I shake my head in disbelief at the picture they make. “I think that animal is almost as in love with you as you are.”

“Aye. He’s a sensible lad. How was work?” He ambles over to the stove and sniffs at the steam rising from the pan of meat I’m browning.

I wave the cat’s tail out of my face. “Good. And weird. Michael left me an apology note on my desk with his cell phone number. Portia keeps glaring at me like she’s plotting my kidnapping and murder. And the girl who sits next to me won’t stop pestering me about the size of your junk. She’s convinced that picture on TMZ is proof that we’re boning.”

“We already had the talk about you disrespectin’ the family jewels by callin’ ’em ‘junk,’ darlin’.” He nudges me out of the way with his elbow so he can scoop a bit of meat from the pan with his fingers.

“Hey!” I slap his wrist. “You know I don’t like it when you do that!”

“It’s my dinner, lass. I’ll eat it how I want.” He eats the morsel, licks his lips, sighs in pleasure, then offers his hand to Mr. Bingley, who happily cleans the rest of the sauce from Cam’s fingers.

I roll my eyes and go back to stirring. “You shouldn’t eat undercooked meat, prancer. You’ll get salmonella.”

“Pfft. As if bacteria would dare to mess with me. I’ll have you know I never get sick.”

“Make yourself useful and set the table before I dump this pan over the top of your thick skull.”

“So you told her, right?”

I look at him. He’s smiling back at me, smug as can be. The cat has rested his head on Cam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. I could swear he’s smiling, too.

“Told who what?”

“Told the girl who sits next to you at work about the majesty and opulence of my family jewels.”

My cheeks prickle with heat. I turn my attention back to the pan. “No.”

“Why not? It’s not as if you don’t know.”

The heat spreads to my neck. “Are you going to set the table or not?”

Cam leans in and says deliberately into my ear, “Tell her eleven inches.”

When he sees my eyes bulge, he adds with a chuckle, “Or you could tell her the truth and see if she faints.”

When I glance at him, he makes a motion with his thumb that indicates the actual number is higher.

“Moving on,” I say roughly, then stop to clear my throat. Steady, Joellen. Steady. “What do you think about Michael’s note?”

I can tell Cam’s amused by my awkward segue, but he lets it go. “Did you call him?”

“No.”

“Did you email him?”

“No.”

“Did you see him around the office?”

“No.”

“Then I think you’re gonna get a phone call tonight.”

My stomach twists with anxiety. “Really?”

“Yep. We should talk strategy.”

“Strategy? You make it sound like war.”

Cam’s smile is casual, but his eyes burn with a new intensity. “Love is war, darlin’. Only thing in life worth sheddin’ blood over.”

He turns away and heads to the cupboard for the plates while I stare down at the pan of simmering meat, wondering why that statement sounded so ominous.

In a few minutes, I’ve got the cooked meat and vegetables poured into a casserole dish and topped it with mashed potatoes. I pop it into the oven and set the timer, then pour myself a glass of wine.

When I set a beer in front of Cam, who’s now sitting at the kitchen table with the cat in his lap, he frowns. “That’s dark beer.”

“I know. I remembered that’s what you said you liked.”

When he gazes at me without commenting, I feel a little defensive. “It’s imported.”

Cam says nothing.

“The guy at the store told me it was good. It cost more than the meat!”

“No need to shout, lassie,” he says, his voice as soft as his smile. “I hear you loud and clear.”

Another statement that sounds loaded, hinting at unseen layers beneath the surface. He’s driving me nuts with this stuff! The last thing I need right now is more mystery in my life!

“You’re impossible,” I grouse.

“Impossibly wonderful, I know. Back to strategy.”

I join him at the table, trying not to smile at his relentless self-love because I don’t want to encourage him. Although admittedly I’m a little jealous. It must be comforting to go through life convinced you’re God’s gift to the human race.

“Fine. Strategy. Tell me how I should act when he calls.”

“The same way you act with me.”

I make a face. “I can’t act with him like I act with you!”

“Like yourself, you mean?”

“Exactly! He’ll never like me if I act like myself! I’m a disaster!”

Cam glowers, then takes a long drink of his beer. I’ve never seen someone swallow angrily, but apparently it’s a thing.

“Bypassin’ how barmy it is that you’d wanna be with a man who won’t like you if you act like yourself, what I meant was don’t cater to his ego. Don’t fall all over yourself to pay him compliments. Treat him like he’s your little brother: sometimes cute but mostly annoyin’.”

I stare at Cam as if he’s insane. “How is treating a man like he’s annoying in any way attractive to said man?”

“It doesn’t work with all men. But on lads like him—rich and pretty, used to havin’ women fall at his feet—it works like a charm. Because you’re a challenge, you see? You’re different. He has to chase you, which is fun but also establishes that you have value. You won’t just hand yourself over. When a man has to work hard for somethin’ he wants, he values it twice as much when he finally gets it. Then you’re a prize that he earned, not a gift he was given.”

I ponder that for a moment, reflecting on all my recent interactions with Michael, and have to concede that Cam might have a point. “Okay, that makes sense.”

Cam stops in the middle of lifting the beer to his mouth and chuckles. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? Did you just admit I might be right?”

“Shut up. What else?”

Cam takes another pull from the bottle of beer. I watch his throat as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, admiring how strong his neck is. My gaze drifts to his arms, all those stupid muscles straining the sleeves of his white T-shirt. His thighs, like tree trunks clad in blue jeans. His stomach, washboard abs outlined under thin cotton like an advertisement for the benefits of a gym membership.

Everything about him is strong, from his body to his ego to his teeth . . . which are now on full display because he’s smiling at me.

“What?” I’m taken aback by his sudden blinding grin.

“Nothin’. Only you might want to work on developin’ a bit more of a poker face, lassie. If you leer at Michael like that, he’ll know the jig is up.”

“I wasn’t leering at you!”

“I can take my shirt off if you like. I’ll even let you pet my biceps, but that’s as far as it’s goin’ because I’m not just a beautiful, sonnet-worthy Mountain Man, you know. I’m a human being. I’ve got feelings.”

I exhale in disgust. Then I drink some wine to buy time to compose myself, because I was in fact leering at him, and he caught me red-handed.