Chapter 4 Nick
FOUR
NICK
The next day, I pull up outside Melanie Hamilton’s rundown rancher in my equally rundown truck.
Makes us a good pair, I suppose, except for the fact I don’t give a fuck about my truck.
She, on the other hand, cares about her home but completely lacks the time or know-how to re-hang the gate that dangles from a single, bending hinge.
Or the overgrown garden filled with weeds and, between those, an explosion of poppies just dying to break through to the sunlight.
Her shutters are broken, her fence isn’t keeping anyone in or out, and her front door lacks a functional lock.
Which is why the crazy best friend can let herself in whenever she pleases.
Climbing out of my truck onto dusty gravel, I head to the bed and snag my bag, swinging it over my shoulder as I cast my gaze along Melanie’s street.
This used to be farmland, back before gentrification and subdivision took over.
What used to be acres of grazing land is now dozens of family neighborhoods, new houses and old, comingling in relative harmony.
Mel, obviously, purchased one of the original ranch homes. A fixer-upper, which was probably cheaper at the time before factoring in the cost of fixing everything that is broken.
Silly girl.
I glance toward the neighbors on her left, and again to the right, but the street is relatively quiet.
Most folks who live here probably work a standard nine-to-five and require a forty-minute commute to their office further in the city, so weekends are for catching up on chores inside.
Laundry. Dishes. Searching for their sanity, perhaps.
There are cars parked along the street, but few that drive by.
No Nosey-Nellies peeking through the curtains, but a handful of kids playing ball on the road.
Patting my shirt down and checking the soles of my boots to ensure I’m not carting anything more than dust, I push away from my truck and navigate the broken gate, the shrill squeak of rusted metal like a burglar alarm better than anything money can buy.
And yet, the best friend got through unannounced…
I measure my steps by the twelve-inch steppingstones placed at uneven intervals, eating up the pathway quickly as I study daisies working just as hard as the poppies, fighting against the weeds and taking up residence in the oddest of places.
I eye the rotting porch and the busted step at the bottom—if it gives way, at least it’s closer to the ground—and just as I stop by the front door, I peer back to my truck and ponder bringing my toolbox inside, too.
I could fix a few things and consider them my good deed for this year. Hammer in a few nails. Repair a hinge. Replace the lock, at the very least, for safety.
“You’re here.” Mel slings her door open before I get the chance to knock, her flowery perfume sliding through the broken-wire door and hitting my senses like a Mack truck I have no desire to avoid.
So, instead, I pull the rickety wire door aside to reveal the woman who looks just as fantastic in Daisy Dukes as she did in a blinding red dress and lipstick.
Her legs are sinfully long despite her lack of height, and her thighs are toned just enough to hint at a treadmill hidden in her bedroom.
Or a Stairmaster, maybe.
No way she uses a public gym.
She wears her hair in a high ponytail, the ends tickling her shoulders, and a tank top that wraps her up like it’s Christmas morning and I’ve been a good boy all year long.
Fuck yes, I’ll accept your two-grand to play house for a week. With pleasure.
“Hi.” I thrill in the way her cheeks flame with a blush that spreads all the way to her chest. I’m yet to touch. To tease. I haven’t even said anything hinting at inappropriate, and already, she’s warm. But I flash a smile that draws her eyes and simply stare until she takes a hint.
“Oh! Yes. Hi.” She takes a long step back and gestures inside her home. “Welcome. You’re right on time.”
“Punctuality in business is important, I think.” I stomp my boots on the worn mat to dislodge last-minute dust and dirt, then I reach up with my free hand and drag my cap off as I cross the threshold and walk into a smell that is purely her.
Flowers. Cinnamon. Wine, even. When she moves, the scent of coconuts follows, and when she speaks, I catch the delicious taste of strawberries in the air.
Bending the bill of my hat and sliding it into my back pocket, I draw a long whiff and fill my lungs with all things Melanie Hamilton. Then I exhale and grin when she nervously tangles her fingers and gulps down her nerves.
“I’m going to be a little awkward at first. Just so we’re on the same page.
” She nibbles on her lips and drops her gaze, incapable of holding mine.
“It’s best I’m upfront instead of overthinking and overacting.
I over-analyze by nature. I care that I’m presenting myself a certain way around new people.
” Though last night, wine made her brave enough to say otherwise.
“I don’t want to care, and I’m actively working on that part of my personality, to let go of those stupid notions and live a freer life.
But regardless, until we’re less new, I’ll still feel awkward and weird. ”
“Hence, a seven-day cohabitation and two-hour a day hang outs.” I lower my bag and hold it by my legs.
“Noted. And since we’re sharing and, technically, I’m already on the clock, I could let you know I’m probably your opposite.
You care what others think and wish you didn’t.
I don’t care, and sometimes I think I should.
You’re a nervous talker and fidgeter, and I’m the guy who’ll say nothing and observe instead.
You’ve gone out of your comfort zone by initiating this agreement and, more importantly, inviting me into your home.
The entire world is my comfort zone,” I release a soft, breathy chuckle, “because I’m rarely uncomfortable.
Once you’ve seen how ugly life can be, you stop feeling less-than around people who don’t matter. ”
“An enviable personality trait.” She slips her hands into her tiny shorts pockets, lifting her shoulders.
Defense mechanism. Nervous body language.
“Maybe someday, I’ll gain a Nicolas-Ramos-level of not giving a shit.
But in the meantime, I’ll pay a man to escort me to a wedding, all so I can feel less vulnerable.
My living room,” she points her elbow toward her television, “obviously,” then she wanders into the kitchen for the official house tour she didn’t give last night.
“Dining room. You’re welcome to eat at the counter or the table, and help yourself to the fridge and pantry.
You can eat outside in the garden if you want or on the porch.
You can eat basically anywhere. But at the risk of sounding like a complete psycho, please, for the love of God, don’t eat in bed. ”
Piqued, I study her slender back and the roll of her shoulders as she walks ahead of me. “Can I ask why?”
“It gives me hives just thinking about it.” She peeks over her shoulder and slays me with a single, glittering look.
“Obviously, I can’t stop you. And honestly, I wouldn’t even know until after you’ve left, anyway.
But if I hear you chomping away at night, all I’ll be able to think about is crumbs in the bed.
It’s a sensory thing for me, I think. I just…
” She firms her lips and continues through the kitchen and into the hall. “I don’t like it.”
Fidgeter. Nervous. Anxious.
Sensory aversions.
Added to my mental list.
“I won’t eat in the bedroom.” I refasten my grip on the handles of my bag and study the swelling globes of her ass wrapped in denim. She definitely has a Stairmaster. “Promise. What about the couch? How do you feel about eating in front of the TV?”
“Because you want to test my limits?”
I choke out a soft laugh. “Well, mostly so I know you better since we’re heading to this massive family shindig in a week. If I mention living room dates and movie nights to your mom, and she replies with ‘oh, Melanie would never’, then I’ve kinda blown the assignment, don’t you think?”
“Eating on the couch is fine.” She stops by a bedroom door and turns to look up into my eyes. “Not chips on the couch, though. Takeout and a movie are completely in-character for me. And my favorite color is blue.”
“Blue?”
“Yes, but like, an aqua, teal, greeny kind of blue. In case my family tests you.” Grabbing the door handle, she pushes it wide open and reveals a room of exactly that; Teal. Blue. Green. It feels rainforesty in here and smells as fresh as one would expect in the middle of a jungle.
Which is cool and all. But it’s not her.
I prefer the coconuts and vanilla and flowers.
“This will be your room for the week. You can put your things in the closet.” She crosses the threshold and opens doors and drawers for my perusal.
“Whatever you want. The TV works,” she picks up the remote and tosses it to the bed, “try not to keep it on loud too late. I have that project I need to complete, and sleep-routine is important to me.”
Routine.
Fuck me, she’s just a regular neurospicy mess and, as far as I can guess, has no clue there’s a label for that.
“There are extra blankets and towels in the closet,” she explains, then glances up, “and a ceiling fan if you need the extra breeze. If you require more pillows, you can find those in the linen closet in the hall. I’ll show you that before we’re done.
I made the bed with fresh sheets this morning, so you’re all set there.
And then,” she heads to the single window and flicks the rusted lock on the vertical pivot window.
“Push this open,” and she does so to illustrate, “but make sure you close it no later than around six o’clock, or the mosquitoes will get in and destroy your skin by morning. ”
“Personal experience?”