I hang up the phone, drop my head onto my knees, and sigh. Mr. Bingley rubs his furry face against my leg. “You love me no matter how I look, don’t you, Mr. Bingley?”

His deep rumbling purr assures me that he does.

I pet the cat for a few minutes before girding my mental loins to go out and face Cam. I leave the closet and turn off the shower, then head into the living room with the cat trotting at my heels.

Sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of his meal, Cam takes one look at my face and sets his fork down. “What’s wrong?”

I take a seat across from him, trying not to feel rejected when Mr. Bingley jumps into Cam’s lap instead of mine. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

“Of course, lass. Ask me anything.”

“Is life easier, being beautiful?”

He stares at me in silence for so long I grow uncomfortable.

“Yes, fine, I’m admitting I think you’re beautiful.” I wave a hand at his body, a gesture of disgust. “You look like you were carved from a perfect piece of marble by a master sculptor. Happy?”

He’s so still it’s unnerving. Finally he says quietly, “Who were you talkin’ to on the phone?”

“My mother. Are you going to answer my question?”

A muscle in his jaw flexes. I sense he’s angry, but I don’t think it’s directed at me.

“All right. Here’s your answer: my life has never been easy.”

My laugh sounds like a noise someone would make at a funeral. “Really? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks pretty good.”

His eyes flare. “Aye? How so?”

“C’mon, McGregor. You’re famous. You’re good-looking. You’re probably super rich. You’ve got your pick of women—and men, by the looks of it. For you the world is just one big banquet of choices.”

“Is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

We stare at each other. The temperature in the room seems to warm by several degrees. Holding my gaze, he says, “What did she say that hurt your feelin’s this time?”

He puts a slight emphasis on “this.” I hate that emphasis and everything it implies. I hate it more that the implications are spot-on. But I hate it most of all that he can so easily guess what this whole conversation is about because the damn man has X-ray vision and can see right through me.

I look away, ashamed at being caught.

“Joellen.”

I close my eyes, squeezing them against the hot prick of tears the tenderness in his voice evokes. He feels sorry for me. God, I’m pathetic.

Then he’s on his feet and pulling me up with his hands around my wrists. Before I can react, he’s engulfed me in a bear hug.

With his strong arms wrapped around my back and his head bent next to mine, he says, “People can be arseholes. Sometimes those arseholes are family. It sucks, but it doesn’t mean you have to take on their bullshit. Your mother’s BS is about her, not you. You’re perfect just the way you are, lass. Anyone who tells you different is a stupid bloody arsebadger.”

My throat closes. My face crumples. A whimper rises from somewhere deep inside my chest, impossible to prevent. Oh, no. Don’t cry. Do not cry, for God’s sake—

I burst into tears, bawling into his chest—loud, ugly-cry bawling, complete with sobs and snot, my body shaking, my hands fisted into his shirt.

He exhales slowly, his arms cinching me tighter against him. His next words are spoken low and soft, with the weight of a vow.

“Ah, lassie. If it were anyone else but family who made you cry like this, they’d already be in an ambulance.”

I don’t know why, but that makes me cry even harder.

NINETEEN

I wring myself out against him, helpless to stop myself from being such a sad spectacle. Years of anger, hurt, and loneliness pour out of me like a tap has been opened. I cry until I’m exhausted, sniffling and hiccupping, trembling with shame.

Then Cam performs a miracle and picks me up in his arms.

I’d protest, but I’m too tired, so I allow him to carry me over to the sofa while I marvel at how effortless he makes lifting the weight of a baby elephant seem.

He settles me onto the sofa, props a pillow behind my head, pulls a blanket up to my chin, and strokes a lock of hair off my damp forehead. “I’ll be right back.”

When he leaves, I burrow under the blanket, tucking my legs up and hiding my face. My wet, undoubtedly splotchy and swollen face.

Some women can cry prettily, with dainty little feminine tears and elegant noises of distress, but I am not one of those women. I cry the same way I eat: messily, loudly, and with total abandon.

I am unruly in emotion and appetite. I’ve spent so much of my adult life trying to not be unruly, to be smaller, more contained, more acceptable, but underneath it all I’m still myself. All the passions and desires and tempestuous needs, all the wants and hurts and sorrows, all the ugly and wonderful things. I am just unruly, peculiar me, and I’m so tired of pretending otherwise.

At least with Cam I don’t have to.

He returns from his apartment after a few minutes, bearing gifts.

He lifts my legs, sits on the sofa, and places my legs over his lap. “C’mon out, lassie. I’ve got treats.”

I flip down an edge of the blanket and peek out. Cam is looking at me expectantly, holding a white ceramic bowl and smiling.

“Treats?” I sit up, already feeling better.

“Chocolate ice cream drizzled with Kahlúa.”

My gasp is low and thrilled. I thrust out my arms and wiggle my fingers. “Gimme.”

“No, we’re sharing.” He scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and eats it, watching as I lick my lips. Then he scoops a spoonful for me and holds it out.

I let him feed it to me, feeling awkward but also comforted, like the time I had strep throat when I was ten and my mother fed me soup at my bedside. That was the last time I can recall that she didn’t make a disapproving face as she watched me eat.

“S’good,” I say around a cold mouthful of deliciousness. “But it’s not on my diet.”

“That’s why it’s called a treat.” He takes another bite, savoring it, licking the spoon like it’s a woman’s thigh. Or maybe that’s in my imagination. Watching him eat is distinctly sensual. “Food is fuel, but it’s also comfort. The trouble happens when it becomes more comfort than fuel. But that’s what hugs are for.”

He feeds me more ice cream, and I’m feeling better by the second. “You’re a very good hugger, by the way.”

“I know.”

We smile at each other.

“But am I a good kisser? That’s the real question, lass.” He eats more ice cream, waiting for my response with lifted brows.

“You waited until I was in a vulnerable state to ask that, didn’t you?”

“I’m not that stealthy. Here.” He holds out the spoon.

I savor the mouthful of creamy goodness, trying to make it last as long as possible as I wrack my brain for a neutral answer that doesn’t reveal just how thermonuclear I thought our kiss was. I decide on, “You seem very experienced.”

He makes a face. “That’s awfully clinical.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your ego throwing a tantrum because I didn’t say it was the hottest kiss I’ve ever had?”

He’s about to put another spoonful of ice cream in his mouth but pauses, holding the spoon to his lips. “Was it?”