7 | Melina
Melina
My friend owns a photography business, and I help her out sometimes.
That’s usually what I say when people ask me what my side hustle is.
Sometimes, those people follow up with the dreaded question, ‘What type of photography?’ I have to choose between lying and saying I help her do weddings or telling the truth.
I can be pretty bad at lying, so I usually go with the latter.
I’m not ashamed of our genre of photography, but whenever I explain it, people end up assuming I moonlight in the porn industry.
Rachel’s not just a wedding photographer. She has a small studio for boudoir and pinup photos as well. Most people get them done as presents for their partners or even themselves. While her subjects are scantily clad, she always keeps things tasteful. And it’s not porn.
I’ve been supporting Rachel with the business since she started it. I run her website and set up lights sometimes. Tonight, we had a photo shoot that went a little long. I’m exhausted after a full day of working my real job and my side hustle.
I awkwardly force open my crooked street door, making sure I turn the knob enough but not so much that it completely falls off in my hand.
The clanging coming from inside the apartment crescendos as I walk up my stairs.
Popcorn must be getting into something she isn’t supposed to.
When I open the door, light spills into my stairway.
I always remember to turn the lights off. My electric bill isn’t included.
Is someone here?
I fish the pepper spray out of my bag, taking deep breaths to keep my heart rate steady.
I got it for free ages ago at one of those self-defense for women classes Rachel and I took together.
Pepper spray doesn’t expire, right? As I creep into my apartment, I keep my weapon at the ready. It smells like...roasted chicken?
A man clears his throat. I pivot toward the kitchen and put up the canister. Right before I press the button, I realize it’s fucking Taylor.
“Where were you? I thought you’d be home,” he asks as if he lives here.
I lean over the sink. He’s washing a knife. “Are you going to murder me?”
“What? No. You watch too much true crime.” He twists the faucet off and turns around to look right down the barrel of my pepper spray. Instead of flinching, he says, “Careful,” and nudges my hand away with the back of his. God, he’s so perfect-looking. I feel self-conscious in my own home.
I scan my kitchen to discover that Taylor has been cooking. Things are simmering and boiling on my stove. Various ingredients and utensils are meticulously laid out across the countertops.
“Why are you... When did... How...” I stutter through all the WH- questions before landing on, “What are you doing?”
“Something better than takeout.”
Takeout?
Oh. He’s referring to the last text I sent him. After Taylor left Julien’s office, I peeled his number off my hand and didn’t immediately throw it in the trash. I wasn’t planning on using it, but I wanted to know if he actually gave me his personal phone, so I texted—
Me: is this really your number, or am I talking to a Chinese restaurant right now?
And he said.
Unknown: it’s me
Then I said.
Me: damn. I was kinda hoping for takeout
That was all, I swear, but now he thinks we’re buddy-buddies.
“Why didn’t you text me?” I try to ask as calm as possible.
“I did.”
I holster pepper spray back in my bag and take out my phone. Yep. He texted me an hour ago.
Unknown: im coming over.
Unknown: do you have any dietary restrictions?
Great. Wonderful. Fantastic.
“That’s not how conversation works. You don’t just say something, and then it happens.”
He shrugs. “It’s usually how my conversations work. You wouldn’t think it, but I’m a bit of a diva.”
I hate that he’s funny. You shouldn’t be able to be hot, rich, and funny.
“How did you get in here?”
“You weren’t home, so I asked the guy who runs the dry cleaners downstairs if he had the keys to the unit. I think his name is Mark.”
“It’s Clark. He’s my landlord. Why would he give that to you?”
“Because I’m the—” He pauses because he knows I’m not going to like his next words. “Prince of St. Claire.”
I cross my arms. “That doesn’t give you the right.”
“I told him to fix your door, by the way.”
“Why are you cooking in my kitchen?”
Taylor gives the pot on my stove a stir, then taps the spoon on the lip. “You were taking too long to tell me what you wanted, so I wanted to start doing some trial and error. Well, hopefully, no error. This is kind of the only skill I have. I’m not sure what trial would come after this.”
I must’ve underestimated his persistence.
I could kick him out again. He may be Taylor, Prince of St. Claire, but I’m Melina, Renter of this Apartment.
That said, I was probably going to have instant ramen for dinner like a depressed college student.
Maybe I deserve a home-cooked meal after a long day’s work.
So much for never wanting to see him again.
Slowly, slowly, I sit on one of the stools behind my kitchen counter and face Taylor’s back. He uses a spatula to mix whatever he has going on in the pan.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” I say to break the silence. He doesn’t answer me, though something prompts me to continue. “I figured you’d be too rich and busy to learn.”
“I’m not a baby, Melina. If I can’t do things myself, then what’s the point of living?” Taylor turns down one of the burners. “And I don’t like people waiting around for me.”
Makes sense. He could have stopped the sentence at ‘I don’t like people,’ and I would’ve believed him.
After looking up if pepper spray can expire, fun fact, it can, I watch Taylor take a clove of garlic and smash it against the flat side of a knife using the palm of his hand.
The garlic is then quickly cut up into tiny pieces, a move it seems he’s done a thousand times before.
I could tell him I have a garlic press, but I don’t.
As he slides the minced garlic onto the knife and then into the pan, I notice on the counter a slightly crumpled scrap of paper.
It’s stained and old. Though the handwriting is in French, it’s clearly a recipe.
The letterhead can still be read through the scribbled ingredients list.
From the desk of Princess Charlotte.
“This is your mom’s recipe.”
Taylor turns around to see the paper in my hand. “Yeah, she always wrote down the more complicated ones. You don’t have that horrid gene where cilantro tastes like soap, right? Actually, don’t answer that, I already put it in, and I’m not taking it out.”
“I don’t. What are you even making? I can’t read what this says.”
“It doesn’t matter what I’m making. I know you’ll like it.”
I raise a brow.
“Chicken piccata,” he admits.
And for the next ten minutes, I watch him stir, pour, and chop. It’s all very methodical, almost serial killer methodical.
He’s not going to kill you, Melina.
The back of the recipe has little kid handwriting I can barely decipher. Some of the B’s and D’s are backward, letters are randomly capitalized. The top reads, “Dear Taylor,” in English, which piques my interest.
Dear Taylor, I am very sorry for stealing your skateboard and hiding it in the greenhouse. I am very sorry for getting mad at you and Mom, and I am sorry that I made your feelings hurt. Next time I will use my words when I am mad. I love you. - Thomas.
A snort escapes me. This is the most adorable thing I’ve ever read.
Taylor turns around and swiftly steals the recipe from my hands. On his face appears the faintest ghost of a smile. He’s almost blushing. He must’ve not realized the note was there. “I forgot she made us do these.”
“Do what?”
“Whenever my brother and I would fight or do something wrong as kids, she made us write full apology letters.”
It’s weird to think of Taylor’s childhood.
He wasn’t just spawned by God to become the ruler of St. Claire.
When I was younger, I used to contemplate how different our lives are for being kids of the same age and living in the same country.
I could ask him some more questions about his upbringing, but I don’t.
“Why is it written on the back of a recipe?” I ask instead.
“She didn’t like wasting things.” He holds up the paper. “I had to find this in a biscuit tin.”
It’s a bit sad learning the little details of a woman who has since passed. Taylor seems unphased.
“Did you have to write a lot of letters? You know, based on how your handwriting looks like America’s Declaration of Independence.”
He doesn’t answer me, which I know means yes. Instead, he turns his focus back to cooking.
A couple more minutes of silence pass until he sets a plate in front of me. The ‘piccata’ in ‘chicken piccata’ must mean a white sauce made with capers, lemons, and some other green herbs. The dish looks very nice, and the chicken is so tender I don’t need a knife to cut into it.
Taylor watches me like a hawk, his palms planted on the edge of the counter. He wears his Rolex like he doesn’t know or care how much it costs. With his sleeves rolled up, I can really admire his forearms from this angle.
No, Melina. No admiring.
Right before I put the chicken into my mouth, I inspect the contents of my fork. “So this is your big idea to make me come back? Taking my spare key, breaking into my home, using my kitchen without permi—”
Taylor takes the fork and shoves it into my mouth.
I’m not sure why I didn’t stop him. Before I can get annoyed, I taste the sauce.
It’s light but savory. The lemons add acidity, but they don’t make the flavor too sour and distract from the chicken.
I take another bite with some more capers. Goddammit.
“This is delicious,” I concede.
“I know,” Taylor says with wide eyes. He turns around to take care of the dishes.
“You’re not going to have any?”
“No.”
Weird. An apt adjective to describe this entire situation, weird.
St. Claire’s future king is in my apartment making dinner because he’s an asshole and trying to get me to work for him.
Although he doesn’t look like an asshole right now, cleaning and being all househusbandy.
He’s playing mind games with me, isn’t he?
Taylor flips a towel over his shoulder in a way that shouldn’t look as cool as it does. “Same time on Friday, all right?” he asks like we’ve just had sex.
“You want to do this again?” I ask like the sex was mediocre.
“Unless you’re coming back on the project. Then I’ll be out of your hair forever.”
“Um, I don’t uh—”
“ Um, I don’t uh,” he mocks. “Spit it out, Ramirez. What’s your favorite dish? I can make anything.” He seems very excited all of a sudden.
“Taylor, you don’t have to do this.”
He quickly turns around to steal my half-eaten plate and holds it over the sink, threatening to dump it in. “You’re right, I’m probably just wasting my ti—”
“Wait!” I don’t mean to sound panicked, but my mother taught me to never waste food. I look at him through the mirror above my sink. “Friday’s fine.”
He sets the plate back in front of me. “So a nice dinner is your Achilles’ heel. That took me a pathetic amount of time to figure out.”
“Don’t patronize me.” I fist my fork and stab the chicken. “That’s not how you treat someone during a negotiation.”
Taylor moves his lips in a way that shows his teeth. Wait. That’s a smile. He’s smiling at me.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“You said it.”
“Said what?”
“Negotiation. You’re negotiating with me.”
I flashback to two seconds ago. I did, didn’t I? What the hell did he put in that chicken? And is this pathetic little show pulling on my heartstrings? A part of me wants to give him a chance. For the sake of spontaneity or whatever.
“Do I have my foot in the door?”
“You invited yourself in,” I say. “All of your body parts are through the door.”
“Sucking up doesn’t come naturally to me, Melina, forgive me if I make a few mistakes.”
I think what he means is sorry for letting myself into your home, Melina, won’t happen again.
“Okay, besides the whole breaking and entering part, this dinner was very nice. You might be less of an ass than I thought you were, and I can tell that you’re trying, so maybe there’s a microscopic chance of me coming back on the project.
But if this is a negotiation, you’re coming in from the way bottom. ”
“I don’t have a lot of experience with coming from the bottom,” he dares to quip at me. He’s like a nauseating child who can’t help himself.
“You know what, I can finish the dishes.” I push my plate away. “You should leave before this conversation becomes less than cordial like it usually does.”
Taylor sighs. “Good idea.” There might be a hint of reluctance in his voice, but that can’t be true. Taylor doesn’t want to be here. I’m just his means to an end.
He leaves the kitchen but turns around right after passing me. “Oh, Melina?”
“What?”
I stop breathing when he puts his hand under my chin. My eyes meet his when he tilts my head up slightly. They’re dark brown, just like mine. I probably look caught off guard, but he looks bored. Like putting hands under women’s chins is a normal activity that normal people do every day.
Taylor uses his thumb to wipe the bottom corner of my lip. “There’s cake in the fridge.”
I let out a tiny involuntary hum. How long has there been something on my face? And why didn’t he just tell me?
He takes his hand away and grabs his jacket off the chair next to mine, brushing up against me in a way that doesn’t seem intentional.
My chef leaves me stew in my feelings, familiar feelings that remind me of our dance.
Feelings that are floaty and feel like stupid butterflies in my stupid stomach.
I wish they would all unmetamorphizise back into caterpillars.
I’m not even going to look at his cake because Taylor’s food is doing bizarre things to me that I can’t explain.