“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.

“Oh, shut up, McGregor.”

“Never in a million years, lass. I’ve got too many brilliant ideas to share. Like this one, for instance. Are you ready?” He leans forward, his eyes shining like he’s about to dispense some illuminating morsel of galactic wisdom.

“I can hardly wait.”

“First, a question: When was the last time you kissed a man?”

I’m instantly, totally insulted. “Screw you!”

“I’m not insinuatin’ you’re a lesbian, if that’s what you think. Not that there’s anything wrong with bein’ a lesbian—that just wasn’t where I was headed.”

“You’re so lucky the knives are in a drawer on the other side of the kitchen, because if I had one in my hand right now, I’d gouge out your eyeballs.”

He waves a hand impatiently in my face. “My point is that if it’s been a while since you were properly kissed, you’ll need a little practice to get yourself up to speed for pretty boy Michael.”

I shout, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cam sits back in his chair and smiles. “I’m talkin’ about bein’ your coach.”

It takes me a moment to understand, but when I do, my ears go hot. “Wait. You’re offering to teach me how to kiss?”

His smile grows even wider. “Who better than Prince Pantydropper?”

NINE

After I expend an enormous amount of energy glaring torpedoes at Cam and trying to unscramble my brain, a light bulb goes on over my head. “Oh, I get it.”

He looks interested. “You get what, exactly?”

“You’re one of those guys who can’t stand it when a woman isn’t into him. Your ego is so inflated with the hot gas everyone blows up your butt, when you cross paths with someone who’s indifferent, it drives you crazy. So you have to walk around half-naked showing off your collection of bulges and tattoos, and demand homemade meat loaves, and make outrageous statements like ‘I’ll be your kissing coach,’ all so that your fragile yet ridiculously overblown ego won’t implode from lack of attention.”

Cam deadpans, “Thank you, Dr. Freud, for that excellent diagnosis.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Too bad it’s barmy. But I’m interested in hearin’ more about these ‘bulges’ you speak of. Are there any in particular that’re your favorites?”

Hooking a thumb into the waistband of his kilt, he sends me an innocent smile that’s like sandpaper scoured over my nerve endings.

“I bet it’s even more aggravating to you that the chubby girl is the one who’s not all hot and bothered by your flagrant machismo, right?”

There goes his smile, disappearing faster than a bowl of chocolate Häagen-Dazs down my throat. He leans toward me with a low growl.

“Tear yourself down in front of me again, woman, and I’ll take you over my knee and make you wish you hadn’t.”