FIVE
By the time I leave work Sunday afternoon, I’ve finished the edit on the manuscript and worked myself into a lather over exactly how I’m going to achieve my new goal of transforming myself into a svelte goddess in the time it normally takes me to go up a dress size.
Okay, “goddess” is a stretch, but I’m trying to think positive. The internet is bursting with examples of the power of mind over matter in achieving your goals, and who am I to question the word of someone named SkinnyGirl69 who claims to have lost half her body weight in a month from following a simple diet of eating nothing but air?
So, basically, I’m going on a crash diet composed of breathing. If I don’t drop dead, I’ll definitely be thin by Christmas. Seems like a reasonable risk to me.
I didn’t see Michael again for the rest of the day, and I was way too chicken to go into the executive office area to say good-bye. Plus, I thought our conversation ended on such a fantastic note there was really nothing that could top it. And the danger of me ruining it all was very real, so I slunk out before fate could decide I’d had enough fun and topple the building with a rogue earthquake.
I’m unlocking my apartment door when a booming voice from behind me makes me jump.
“Where’s my pie, lass?”
Gah. It’s him. Over my shoulder, I send Cameron an icy glare that would make Portia proud. “As you can see, I literally just got home. I don’t have a magical pie-producing handbag.”
“Excuses, excuses! Next you’ll be tellin’ me they ran out of food at the store!”
I turn around and blast him with the full measure of my dislike, shot from my eyeballs like a hail of bullets. “Some people have to work for a living, okay? I haven’t had a chance to go to the grocery store to get the stuff for your dang . . .” I’m about to continue, but this is when I notice his latest fashion choice, and I’m left speechless once again.
After a moment during which he simply grins at me, I regain my senses. “Are you wearing . . . tights?”
“What, these?” He makes spokesmodel hands at his muscular legs, which are clad in a pair of nuclear yellow, stretchy, shiny things that appear to be sprayed on from ankles to hips, leaving nothing to the imagination. Every ripple and bulge are highlighted—especially the bulge in his crotch.
It’s inhumanly large. I’m certain he’s stuffed an elephant’s trunk into his pants.
“Eyes up top, darlin’,” he drawls, catching me staring.
I’m so mortified, I’d like to kill myself. Instead, I turn around and unlock my front door. I push it open and am about to slam it shut behind me, but Cameron flattens his big paw over it and pushes it back.
“Now, now, no need to be shy.” Laughter warms his voice. “I already know how bad you’ve got it for me, lass. And no, these aren’t tights. They’re runner’s compression leggings.”
Compression? Ha! They’re not compressing anything!
“Please get your hand off my door.” I say that with my gaze pinned on the ceiling so my eyeballs don’t do any wandering off on their own. They simply can’t be trusted.
“I’ll get my hand off your door when you tell me what time supper is. I really want that pie of yours, darlin’.”
I growl at the innuendo in his voice, which I’m certain is the way he talks to every female who crosses his path. The pig.
“Don’t call me darling! And stop talking about my shepherd’s pie like it’s my pie pie!”
From my peripheral vision, I see his brows shoot up. “Your pie pie?” He bats his lashes, the picture of innocence. “I have no idea what you mean. I’m just tryin’ to find out when I can expect somethin’ you promised me.” As if on cue, his stomach grumbles. He points to it. “You see? I’m starvin’, lass!” Then he grins and slaps his hand on his abdomen, which doesn’t budge even the tiniest bit because the man has 0 percent body fat.
“Rr-ow!”
We look down to see Mr. Bingley curling himself around Cameron’s ankles like a furry little boa constrictor. His purr is so loud it sounds as if someone started an engine.
“Who do we have here?” Cam smiles at Mr. Bingley, who beams up at him and rubs his face on Cam’s shiny yellow shin.
I hope he unsheathes his claws and puts a few snags in that stupid fabric. “That’s Mr. Bingley.”
Cam picks up the cat, flips him onto his back, and cradles him in his arms like a baby. I’m about to protest that he’s doing it wrong, but the dumb cat has closed his eyes and started to purr even more loudly, his fluffy orange tail swishing in delight against Cam’s stomach.
As I stare in astonishment, Cam scratches under Mr. Bingley’s chin. “You must’ve done something really bad to get yourself named after a Jane Austen character, mate.”
Now I’m beyond astonished. I’m floored. The Mountain knows who Mr. Bingley is? And here I thought hell officially froze over hours ago!
“What?” says Cam to me, not looking up from the cat. “You thought I was all beauty and no brains, darlin’?”
I produce an unladylike snort. “More like all ego and no manners.”
He glances up at me from under his lashes and sends me a lazy smile. “So you’re not denyin’ you think I’m beautiful.”
My eye roll is extravagant. “You’re depriving some poor village of its idiot. Can I have my cat back now?”
“When I get my pie, you get the cat.” He turns around and swaggers back across the hall with Mr. Bingley in his arms, kicking the door shut just as I lunge for it.
“McGregor!” Furious, I pound on his door with my fist. “Give me my cat back right this minute!”
From behind the closed door comes a low chuckle and the clack of a dead bolt turning. “Your pie for your pussy, sweetheart.” Two seconds later, rap music comes on at full volume, thundering through the walls, cutting off any hope of further conversation.
I stare at his door, fuming, grateful for once that poor Mr. Bingley is deaf so he doesn’t have to hear the blistering foul language in the lyrics. A part of me marvels at the audacity of this Cameron McGregor person and how he can work in not one but two euphemisms for my vagina in a six-word sentence, while another part of me wants to tear the door clear off its hinges and beat him to a pulp with it.
The bastard stole my cat!
I holler at the top of my lungs, “If he comes back with a single hair out of place, I’ll kick your tights-wearing butt!”
I could swear under the boom of bass there’s laughter.
Never in the long and storied history of shepherd’s pie has one been assembled faster.
I set a land speed record to and from the corner market, my shoes leaving smoke and the sound of peeling rubber in their wake. I chop vegetables like a madwoman, sauté ground lamb as if someone is holding a gun to my head, curse at the pot of water until it finally gives in and comes to a boil from sheer terror. I abuse the potatoes so badly in my hurry to mash them, I almost overdo it and end up with a gluey mess but salvage them just in time by calming myself with a jumbo glass of wine, guzzled with the gusto of an addict at the start of an epic bender.
After that I’m calm—well, calm is a relative term when comparing a total mental breakdown to mere crippling anxiety—and am able to finish the dish and get it into the oven without chopping off any of my fingers or suffering a life-threatening cardiac event.
Which is when I realize that in my haste, I never turned the oven on.
“I’m going to kill him,” I tell the empty kitchen. “If Mr. Bingley is even a little miffed when he comes home, Cameron McGregor is going to die.”
I crank up the dial on the oven, then head over to McGregor’s and pound on the door. I’m regretting leaving my chef’s knife in the kitchen when he opens up.
He’s changed from the yellow stretchy leggings into a pair of faded jeans but still isn’t wearing anything else. I wonder if the man owns shirts. And why does he have to be so muscular? It’s distracting!
“Where is he?” I demand, craning my neck to try to look around his broad shoulders.
“Where’s my pie?”
“In the oven.”
He cocks one eyebrow and stares at me.
“It has to bake! It takes time! You’ll have your stupid shepherd’s pie in half an hour for God’s sake!”
He sends me a saccharine smile. “So that’s when you’ll have your cat.”
He makes a move to shut the door but is unable to as I throw my full weight against it. I knock him out of the way and barge into the apartment, calling Mr. Bingley’s name, knowing he won’t be able to hear me but unable to stop myself in my panic that I’m two steps away from finding a dead pile of fur on the floor with a beer bottle shoved down its poor throat.
“Mr. Bingley! Mr. Bing—”
I stop short at the bedroom door. There in the middle of the bed is the cat, curled up and sleeping peacefully, the stupid yellow tights wound around him like a security blanket.
“He’s a real lover, that one.” Cameron stands behind me in the hallway. I can tell from his tone he’s trying not to laugh. “Practically had to peel him off me so I could take a shower. Never had a cat take a likin’ to me so fast. Takes after his mum, I guess.”
I refuse to let him bait me, so I don’t answer. Instead, I go to the bed and pick up Mr. Bingley, careful not to touch the yellow tights. When I turn around, Cameron is blocking the doorway, his arms folded over his chest. He shakes his head.
“Now I know you don’t think you’re leavin’ with that cat, lass, seein’ as how I don’t have a shepherd’s pie in my hands.”
“Your obsession with that particular food is pathological, you know that?”
“It’s just that . . . pie is my favorite thing in the world.” He pulls his lips between his teeth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
“Ugh. Keep talking—maybe someday you’ll say something intelligent.”
He throws his head back and laughs, loud and long, while I stand and stare at him and Mr. Bingley tries to wriggle out of my arms to get back to the bed.
“Okay, comedian,” he says, still chuckling. “New deal. We’re goin’ over to your place while we wait for my pie to finish bakin’.” He turns and strolls away, waving a hand dismissively over his shoulder when I holler at him that we don’t have a deal, and he’s not welcome in my apartment.
A minute later the point is moot as Cameron lowers his muscular bulk to my sofa, props his bare feet up on my coffee table, laces his fingers together over his stomach, and smiles at me like he’s waiting for me to bring him a drink.
“You’re unbelievable.” I swing the door shut, deposit the cat onto the floor, and flee into the safety of the kitchen. Unfortunately the kitchen is about fifteen feet away from the living room, so I’m not really safe at all.
Then a voice comes through the door. “Ducky? Ducky, are you home?”
Amused, Cameron looks at me. “Ducky?”
“Shut up, pie boy,” I mutter, headed for the door. When I open it, I find Mrs. Dinwiddle, martini in hand, wearing four-inch heels and a full-length mink coat over a flowered nightgown. The diamond tiara perched on her head is slightly askew.
“There you are, dear!” She beams at me as if she’s won a game of hide-and-seek.
“Hello, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”
She pushes back a wispy gray curl from her forehead, escaped from its proper position under the tiara. “I just wanted to say that last night was lovely. I probably don’t tell you enough, but I so appreciate you making dinner for me every Satur . . .”
She trails off right in the middle of her thought, arrested by the sight of a large barechested man smiling at her from the sofa. She instantly switches into coy debutante mode, fluttering her lashes and lifting a shoulder when she says with syrupy sweetness, “Why, hellooo there, young man.”
Cameron sends her a flirtatious nod, his smile so bright it’s practically blinding. Apparently he doesn’t care what age the women are who pay him attention, as long as they do.
Her gaze still glued to Cameron, Mrs. Dinwiddle addresses me. “I didn’t think you’d have company, Ducky. You never have—”
“He was just leaving,” I say loudly, cutting her off before she can reveal any more details of my pathetic life.
“No, I wasn’t.” Cameron rises from the sofa and swaggers over, grinning that smug, infuriating grin that tells me in no uncertain terms he’s going to give me the business about the “date” I said I had last night.
“Hullo, I’m Cameron McGregor. Pleasure to meet you.” He sticks his hand out to Mrs. Dinwiddle. Instead of taking it, she does that limp-wristed thing you see in old movies when the Southern belle wants the courtly gentleman to kiss her hand.
So what does he do? He bends over, lifts her hand to his mouth, and kisses it!
Mrs. Dinwiddle giggles like a teenage girl and bats her fake eyelashes so furiously I’m surprised they don’t fly off. When Cameron straightens and releases her hand, she wiggles her fingers in his face.
“Well aren’t you dashing?” she says, eyeballing his chest.
Cameron smiles at her indulgently, enjoying her obvious admiration. “I don’t know about that, ma’am, but I do know that a beautiful woman like yourself should always be treated like a queen.”
I growl. “And the ugly ones should always be treated like servants?”
Simpering at Cam, Mrs. Dinwiddle chastises me. “He’s only paying me a little compliment, Ducky. Leave the poor man alone!”
“Oh, I’d love to leave him alone,” I mutter. “All alone. On a desert island.”
When Mrs. Dinwiddle frowns at me, Cam chuckles. “She’s just jealous of your style, Mrs. Dinwiddle.”
“No, I’m jealous of everyone who hasn’t met you.”
Cam turns the full wattage of his smile toward me. “Oh, c’mon now, lass, meetin’ me has gotta be the most excitin’ thing to happen to you since your last Pap smear.”
Scandalized but trying not to laugh, Mrs. Dinwiddle whips the Chinese silk fan from a pocket of her mink and almost sprains her wrist fanning her face.
“Ha,” I say sourly. “You have all the charm of an open grave, McGregor.”
“Tch. Just admit it. You’re in love with me.” He bumps me with his elbow, and I send him a look designed to melt his face.
“Love? Hardly. If you were on a life support machine, I’d unplug it to charge my phone.”
Cam laughs, leaving me confused as to why he seems to like it so much when I insult him. My confusion is overtaken by a wave of horror, however, when Mrs. Dinwiddle rejoins the conversation.
“I’m sure she would fall in love with you, Cameron, but she’s already in love with someone else.”
“That so? Who’s the lucky man?” drawls Cam, playing along, thinking she’s joking, because obviously no man in his right mind would have anything to do with the likes of me.
I scramble to backtrack, making desperate googly eyes at Mrs. Dinwiddle so she’ll take the hint to shut up. “No one! She’s kidding. I’m not in love with any—”
“Her married boss!” crows Mrs. Dinwiddle, leaning toward Cameron with a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. Like I’m not even standing right here. Like my deepest, darkest secret is fabulous conversation material with the beefy baller she only just met.
I’m not a violent person, and I especially would never condone violence against the elderly, but Mrs. Dinwiddle is in imminent danger of getting bitch-slapped.
Cam’s whole demeanor changes. He looks shocked, his smile falling away and his eyes widening. “You’re having an affair with your married boss? And you’re judging me?”
“I am certainly not having an affair!” I huff, indignant. “I’d never do such a thing!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle says sadly, “He doesn’t know she exists, you see.”
“Okay, visiting time at the zoo is over. Good-bye, people.” I try to usher them both out the door, but Cam won’t be budged, and Mrs. Dinwiddle is too busy downing the rest of her martini to notice my dismay.
“Hold on. Explain this to me.” Cam turns to me with new interest. “So you’re in love with this guy—who’s married—but you’ve never gotten together with him . . . because he doesn’t know you exist?”
I grind my back teeth together. “You make it sound like the only reason I haven’t committed adultery is because he hasn’t noticed me.”
“It’s not adultery on your part if you’re not married, Ducky,” chimes in Mrs. Dinwiddle, who has a rather “educated” opinion on the matter.
“Ugh. Semantics! My point is that even if Michael were all over me, I’d never do anything with a married man! It’s just . . . unrequited. He doesn’t know how I feel about him. But even if he did, I’d never cross that line.”
Cam examines my face with narrowed eyes. After a moment, apparently satisfied I’m telling the truth, he pronounces, “That’s a sad story, lass. No wonder you’re always in such a bad mood every time I see you.”
“I’m in a bad mood every time I see you because I’m seeing you,” I say sweetly. “And it’s not that sad a story, because I found out today that he’s getting divorced.”
When they stare at me in silence, I feel a little defensive, like they think I’m fibbing. “And he asked me to save him a dance at the office holiday party.”
Cam’s brows climb so far up his forehead it looks like a party trick. “The plot thickens!”
Mrs. Dinwiddle squeals and bounces on her toes. “Indeed ! Now will you let me give you that makeover, Ducky?”
“Just out of curiosity, why do you call her Ducky?”
Mrs. Dinwiddle makes a regal sweeping motion with the fan to indicate my appearance. “Because she insists on remaining an ugly duckling, my dear, when she could so easily become a swan.”
Cam turns to me with the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve seen in my life. “Aw. Ducky.”
Wow. If this is Karma, she put on spiked boots before she started kicking my ass.