9 | Melina
Melina
Taylor’s coming at six. I told him to let himself in because he still has my spare keys, and I’m not sure if I am going to be back from Rachel’s studio in time. I have to say, working all day knowing a beautiful man is going to make me dinner at the end of it is a delightful feeling.
Overall, I’m confused by his strategy. He’s just trying to show me he can be a nice person, but you have to want to be a nice person. Unlike the rest of us, Prince Taylor has the privilege of being a dick without consequence. Why would he change? So maybe I can get some free meals out of this.
I walk into my apartment to the sound of Taylor chopping vegetables.
He’s speaking French to the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
In another context, this could be seen as sexy, but St. Claire French is known for being the ugliest and least sexy variety of the romance language.
It’s really nasally and almost incomprehensible to other speakers and myself.
This is one of those moments where I wish I paid more attention in French class, but I was too busy doodling in my notebook.
Angst, however, is an emotion one can detect through all languages, and Taylor is definitely angsty. I can pick out some words I remember learning. “L’accord.” Agreement. “L’argent.” Money. “On ne va pas tolérer l’incompétence.” We’re not going to tolerate incompetence.
Taylor seems more focused on the phone call than the shallot he’s dicing.
He stops chopping to shuffle the phone to his other ear and begins again.
As I set my car keys down, he sucks in air through his teeth and drops the knife onto the counter.
He holds up his hand. A small drop of blood oozes down his thumb.
I race to the washroom and hunt through my drawers for a band-aid.
When I come back, he’s running water over his thumb and using his other hand to talk on the phone.
Just when he’s about to put it against his shoulder again to take the band-aid, I grab his thumb and take off the wrapper myself.
The cut isn’t that deep, but it’ll be annoying for the next couple of days.
As I finish wrapping the bandage around his finger and ignoring how big his hands are, he hangs up his call.
I gaze up at him. “You’re being more of a grumpy goose than usual.”
He looks at his thumb, and I realize my hands are still on his.
I quickly take them off. “Uh, bad day?”
“Not anymore.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
He goes back to chopping. Who am I to care about his feelings?
I take my jacket off and set my purse on the counter. Of course, the stupid thing tips over. Amongst some loose change, a tampon, and a tube of strawberry shortcake lip balm lies an item I have no idea how I’m going to explain. They’re fake, but look very realistic, especially on camera.
The handcuffs, yes, the handcuffs , have been lying on the counter for more than a couple of seconds. I’m going to have to make eye contact with him, eventually. Slowly, I look up to reveal Taylor’s quirky smile. I try to grab them, but he’s too fast and swipes them off the counter.
“Ooh, Melina, what are these?” He dangles the metal off his index finger. Yeah, he seems to be in a better mood now.
“Those aren’t for me.”
Saying that makes it worse, doesn’t it?
After returning the rest of the items to my purse, I try to steal them from him, but he steps back and inspects the handcuffs like they’re an extraterrestrial artifact. “They were in your bag,” he says.
I wish I could wipe that stupid grin off his face.
“They’re for work.”
“You’re a web developer.”
“Amongst other things.”
Taylor drops his smirk and hands me back the handcuffs. “I see. Sorry, I was just, uh, joking around. How you make your income is none of my business.” He goes back to dicing the shallots.
I rest my elbows on the counter. “What do you mean ‘I see’?”
“Well, I can only think of two professions that would use those, and I know you’re not an officer of the law.” He stares intently at the now very finely diced shallots.
I cackle. “No! No, I’m not that. ”
Although, he wishes. Taylor might need to be whipped into shape.
“Then what are you?”
I don’t feel like explaining this to him right now. He probably won’t understand. “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re having a bad day?”
“Why do you care?”
“I don’t know. I’m stalling.” And I do care a little.
“Three things.” He scoops the shallots into a pan as bitterly as one can scoop shallots into a pan.
“One, someone scheduled me two very important meetings at the same time, so now I have to cancel one of them, two, my father has started smoking again, which is the most stupid decision he could make at his age. And three, my brother won’t text me back, and I have no idea where he is. ”
I start with the easiest subject. “Why won’t your brother text you back?”
“There’s this party for a charity I run. I’m trying to convince Tom to come, but he’s mad at me for some unknown reason. Now I’ll have to answer questions about why he isn’t there raising money for schools and instead gambling in a poker tournament.”
I think I’ve heard of Prince Thomas being a good poker player. I pull out my phone to type in his name and ‘poker’ into Google and tap on the first result. A bunch of statistics pop up I don’t understand, but I do have some knowledge of dollar signs.
“Woah, I don’t think he’s gambling.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what all these stats mean, but it says his winnings total over a million euros. He also has a bracelet for a celebrity tournament in Monte-Carlo. That means he won.”
“I know what it means,” Taylor says quickly. He snatches the phone out of my hand and scrolls through it. “I didn’t realize he was this serious of a player.”
“Really? He never mentioned winning a poker tournament to you?”
I don’t see my brother all the time, but we tell each other about the major things going on in our lives.
Taylor hands me back my phone, then looks me straight in the eyes. “You know what, I think I do remember him telling me something about it.”
I’ve noticed Taylor is a very forgetful person. He probably only remembers people’s names when he deems them important enough to remember.
He rubs his hand against his forehead.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m going to have to let him go to Vegas, aren’t I? That would be, like, the brotherly thing to do?”
I lean back. “You’re concerned with being brotherly?”
“My life would be easier if I wasn’t, but because he’s my kin, I’m genetically predisposed to care about him.”
A smile peaks through my lips. He’s being all scientific to distract from the fact that he actually loves his little brother. Whatever the word ‘love’ means for Taylor.
“Maybe you could light the place on fire, and everyone will be distracted with that instead of focusing on his absence.”
Taylor crosses his arms. “A distraction,” he mutters. “That’s worked for me before.”
“Huh?”
“Before Julien’s surprise wedding, a story had come out about Tom pulling some strings to come back from deployment early. I thought it was going to be a bigger deal until a certain photo came out, and everyone got distracted.”
“Julien’s wedding wasn’t a surprise,” I remind him. “Wait, you want me to be your fire?” Obviously, Taylor doesn’t understand how presumptuous that is.
“No, not you. Someone else.”
I scan the room. “Who?”
“It could be any woman, really. I probably just have to show up with them, and everyone will forget about Tom.”
Any woman but me? I’m not sure why I’m offended.
Taylor takes out a pot from the cabinet beside my fridge and sets it on the stove.
The Prince knows where all my cookware is. This is all still a little weird.
I lean against the counter and watch him put the shallots, white wine, heavy cream, and some other spices into the pot. “Do you even measure?”
“Sometimes,” he says.
Sometimes? It’d be chaos if I didn’t measure.
“What are you making?”
“Scallops with crème d’échalote .”
I’m guessing the French part is the sauce he’s cooking.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had a scallop. What do they taste like?”
“They’re like shrimp but more...pillowy? You’ll like them.”
He whisks the ingredients together with confidence. I appreciate that he’s answering my questions politely. It’s the minimum, but it’s something.
Taylor turns around and puts his hands on my waist. I go stiff until I realize he’s just moving me aside to get into the utensil drawer. He doesn’t even look at me when he does it, like I’m merely an object in his way. The word ‘excuse me’ must not be in his vocabulary.
Trying to ignore how hot that was, I take a seat behind the counter to give him some space. “Can I ask where you’re getting these groceries from? I know you’re too rich and famous to go shopping.”
“I have a guy.”
“A grocery guy?”
I think the word I’m looking for is provisioner, but I’ve already said grocery guy out loud.
“He does other things too. I’m curious about what you eat normally. All you have in your kitchen is sauces.”
“How do you know this is going to work? What if I never come back on the project, and I just use you as my personal chef forever.”
He smiles in the mirror above my sink. I bet he forgot it was there because when he turns around, the smile is gone.
“You’re too nice for exploitation, Melina. You’ll come around, eventually.”
His tenacity is annoying. And slightly attractive.
“Well, if you’re going to keep doing this, I should tell you I’m mildly allergic to sesame.”
Taylor is too dialed into his sauce to hear me. It doesn’t seem like scallops with crème-de-whatever has any sesame in it anyway.
Watching Taylor cook is kind of relaxing. He’s like my own Barefoot Contessa, and I get to taste the food instead of watching it on TV. I also like watching people do things they’re passionate about. I don’t know if Taylor would admit cooking is his passion, but he seems to enjoy it. I think.
After searing the scallops, pouring the sauce over them, and adding a few more spices and herbs, he sets the plate in front of me. I’ve never had scallops before, but they look and smell amazing.
Taylor pours me a glass of the wine he used to cook with. “Are you a magician’s assistant?”
What?
Oh, the handcuffs thing. I thought he would have forgotten by now.
“No, I—wait a minute, why did you say assistant? You don’t think I could just be a magician?”
I guess it’s a male-dominated profession. I can’t think of any female magicians. Either that’s an injustice, or I’m a terrible feminist.
He takes a swig of the wine bottle like a pirate. “Well, are you?”
“No. I help Rachel out with her photography business.”
He leans over the counter. “I’m talking about the handcuffs, Melina,” he says slowly.
“I am, too. Besides weddings, she does boudoir and pinup photography, like sexy photos. Some people, uh, like to use them as props. I had to buy new ones because the others were cheap and broke. I must’ve forgotten to drop them off.
Sorry if that’s not as exciting as whatever was in your pervy man brain before.
” I take a bite of my scallops, and of course, it’s heavenly. “This is really good.”
“You guys don’t look like pornographers.”
“It’s not porn, it’s...one second.” I pull up Rachel’s website and hand him my phone. He takes it and scrolls through some of our promo shots. “I also made that website, and it has a very nice-looking logo and banner.”
“Yeah, I’m really appreciating all this great web design work.”
I roll my eyes and take my phone back.
“You’re not having any?” I ask when Taylor starts cleaning up the kitchen.
“No.”
“Do you not eat food or something? Or do you just use photosynthesis to get your energy? I could believe it. You’re very tall and skinny, like a palm tree or snake plant.”
He laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “It’s kind of date-y, isn’t it? Eating together.” He gestures lazily between us. “It’s not why I’m doing this.”
That’s right. This is purely a business relationship. And I bet he has dozens of beautiful date-y gal pals he can pick and choose from to be his distraction. For a second there it felt like we were friends.
Taylor washes dishes as I eat. This is appreciated because I don’t have a dishwasher and it’s my least favorite chore. When he finishes, he turns around to face me. “You know what I’m going to ask you.”
I sigh. “I’ll admit you’re growing on me a bit.” Today, I’ve only been slightly annoyed with him instead of the full-on frustrated like normal.
He smiles a bit. It’s dorky looking, but for some reason, it makes my stomach do a somersault, so I add, “But not in a good way. Maybe like mold.”
His face drops to a familiar and more comfortable scowl.
“You’ve provided a nice service and shown me that we can have a cordial conversation for more than a minute.”
He twists the gold signet ring on his pinky. “That’s not a yes, though, is it?”
“It’s just, with the amount of privilege you have, being insulted by the Prince Taylor just makes it feel ten times worse, like you’re punching down.”
“It doesn’t mean anything, being prince. I’m just a mascot doing a pseudo-job. Doesn’t every smart person know that? You especially?”
Is that what he really thinks?
“You’re not a pointless grift, Taylor.” My voice lowers in pitch. “Listen, you may not have a lot of influence, but you have more than me. More than a lot. The type of influence people work hard for, and it just landed in your lap. You can’t take that for granted.”
Taylor chews the inside of his lip, hopefully, to stop himself from saying something I’m not going to like. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. Or if he’s thinking.
Finally, he opens his mouth. “I can’t cook for you next week. I’m going to be gone.”
Oh. “That’s fine. Where are you going?”
“London.”
He grabs his suit jacket from the chair next to mine.
“Don’t miss me too much. Send me a pic of a red phone booth, ooh, or a shepherd’s pie.”
In exchange for my toothy smile, I get Taylor’s quiet hum as he walks out.