest under his weight. Mr. Bingley instantly jumps back into his lap. I’m starting to wonder if Cam rubs catnip on his body before coming over.

“No lipo. Your body will burn fat efficiently if you feed it properly and work it out.”

“Hooray. Unfortunately, I’m addicted to carbs and sugar and allergic to exercise, so the only way I’m going to burn fat is if someone comes at me with a blowtorch or if I stop eating altogether. I decided I’d try option two first.”

Cam drums his fingers on the table, pinning me in his intense gaze until I’m shifting in my seat because his look makes me so uncomfortable. Then he pronounces, “We start trainin’ tomorrow mornin’.”

I say archly, “I’m not taking you up on your kissing coaching, pal, no matter how many panties you’ve dropped! Let it go.”

He rolls his eyes, as if I’m the one who’s being ridiculous. “I’m talkin’ about an exercise program.”

“Ha! Me adopting an exercise routine is about as likely as you suddenly developing humility and fashion sense.” I stand, cross to the oven, and impatiently tap the timer, convinced it’s not working.

“How much weight do you wanna lose by the party?” he demands, sweeping his gaze over my figure.

I shoot him a sour look. “A literal ton. And if you can add in glowing skin and a pair of boobs that don’t look like something out of National Geographic, lengthen my legs by a few inches, and generally reduce my resemblance to the ogress Princess Fiona from Shrek, you’re on.”

I’m too busy assessing the state of the cooking meat loaf through the glass window of the oven to notice the yawning silence, but after a while it dawns on me that Cam isn’t saying anything, which can only be bad news.

I glance over at him and find what I know I’ll find: Cam doing his best impersonation of Wolverine.

I straighten and sigh, shaking my head. “Please don’t bristle at me, McGregor.”

He enunciates each word slowly, as if he’s biting them off with his teeth. “Who. Told. You. You’re. Ugly.”

“Every mirror I’ve ever looked into.”

Wrong answer. Wolverine goes full mutant mode. It’s lucky he’s not wearing a shirt, because it would be ripped to shreds by his sudden angry expansion.

“Stop, McGregor. Just stop. I know how I look.”

“Maybe you need new glasses.”

That pisses me off. I hate it when well-meaning people try to make me feel better about my looks.

My cheeks flaming with heat, I say quietly, “Don’t you dare pity me or patronize me. And don’t bullshit me, either. I own mirrors, and a scale, and have a younger sister who’s won enough beauty contests that I know what pretty is supposed to look like. And I’m not it. Which is fine—I’m not feeling sorry for myself. But when someone like you who’s physically gifted tries to be kind about my appearance, it comes off as really disingenuous and honestly kind of cruel.”

Because I’m upset and my throat has tightened, my voice breaks over the last word. I hate how vulnerable I sound, how it must be so obvious to him that I’m upset, so I turn away, folding my arms protectively over my chest and hiding my flaming face.

From across the kitchen comes Cam’s low voice. “I don’t pity you, Joellen. And I’m a lot of things, but a bullshitter isn’t one of ’em.”

When I shake my head, huffing out a hard breath through my nose, Cam demands, “Look at me.”

“I’m too mad to look at you. Now be quiet before I take the meat loaf out of the oven and shove it up your stuck-up butt.”

There’s a pause, then Cam chuckles. “Y’know, lass, in some cultures when a woman constantly threatens a man with violence, it’s a sure sign she likes him.”

I’m overcome with sudden fatigue and scrub my hands over my face. “You’re relentless. Also that’s a totally made-up fact.”

“I’m sure I read it somewhere, but here’s a fact that isn’t made up. If you wanna look different for pretty boy, I’m your best shot.”

I slant him a sideways glare.

He meets it with an expression of total confidence, his smile the very definition of smug. “I was a runt as a boy, lass. The incredibly delectable body you see before you is self-made, forged from nothin’ but will.”