I blow out a breath too hard, which causes my lips to flap in a truly unattractive way. But I don’t care, because it’s Cam, and he’s seen me at my worst. “I remember twenty-nine. It was actually harder than thirty. Once I was over that hump, I accepted I’d never be young again.”

“Everything’s relative, lass. There’s a sixty-year-old grandma out there who’d give her eyeteeth to be thirty-six again.”

“Oh, thank you for that pearl of wisdom. How comforting to know the elderly are jealous of me.”

“Sixty isn’t elderly!”

“Dude. Seriously. If the average life expectancy is somewhere in the seventies, sixty is practically knocking on death’s door.”

“One of my grandmothers lived to be one hundred and fourteen.”

“What? That’s a lie!”

“Nope. And my other grandmother is one hundred and ten. She’s still alive.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Now you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“I’m not pullin’ your leg! The McGregor clan has exceptional genes, lass. Nobody in my family even starts thinkin’ about retirin’ until well after ninety.”

“Really?”

“Really. If you ever visit Scotland, I’ll take you to meet Nanny O’Shea. That’s my mum’s mum. You two would get a kick out of each other—same sharp tongue and lack of respect for the McGregor men.”

He smiles, relishing some memory, and drinks more of his beer, while I sit and think how much fun it would be to meet his ancient, sassy Scottish grandmother.

“My dad’s mother is eighty. We call her Granny Gums because she loves to horrify people by popping out her dentures during conversations like it’s an accident. She has mild dementia, so she repeats herself a lot, but otherwise she’s in pretty good shape. My other grandmother is in perfect health, but you wouldn’t know it by the way she carries on. She had a Just Buried party when she turned fifty because she was convinced she was about to kick the bucket any minute. She was a model, like my mom.”

I take a long drink of my wine, thinking of all the times my mother and grandmother commiserated about getting old, even when I was a kid and they weren’t anywhere close to old. Every holiday and family get-together inevitably turned into a Mourning the Glory Days of Our Departed Beauty party.

“Those people do not age gracefully, and I’m not talking about wrinkles.”

Cam sits up and holds his beer out toward me, like he wants to toast.

“What?”

“Clink your glass with me, lass. That’s the first time you’ve said somethin’ sensible about age, looks, or your family.”

“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” We toast and drink, then Cam smacks his lips, looking wistfully toward the kitchen.

The man is as subtle as a wrecking ball.

“I have a chicken breast and some veggies left over from dinner I could reheat if you’re hungry.”

Cam toys with the lace on the sleeve of his robe, his lashes swept demurely downward. “Only if it’s no bother, lass. I don’t wanna keep you up.”

I kick his feet and grin at him. “Oh, shut up, you big baby.”

When he smiles bashfully, his lips in a wry little twist because he’s too shy to admit he wants me to cook for him, I’m hit with a sudden, unidentifiable emotion. It’s weird and tender and powerful and alien and makes my heart skip several beats.

I stand so abruptly I spill wine on the carpet.

Cam looks up at me, but I spin away, unwilling to let his sharp eyes get a glimpse at my face. In a daze, I walk into the kitchen and start putting together a plate for Cam from the leftovers in the fridge.

What was that? What’s wrong with me? Am I getting sick? I put the back of my hand to my forehead, but it’s cool and dry, no sign of fever.

“So what else did pretty boy say in his email?” calls Cam from the living room.

I’m too distracted to give him the details. “My laptop’s on the bed if you want to check it out.”

In a few moments, he strolls into the kitchen with the laptop, sits at the table, and starts to read. Almost immediately, he’s making faces.

“What’s wrong?”

“I like him better in email than in person.”

That makes me laugh out loud. “Oh ho! So you admit Mr. Repressed has a cute side!”

My laugh makes him grouchy. “I said no such thing. Let’s not get carried away, lass. I’m just admittin’ he might have a certain charm in electronic communications that doesn’t translate into real life.” His voice hardens. “Even if he was tryin’ to get you to send nudes.”

“Yeah, but I remembered what you said about dropping crumbs, so I took your advice and sent him a picture of my earlobe instead.”

“Seems like it worked. Pretty boy’s fallin’ all over himself here.” He’s quiet for a moment, then says sharply, “Did you read this part about the policy against subordinates and supervisors bein’ in a relationship?”

I sigh, putting the plate of food into the microwave to reheat. “Yeah. It’s a bummer, but I guess we’ll just have to be extra careful.”

“Extra careful as in not sendin’ emails like this over the company server?”

I freeze in horror. “Oh shit.”

“Aye, oh shit is right. Dumb ass.”

Outraged, I turn and stare at him. “Did you just call me a dumb ass?”

“I’m callin’ him a dumb ass, because he is, because he should fucking know better! He’s the CEO, for Christ’s sake!”

“I should know better, too!”

Cam sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “Aye. But you’re a woman in love. They’re always blind as fuckin’ bats.” He glances up at me. “Sorry. Not to lump you in with the rest of your gender, but in my personal experience, a woman loses her damn mind when she falls in love. And most of the time she loses herself in the process, too.”

His look is a little too pointed for comfort. I turn away, occupying myself with watching the plate turn on the carousel in the microwave. “I’ll go in and delete everything later. I’ll make sure he does, too. I don’t think there’s anything too incriminating. We’re not admitting we’re in a relationship, we’re just talking about the possibilities. Besides, it won’t be a problem unless someone is looking for something, which they aren’t.”

Yet.

Thinking of all the complications an office romance with Michael will most likely entail, I rub my hand over my forehead. Before it was just a lovely dream, but now reality is setting in, and it’s a lot less dreamy.

I could lose my job.

He’s worth it. He’ll protect you.

Will he? If his own job is on the line?

He’s a good man. You can trust him. Everything will be fine.

You’re too old to be impractical. You have no experience doing anything else. If you get fired from Maddox Publishing, you’ll be temping as a receptionist or living with your parents within a few months.

I rest my forehead on the microwave door and groan.

“You havin’ a breakdown over there, lassie? Do I need to call the paramedics?”

“No. I’m just beginning to realize this thing with Michael might be more complicated than I thought.” My laugh is rueful. “Or didn’t think. It was never a possibility before, not really. But now . . .”