She touches my chest, gently sliding her palm over my shirt beneath my jacket. “Do you ever think about it?” she asks.
“About what?”
“You.”
“Do I ever think about me?” I ask. “Constantly.”
“You,” she repeats, ignoring my joke. “Me...”
She tilts her head up, making our lips graze. I stiffen, holding back every impulse firing throughout my body. Her touch is warm and inviting, just like it used to be. Her breath smells like rum, making my mouth water in a bad way.
“Melanie,” I warn.
“Don’t you ever just want to go for it again?” she asks.
I exhale, letting it all go. “You know I do, Mel,” I answer. “But you’re wasted. And I’m not that guy anymore.”
Melanie leans forward and limply rests her head on my shoulder, succumbing to another wave of sleepiness.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Lay down. Sleep it off.”
She lets me guide her down to her pillows again. I turn her onto her side, tucking her in and taking a wide step back in case she reaches for me again.
Saying no to Melanie Rose once is hard enough. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do it twice.
I stand still, watching her chest rise and fall and wondering what brought this on tonight. It’s not like Melanie to binge on anything stronger than a weekly mimosa or half a bottle of cheap wine. Something’s up. Something that I’m, unfortunately, no longer privy to.
I flick off the lamp, sending the room into darkness. I walk with light feet out into the hallway. Melanie wakes at the drop of a pin, inebriated or not, but she seems out for the time being. Whatever is on her mind, at least she’ll sleep through it safely until morning.
I pass through the kitchen, taking another look at those happy ribbons as I walk by, and head into the living room. It’s a mess — but that’s just Melanie’s brand of organized clutter. She knows where everything is and that’s all that matters.
A heavy rush of emotion strikes me cold. Being here again, in her presence, among her clutter. It’s intoxicating. It’s hard to leave.
So, I won’t.
I slide my shoes off and set them down on the floor next to the couch. It’s late and cold as hell. No one will blame me for crashing — not even Melanie, I think.
I turn on the lamp by the couch, illuminating the space as I find a blanket draped over a nearby chair. I sit down and stack a throw pillow or two on the edge behind me.
Her laptop sits on the coffee table in front of me, partially obscured by a pair of old socks. I pick it up, thinking I’ll do a little surfing to wind down. The screen wakes up as I open it, revealing an open word processor.
Derrick never thought about Cady in that way before. To him, she was the girl next door, but not in the good way...
My brow piques. This must be award-winning romance author Melanie Rose’s latest masterpiece-in-progress. Her last few books have been a little underwhelming — according to her harsher critics (herself especially). They aren’t wrong, honestly. Ms. Rose’s elegant prose have lost a bit of that old spark she started out with. No less page-turny, however. She’s always known exactly how to grab my attention, that’s for sure.
I lean back on the couch and prop my feet up as I scroll to the start of the document. Nostalgia pinches my cheeks as I settle in, eager to scan Melanie’s new, unedited words, just like I used to. Melanie lets no one read first draft words.
Except me.
Once upon a time, that is.
Three
Melanie
I sit up in bed, squinting hard at the blinding sunlight cascading in through an unfortunate break in my blackout curtains. My stomach feels heavy, like a giant, gray rock is pressing somewhere between my lungs and liver. Oh, my poor liver. If that horrible, sticky sensation on my tongue is any indicator, it did not have a good night last night.
I look at my bedside table in search of my phone. Instead, I find a glass of water I’ve never seen before. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember coming home last night.
I raise my blanket to check beneath it. No pants. Only panties and the shirt I wore to the bar.
The bar.
A soft thud echoes in from the kitchen. The cabinets. The clink of a pan setting down on the stove.
I cover my mouth. Someone’s in my apartment.
Oh, god. Am I getting murdered?
I look over the side of the bed. My jeans are on the floor. Inside out.
I cringe.
No. Not murdered.
I brought some dude home with me, didn’t I?
I got drunk, hooked up, and now they’re in my kitchen and... cooking, from the sound of it?
Oh, goddammit.
I crumble forward, instantly regretting the pressure it puts on my stomach as I reach for my pants. I feel for my phone in my pockets and slide it out, careful not to alert my house guest as I swipe it on. I hold it away from my eyes, the sudden brightness killing my head as I try to navigate to my contact shortcuts.
Surely, Trix will know what happened.
It rings twice.
“Hello!”
I wince and pull the phone an inch or two away from my throbbing head. “There’s somebody in my kitchen,” I whisper.
“Uh...” she says. “Okay?”
“What happened last night?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember you. And Nora. And the guys. And a lot of rum.”
“Right. We left around nine and you stuck around to people-watch, as you do.” She gasps. “Did you hook-up with somebody?”
“I don’t know. I think so? Maybe. I must have blacked out.”
“Oh, boy! Is he cute?”
I stare into the hallway as I hear the refrigerator open and close. “I don’t know. I’m too scared to look.”
“You haven’t talked to him yet?”
“No, I just woke up and heard him moving around my kitchen.”
“Aw, he’s cooking you breakfast?” she coos. “What a nice guy. You should keep him.”
I groan. “Thank you
