We stare at each other while the clock ticks on the kitchen wall and Mr. Bingley makes a meal of his hind paw, going at it like I go at a rack of ribs.

“Why’re your lips twitchin’?” Cam narrows his eyes at me.

“Because I’m trying to decide if that’s sweet, sexist, or so ridiculous I should laugh.”

Cam’s face clears like the sun breaking through thunderclouds. He leans back into his chair and grins. “That’s easy, lass. It’s sweet.”

Is this guy for real? “Question. Purely for curiosity’s sake.”

“Shoot.”

“Have you ever actually taken a woman over your knee as punishment?”

When his grin turns wicked, I hold up a hand. “Nope. Never mind. I don’t want to know.” A sudden spike of pain lances through my skull, and I wince, pressing my fingers to my eyes.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ugh. Headache.”

Cam’s brow wrinkles. “I know you think I’m irritatin’, but causin’ an actual headache is on a whole other level.”

“It’s not you. I mean it is you, but it’s mainly because I haven’t eaten anything all day.”

Cam thunders, “Why the bloody hell not?”

I wince. “Oh, thanks for that. Shouting is great for headaches.”

“Don’t avoid the question!”

When I sigh heavily and rub my temple, Cam says darkly, “This better not have anythin’ to do with pretty boy and the office holiday party.”

Okay, so he’s smart . . . ish. But he’s also on my last nerve, and I know if I admit I’m starving myself to lose weight, he’ll have all kinds of opinions on the subject, so I decide to tell a teensy white lie.

I inspect a crack on the wall over his left shoulder. “My stomach has just been a little upset.”

After a short pause, Cam sighs. “You lie for shit, woman.”

He pronounces shit like shyte. It’s kind of adorable, but I hate him, so it’s not. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Student of humanity, remember?”

I resist the urge to stick out my tongue and simply stare at him instead.

“Okay, your face gets all scrunched up and your whole body does this cringy, foldin’-in-on-itself thing. You might as well be wearin’ a sign on your forehead.”

“That is inconvenient.”

Cam’s voice softens, and so do his eyes. “No, lass. It’s a good thing.” Then his voice gets hard again. “But starvation diets are not.”

“Could you please be less observant? It’s making my headache worse.”

“No, and tough. A headache is the price you pay for bein’ a bloody idiot. Your body needs fuel, lass, and if it doesn’t get it, it’ll start to cannibalize your muscles, and then you’ll have worse problems than headaches.”

I grumble, “What’re you, a doctor?”

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.”