TWELVE

The moan coming from across the table would do a porn star proud.

“Sweet Jesus. Oh, for the love of all that’s holy. That’s so bloody good. Ach, it’s like a party in my mouth. Like an orgy in my mouth! If I died at this moment, I’d be happy, because I would’ve finally discovered the meanin’ of life.”

Trying not to be too pleased by Cam’s extravagant praise, I allow myself a small smile. “The meaning of life is rigatoni carbonara?”

“No, lass. The meanin’ of life is rigatoni carbonara with homemade garlic bread, black-truffle gnocchi, and a weird fruity salad.”

“It’s a fennel, orange, mint, red chicory, pomegranate, balsamic, and extra virgin olive oil salad, not a ‘weird’ salad.”

Eyes closed, Cam waves his fork in the air like he’s the pope performing a blessing at mass. “Details. My point is that it’s pure braw. Pedro.”

“What’s ‘braw’ and who’s Pedro?”

Cam opens his eyes, and they’re sparkling with laughter. “It means ‘amazin’.’”

“You could’ve just said that.”

“I did!” He shovels another forkful of rigatoni into his mouth and winks at me as he chews.

“I’m glad you like it. But don’t expect this for the remainder of your bribery meals, because today we’re celebrating.”

“Oh yeah?” he says around a mouthful. “What’re we celebratin’?”

“I got a raise.”

Cam stops chewing.

“And there’s an associate editor position open, which the HR director encouraged me to apply for.” I beam at Cam as he swallows his mouthful of food.

It’s a moment before he answers. “Congratulations, lass. You deserve the raise, I’m sure.”

There’s something funny in his voice that gets my hackles up. “Why does that feel like one of those backhanded compliments I get on blind dates, like ‘It’s great that you’re not obsessed with how you look’?”

Cam takes a swallow of water from his glass before answering. When he does, he keeps his gaze on his plate of food. “Just seems a little coincidental is all.”

“How is it coincidental? I applied for the raise a month ago!”

His gaze flashes up to mine. “Uh-huh. And you’re gettin’ it the week pretty boy replaced your chair and I sent you roses.”

“God, you’re a buzzkill.”

“Just pointin’ it out. What’s the deal with the position that’s open?”

The memory of Ruth’s face when Michael stuck his head in her office gives me a moment’s pause, as does the odd way she cut him off when he was talking about Maria. At the time I was too busy being thrilled to notice how strange it was, but now . . .

“The girl who had the job left suddenly.”

As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I know it’s a mistake. Cam’s brows fly up. He leans back into his chair and pins me with a pointed look.

“McGregor, your imagination is almost as overactive as mine. There’s no conspiracy here, you big lug! It’s just an open position! People leave their jobs all the time!”

He stares at me without blinking. “Do they?”

The urge to smash his plate over his head is strong, but I’m still in too good a mood to go for it. “So this is interesting. I’m discovering new aspects to your personality every day. Giant ego, check. Fetish for tight leg wear and bad music, check. Ingrained suspicion of good luck and active paranoia, check.”

“It’s not paranoia if you’re right.”

“Let me get this straight.” I sit back in my chair, pushing my glasses up my nose so I can see him better. “Your theory is that Michael Maddox has targeted me . . . for career advancement?”

Cam lifts a shoulder and goes back to shoveling food into his mouth.

“You could make Mother Teresa go on a multistate killing spree, you know that?”

“You give the best compliments, darlin’. Get yourself a plate before I finish all this food.”

“I’m not eating.”

A wolf’s growl fills the kitchen.

“Be quiet, White Fang. You’ll frighten the neighbors.”

“Did you eat today?” he demands, inflating in that Wolverine way he has.

“Yes.”

He glares at me. “Besides the protein drink I gave you this mornin’?”

I purse my lips and inspect my cuticles.

Cursing under his breath, Cam shoves his chair back from the table and stomps over to my cupboards. I let him bang around for a few moments before telling him the plates are in the cupboard above the coffee maker.

More stomping, more banging, some aggravated huffing. It’s as if I’ve got a wildebeest roaming around in my kitchen. Then he’s at the stove, spooning pasta onto a plate with more force than necessary. He adds garlic bread and salad and sets the plate on the table in front of me with a clatter.

He points at it. “Eat. Now.”

I smile sweetly at him. “I don’t have a fork.”

Nostrils flared, he stares down at me. “You’re pushin’ your luck, woman.”

“Unlike some people in this kitchen, I’m not a big fan of eating with my fingers.”

The look of anger on his face is perversely satisfying. He spins away, stalks over to the drawers, and starts to pull them out one by one, searching for the utensils. I watch him, still smiling.

“If I’d known it sets you off when people skip meals, I’d have gone on a hunger strike the moment I met you.”

Cam comes back with a fork in his meaty fist. He holds it out to me, his eyes burning. “It’s not the meal skippin’,” he says, his voice rough. “It’s the reason behind it.”

Our gazes hold for a moment. Then I decide it’s not worth the argument and take the fork from his hand.

He settles into his chair and glares at me until I relent and take a bite of pasta. Mollified, he goes back to shoveling food into his mouth but keeps a wary eye trained on me while he eats. I have a feeling he’ll try to force-feed me like a goose being groomed for a fatty liver if I don’t keep up a brisk pace, so I’m careful to look busy.

“Pushin’ your food around with your fork and takin’ spider bites doesn’t count as eating,” Cam says after a minute.

“Okay, Dad,” I mutter, and take a normal forkful of food. I chew, swallow, then stick out my tongue, opening my mouth wide to prove to the Mountain that I’m a good girl and he can stop badgering me.

“Better. Do it again.”

I sigh, roll my eyes, and eat more. I’m starving, so my willpower crumbles pretty fast. In a second, I’m plowing through rigatoni like someone’s holding a gun to my head.

Cam grunts in approval.

I hate myself for liking that grunt.

“Speakin’ of your father,” he says casually, looking now at his plate, “what’s his deal?”

“My dad? Oh, he’s a photographer. I mean he was. He’s retired now.”

“Yeah? What kind of pictures did he take?”

“He did some work for the movie studios, but his bread and butter was fashion photography. Modeling shoots, magazine spreads, that kind of thing.”

“So he worked with a lot of models.”

I nod, chewing garlic bread like a farm animal. “And actors. ‘The beautiful people,’ he called them.”