Melt For You

28

“Hullo, sir. Aye, your wife was just telling me—yessir, it’s really me.”

My groan is long, low, and miserable.

“No, no, nothin’ permanent. My cousin and I traded flats for the holidays. I needed a change of scenery, you could say . . .” Cam listens for a while, then his voice darkens. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, sir.”

Curious about his tone, I lift my head and look at him, but he turns his back on me, bending to peer into the oven at the meat loaf. “Aye, it was a bang-up season. No injuries, touch wood.” He nods, listening. “You get the matches on cable?” More nodding, a few grunts of acknowledgment. “You can count on it, sir.”

Then he laughs at something my father has said and turns to look at me. “So I’m discoverin’.” His smile fades as he listens again. “Actually I know several lads who think she’s quite—” Another few moments of listening, then Cam’s face turns red. He says stiffly, “I don’t know about your other daughter, sir, but this one’s a belter.” Another pause. “It means ‘fantastic.’ Have yourself a good night.”

He stalks over to me, thrusts the phone in my face, and pins me with a furious glare. “Five o’clock tomorrow mornin’, lass,” he says through gritted teeth. “Trainin’ starts. If you’re not ready, I’ll kick down the door and drag you out of bed myself.”

I watch, mystified, as he strides away, launches himself through the living room, and disappears.

“What about your meat loaf?” I holler after him.

My only answer is the sound of his slammed apartment door.

TEN

“I can’t believe that was really Cameron McGregor!” my father enthuses as the echo of a slamming door reverberates through my apartment. “Wait’ll I tell the guys at the club—they’ll totally flip out. Epic.”

Because my parents are Los Angeles natives, uttering words like epic to describe a two-minute telephone conversation with a stranger is par for the course. Pretty much everyone I grew up with in our small beach community takes great liberties with the English language, as do their parents, who practice yoga and get Botox and eat disgusting things like kale salads and generally act as if aging is something that only happens to people less in tune with the healing energy of the cosmos.

“So he actually is famous,” I muse, turning off the oven because the meat loaf is finally done.

“Are you kidding?” My father scoffs. “He’s like, the athlete of all athletes! How do you not know this, honey?”

“Because I hate organized sports and everyone who plays organized sports and would rather burn my eyes out with acid than be forced to watch or read anything to do with organized sports.”

My father thinks for a moment. “Yes, I recall when your sister was on the volleyball and swim teams in high school, you refused to go to any of her meets.”

Right. Because inevitably I’d be stared at by people comparing me to my beautiful, popular, overachieving sibling and be forced to spend hours suffering through whispered comments behind hands such as, That can’t really be Jacqueline’s sister! Was she adopted?

Pushing away the vile memory, I beg, “Please tell me he’s not more famous than Michael Jordan.”

My father laughs. “He’s way more famous than Michael Jordan! He’s basically the most famous athlete on the planet.”

Mr. Bingley jumps up onto the chair Cam vacated and looks around wistfully, and I need another glass of wine.

Then my father is gone, and my mother is yammering in my ear like a mental patient without even drawing a breath.

“Holy cow Joellen how could you not tell me Cameron McGregor was living in your building that is crazy and you have him in your apartment oh my goodness wait till I tell Cindy she’ll die.”

“You’re forbidden from telling anyone, Mom, especially that blabbermouth Cindy! It’ll be all over Twitter within half an hour!”

She ignores me because her postmenopausal hormones are resurrecting themselves from the dead. “Is he as gorgeous in person as he is in photos? Is he really as muscular as he looks on TV? What about his hair? Does he have good ha—”

“Mother. Focus. He’s a person, not a s*x object.”

The sound of the receiver being tapped against a wall comes over the line, followed by my mother’s sarcastic voice. “I’m sorry, we seem to have a bad connection. I thought I just heard my daughter say that Cameron McGregor, the s*x object to end all s*x objects, is not a s*x object.”

For some bizarre reason, I feel a little defensive of the Mountain. “He’s actually pretty smart, if you want the truth. He’s very intuitive, and he’s got an amazing vocabulary.”

Her silence is thundering. I sigh and relent. “Okay, fine. Yes, he’s muscular. And he has good hair. Satisfied?”

“No, I’m not satisfied! Details, sweetie, details!”

“I never thought I’d hear myself speak these words, Mother, but I think you’re overdue for some sexy times with Dad.”