Michael says stiffly, “It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it? It’s barely past eleven o’clock.”

Cam responds with a knowing chuckle. “Joellen couldn’t wait. Called and asked me to come sooner.”

The flush in Michael’s neck creeps up toward his ears, but, more interestingly, the curiosity in Portia’s gaze turns into something different. Relief? No, that wouldn’t make sense. But I don’t have time to think on it because she blows me away by smiling.

“How nice! You work so hard, Joellen. You deserve to take a long lunch. I’ll speak to you later this afternoon. I just wanted to go over your current workload with you. It can wait. Gentlemen.” She nods at Michael, then at Cam, then leaves with a spring in her step.

I gape at her retreating back, convinced I’ve suffered a recent traumatic brain injury. There’s no way that just happened.

“C’mon, lass. I know how you get when you’re hungry.” Cam’s voice holds an undertone of familiarity that makes Michael’s mouth take on a ruthless slant. It’s an odd reaction and one I don’t like. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen his face be anything but beautiful.

Michael catches me looking at him, and the hardness in his mouth disappears as quickly as it came. He smiles. It’s so sweet I wonder if I didn’t imagine the whole thing.

“Have a great lunch. See you later. Mr. McGregor”—he turns to Cam with the same genteel smile—“it was a real treat to meet you.”

I hear the undertone of sarcasm, but if Cam does, he doesn’t acknowledge it. His grin is wide and bright. “I get that a lot.”

Michael straightens his tie, obviously wishing it were on Cam’s neck instead of his own, with the loose end knotted around a tree branch. He turns and strides away.

I release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Holy hell, McGregor,” I say shakily, watching Michael go. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Cam watches Michael go, too. “Sure I do. I’m wagin’ war.”

When I look at him, he winks. “If that prissy little peacock wasn’t in love with you before, he definitely is now. There’s nothin’ his kind hates more than a lower-class grunt gettin’ uppity and poachin’ his property.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, McGregor. Michael doesn’t think I’m his property.”

“Aye, lass, he does. The question is whether or not you’re gonna enjoy it when you find out what bein’ the property of a man like him is like.”

He grabs my handbag from my desk, slings it over his shoulder, and saunters away down the hall, leaving me no choice but to follow.

I ignore Shasta’s desperate hiss of, “Bitch, what the hell?” as I go.

We go to a little Italian place I’ve been dying to try that’s owned by a couple who met on a blind date and fell instantly in love. When we’re seated at the table, I sigh in happiness, looking around at the cozy, comfortable interior, a perfect replica of the Italian place the couple went to the night they met.

I find the whole story incredibly romantic. Tales of fated lovers are my Kryptonite.

“I love Italian food,” I tell Cam, petting the red-and-white-checkered tablecloth.

“I know.” He snaps a white linen napkin over his lap. When I look at him in surprise, he adds, “Mrs. Dinwiddle told me it’s your favorite.”

I laugh. “Yeah, I’m always trying to get her to try my lasagna, but whenever I suggest it, she looks at me as if I’ve farted in church.”

“The British aren’t exactly known for being adventurous eaters.”

“I’d hardly call noodles and tomato sauce adventurous.”

Cam smiles. “You’re not British.”

“You’ve got me there.”

“But pretty boy certainly is. He’d give the Prince of Wales a run for his money in the silk-pocket-square-and-stuffiness department.”

I smile at Cam’s dry assessment. “He’s just reserved.”

“Repressed, you mean.”

I roll my eyes and stuff a fluffy piece of bread, still warm from the oven, into my mouth. I moan at how delicious it is. It’s the first piece of bread I’ve had in what feels like forever. “Carbs are proof that God loves us, don’t you think?”

“I think Benjamin Franklin said that about wine.”

He watches me eat for a moment, until I become uncomfortable. “You’re staring.”

“I like watchin’ you eat. Your enjoyment of food is obvious. It’s not often a woman allows herself that pleasure in public.”

My cheeks heat. I swallow the bread as daintily as I can, fearing I look like some kind of farm animal at the trough.

Cam laughs at the look on my face. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s sexy.”

I’m filled with gratitude for the waiter, who appears at our table at that moment, allowing me to escape having to formulate a response to Cameron McGregor calling me sexy again. I doubt my brain has enough cells to tackle that one.

We give the waiter our drink orders. When he’s gone, Cam says, “So.”

“So.”

His smile comes on slow and heated. “D’you wanna talk about your little internet research project first, or pretty boy?”

I stuff another piece of bread into my mouth.

“Okay. Pretty boy it is. No, wait, first tell me who the woman was who stopped by your desk?”

“That was Portia.”

He lifts his brows. “She didn’t seem nearly as bad as you’ve made her out to be.”

“I know. It’s weird. She almost seemed human for a minute there.” I shrug, knowing I’ll never solve that particular mystery. “She was probably just dazed into acting like a person and not a witch because her brain was taking a nice warm dopamine bath brought on by standing three feet away from you.”

Cam’s eyes sparkle with laughter. “Oh? Is that what happens to females when I walk into a room?”

I wave a hand at him. “Oh, please, McGregor. You know the effect you have on women. It’s like you’re one of those magicians who does mass hypnosis tricks, making everyone in the audience crow like roosters.”

He gazes at me for a beat. “Not everyone.”

The waiter returns with our drinks: a water for me and a beer for Cam. He takes our food order and leaves, then Cam mercifully changes the subject.

“Pretty boy’s gonna ask you what the deal is with us, first thing he can.”

“I’ve already told him we’re just friends.”

“You’re gonna have to tell him again. But don’t get drawn into a long discussion about it. Wave your hand like you just did at me, and change the subject. If he insists, tell him that I’m not your type.” His voice darkens. “It won’t take much convincin’ for him to believe it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Cam takes a long swig of his beer, then looks out the window. “Because no matter how much money I have, I’m still just a jobby to him.”

“Jobby?”

“Trash. Unworthy to even be in his presence, much less earn the attention of a woman he fancies.”

I wonder how much of his opinion of Michael is due to his own experience living in Sir Gladstone’s home. I wonder how it was for him, growing up without a father. Knowing his father killed himself, knowing he beat his mother so badly she went into premature labor.