Melt For You

27

Ignoring my exasperated sigh, he makes a motion with his hand to indicate his form. “This majestic display of manhood didn’t just happen. Cameron McGregor wasn’t carved by Michelangelo’s hand like the David. He was carved by his own. I’m sure you’ll agree, the results are even more spectacular.”

“Sorry, I think I just vomited a little in my mouth. What were you saying?”

Holding my gaze, Cam rises from his chair and comes to stand right in front of me. “Gimme your hand.”

Leery, I back away several inches. “If you’re thinking of giving me a tactile tour of other parts of your majestic manhood, you can go jump off a cliff.”

He grabs my hand and flattens it over his stomach before I can react. His skin is hot and soft, the muscles beneath are corded and as unyielding as steel, and the blood suffusing my cheeks is in imminent danger of leaking straight through my pores.

Pressing his big hand over mine, he says in a thick voice, “When it comes to the body, I know what I’m doin’, lass. Gimme a chance to show you what I mean. I promise you’ll be satisfied.”

When he gazes deep into my eyes, I discover I’m having trouble breathing.

Here’s the thing: I know I have an overactive imagination. I’m prone to flights of fancy, have arguments in my head with people that last for days, could daydream myself into old age if I’m not careful. But I know to the marrow of my bones that the low rumble of heat in Cameron’s voice—the absolute conviction behind the words I promise you’ll be satisfied—is more than his usual Broadway show.

He’s telling the truth . . . and he’s not talking about an exercise program.

My uterus comes alive like a Fourth of July fireworks extravaganza, exploding with heat and color, the “The Star-Spangled Banner” playing over loudspeakers, bleachers full of screaming fans jumping up and down. Cam’s gaze is locked to mine like a tractor beam. I suddenly understand what romance novels are talking about when they refer to the heroine as having weak knees, because mine are rubberized. I’m about to melt into a liquid pool at his feet.

Cam must see something in my eyes, because his own sharpen. He leans closer, his lips parted, a vein throbbing in his neck.

The phone rings.

I jump, sucking in a startled breath, and almost laugh hysterically with relief but manage to swallow it. I jerk away from Cam and fall onto the phone on the kitchen wall like it’s a life vest. Into it I bark, “Hello?”

“Hi, honey,” says my mother. “Why are you shouting?”

“Oh, sorry, uh . . . I have my music on a little loud.”

From behind me, Cam chuckles. Because my mother has supersonic hearing the X-Men would be proud of, she picks up on the sound right away.

“Who’s that? Is someone there with you?”

Avoiding looking at Cam, I stare at the oven, willing my galloping heart to slow down. “Just my neighbor.”

“Mrs. Dinwiddle?”

This conversation is about to turn into an FBI interrogation, so I head to the wine rack next to the counter and select a bottle of red. As I’m getting the corkscrew from a drawer, I say, “No, he’s a new neighbor.”

With the weight of the four thousand unborn grandchildren she so desperately wants, my mother repeats, “He?”

I fumble for a few moments with the corkscrew, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while trying to cut off the foil on the bottle without slicing off a finger, until Cam takes the bottle from me with a look like Calm down, nutjob.

He gets the bottle open faster than I can gulp down a calming breath and starts to rummage through my cupboards for a wineglass. I point at the right one and say to my mother, “Don’t start knitting baby booties yet, mother. He’s gay.”

Cam chuckles again, this time louder. “Tell her my name and see what she says about me bein’ gay.”

I hiss, “Shut up!”

My mother asks, “What did he say? What’s going on over there?”

Why do I feel twelve years old all of a sudden? “My neighbor’s just giving me some decorating advice.”

“Oh, how nice! Maybe he can help you with your wardrobe, too, sweetie.”

Cam holds out the glass of wine he’s poured for me, and I guzzle it like it’s a competition. Then—bastard!—he wrests the phone from my hand.

“Hullo, Mrs. Bixby. This is Cameron McGregor. Your daughter and I are in love.”

Wine sprays from my mouth like a geyser, coating the kitchen counter and my chin.

I leap at him, grabbing for the phone, but he bats me away as easily as if I were a puppy. “Aye,” he says into the phone, his eyes sparkling with laughter. “That Cameron McGregor.” He listens for a moment as I continue to wrestle with him for control of the phone and fail miserably. “Oh, your husband’s a big fan?” he drawls, smirking at me. “That’s great to hear. Is he home? I’d love to talk to him.”

“Give me the phone, you big ape! Give it to me!”

Cam holds me at arm’s length with some ninja moves as I twist and turn, desperate to grab the phone from his hand, to no avail. It’s like fighting the wind. In a few seconds I’m dizzy from spinning around so much and have to put a hand to my forehead as I try to catch my breath.

Then Cam starts to talk to my father, and I give up. I collapse into a chair at the table and hide my head under my arms, hoping for the best.