“Well, don’t. You’re only standing before me because you need the extra money, and I need insurance. We’re using each other. That’s all this is—not some swoony love story.”
“I think I like the fake wife version of you at this point.”
Her lips twitch—almost a laugh—but she swallows it, like everything else. I step forward, and suddenly she blurts, “I’m going to go for a walk.” She brushes past me, grabs the door, and disappears into the darkness of the porch and the trees beyond. And I stand there, pulse racing, heart thudding, watching her vanish into the night.
What the fuck was that?
17
MELANIE
Iwoke to the scratchy rasp of a tongue dragging across my cheek. My eyes snapped open. “Loco, seriously?” My voice was hoarse, still caught in the dream I didn’t want to leave. I wiped away the slobber with the back of my hand and squinted at him. “I was having a good one. Why’d you have to ruin it?”
The scent hit me before I could sit up—thick and greasy bacon layered over the rich bite of coffee. My stomach growled. Nick was either downstairs cooking or had left his mark behind, and the house still carried him in the air.
I stretched beneath the covers, my calves rubbing against the cool cotton sheets. My body ached in all the ways that reminded me I’d pushed it too far last night. I had walked until my legs gave out, hoping its rhythm would silence my brain. I found a narrow, quiet river cutting through the trees and sat with it. No town, no bookstore, just silence and a reminder that Nick’s place was further from everything than I wanted to admit.
I’d been so spent when I got back, I could barely focus enough to check my blood sugar. I’d done it anyway—mechanical, practiced now. One shot. One prick. Then I collapsed. Not even a goodnight. No sign of Nick.
I fell asleep reading on my phone, words blurring until theyvanished into darkness. Now, groggy but alive, I grabbed my phone and saw a missed call from my mom in the Middle of the night. Of course. Still in Switzerland, probably forgot the time difference again. I played the voicemail.
“Hi, honey. Happy Thanksgiving. Richard and I are still in Switzerland—sightseeing all day, and I completely lost track. The Swedes have their Thanksgiving in September, can you believe that? Anyway, we’ve taken a ton of pictures. Wish you were here. Miss you. Love you. Bye.”
“At least she remembered,” I muttered, the words empty in the air. Loco pressed against me. I scratched behind his ears, his favorite spot, until he leaned in, heavy and warm.
Downstairs, I saw him before he saw me—or maybe he knew all along. Nick stood at the stove, flipping a pancake like it was just another day. Sleeveless shirt. Muscles tight and lean. Tattoos mapped across his skin like something old and dangerous. His sweatpants clung low on his hips, just loose enough to tempt, just tight enough to make my breath catch.
God, he was beautiful.
And he didn’t even know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he could feel it radiating off me whenever we were in the same room.
“You hungry?” His voice cut through the haze. He didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. Somehow, he always knew when I was near—like I had a gravitational pull he couldn’t ignore. Or maybe he was just that good. Army. Tier-one operator. Always aware.
“Yeah. Thanks.” I moved to the table, forcing my gaze down, away from the curve of his back and the heat pooling in my chest.
“I picked up Loco,” he said over his shoulder. “Figured you’d want to see him, since you insisted on riding my bike to Colt’s last night.”
There was a flicker of something in his tone—teasing, maybe, or something else buried under control. My stomach flipped. I was suddenly aware of every inch of me, every unspoken word hanging between us.
“You didn’t have to,” I said softly, the warmth in my voice betraying me. “But thank you.”
“There’s coffee. I grabbed stevia, too.”
That one detail—him remembering—landed like a punch to the chest. I wasn’t just seen. I was known. The butterflies came alive, fluttering like they wanted out. My body heated, and with it came the ache of wanting more than breakfast and company. There was so much we hadn’t said. And too much has already been said with silence.
“What was your role in the military? Like, what does a tier-one operator do exactly?” I watched him pour pancake mix into the skillet, and it sizzled when it hit the pan.
“I thought you didn’t care about my role.” He said with a hint of sarcasm.
“I don’t, but as your wife, it’s probably something I should know, don’t you think?”
He doesn’t answer me. When the pancake is done cooking, he continues to flip it and place it on a large plate.
“Yes, that’s why I wrote a biography of everything you should know about me last night. And I need you to do the same before you go back to work, in case people ask you questions you don’t know the answers to.”
“I still have to work at the restaurant now that I’m your wife?”
He finally turns around and faces me, spatula in hand. “Yes, if you wanted to be a stay-at-home wife, you should have married a rich guy from California. I’m sure plenty of guys are there looking for a trophy wife.”
