13 | Melina
Melina
Taylor is one hundred percent lying about something. It’s not like I’m scared of him. I know he’s all bark and no bite. I’m just curious about what the hell is going on.
The manor is three stories and made from stone brick in various shades of gray.
I wouldn’t say the place is an architectural feat.
It’s very up-and-down-looking and adorned with non-distinct rectangular windows.
Medieval is what I would call it if I knew anything about architecture.
Back then, there was a trend of making all the buildings look as menacing and haunted as possible.
Taylor slams his car door. “You’ve been here before, remember?” he says from behind me.
“Is it possible it’s gotten bigger?”
He doesn’t answer. Actually, I haven’t been here here. The wedding was held in the foyer at the front entrance. Now we’re at a side wing. Maybe he’ll let me do some exploring.
I follow Taylor up some marble steps lined with neatly trimmed shrubs and through a dark mahogany door that doesn’t need to be unlocked. I guess when you’re rich, you don’t have to worry about keys.
The corridor I step into has low ceilings and simple wood furniture. Taylor goes ahead of me, but I’m too busy staring at a painting of an old sailboat.
“Melina?” he calls, realizing I’m not by his side.
I do a slow 360. “So this is your terrarium,” I say, examining the wainscot walls lit by gold sconces.
“You can just call me a snake, Melina. No need to get all creative.” He looks at the painting and then back at me. “I don’t know much about the art that’s in here.”
Placing a hand on my back, he walks me down the hallway to a large living room lined with huge French windows.
Some furniture is scattered across the floor, and an upright piano sits in the corner next to an unlit fireplace.
I don’t get much time to take in the space because suddenly I’m led into a kitchen.
Not the kitchen I saw when we were setting up at the wedding, this one is smaller and less industrial-looking.
Taylor takes my coat off and leaves for a bit.
I set my bag on the island and stare up at the gold-painted molding.
Even the ceilings are beautiful. The door on the other side of the space also looks enticing, so I go over and open it a crack.
It leads to a long hallway that I think I remember seeing at the wedding.
“You can snoop if you want to.”
I jump at Taylor’s voice. When I turn my head, he quickly looks up from my chest. Yeah, I may have undone my top button. Sue me.
“Just don’t get lost,” he warns.
“Do you have one of those shelves where you pull out a book and it opens a whole secret room?”
“I’m not sure I’d tell you if I did,” he says, pulling out ingredients from a cabinet.
I take a peek into the living room again.
“Take a look, Melina, I don’t care. You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?”
“No,” I try to say very confidently.
Taylor’s lip twitches at the speed with which I answered his question.
“You know,” he starts. “When we were kids, the lights used to just go out at random times.”
“Really?” I ask as he draws closer to me.
“We hired, like, three different electricians and none of them could figure out what was going on.” He checks something on his phone.
“That’s very bizaa—”
The kitchen goes dark. On instinct, I fist the waist of Taylor’s shirt and pull closer to him.
“Oh my God,” I say, my voice quivering. I’m near enough to feel his breathing calm and steady, the opposite pace of mine.
Taylor looks up at the ceiling, his face lit by the phone in his hand.
Wait a minute.
I look down at the screen that reads: kitchen lights toggle: OFF.
My fist turns into a slap to his chest. “I don’t like you,” I say through my teeth.
“I very much doubt that.” His hand meanders to my lower back. I don’t remember it being on my back to begin with.
You shouldn’t be enjoying this, Melina.
The lights turn on as I storm out of the kitchen. Taylor doesn’t need to be touching me in the dark. It doesn’t matter if it feels nice.
I head towards the living room and stand in front of the windows, surveying the massive back lawn surrounded by pine trees.
The stars are a lot clearer away from the city.
The built-in bookshelf in the corner is full of classic literature and French titles.
I run my hand across their spines until I come across a blank one.
I pull it out all dramatically to see if it opens a secret room.
Sadly, it doesn’t. Out of curiosity, I open the front cover.
It’s a photo album. He said I could snoop, right?
The first picture is a selfie taken by Princess Charlotte with her arm around her two sons and the head of a horse beside them.
She’s a stunning woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and dark eyes to match her sons.
Taylor looks about ten and Thomas around four.
I laugh because while Thomas seems like he doesn’t want to be there, Taylor is holding up a half-hearted peace sign and smiling, braces and all.
I hope for Taylor’s sake he had a somewhat normal childhood, although he was probably never asked ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ like the rest of us.
The picture underneath it is of Thomas on a skateboard.
He looks around seven. I’m assuming the lankier boy holding onto his arm is Taylor, but he has his back toward the camera.
He has that shaggy skater-boy haircut that all boys at my high school had.
My heart aches to see the captions underneath, written by a mother taken too soon from her children.
I put the album back. I shouldn’t be looking behind the curtain.
The sound of scampering echoes down the hallway.
I turn around, but no one’s there. Is this another one of Taylor’s tricks?
I take a step toward the noise. Then another.
Then one more. When a dog comes barreling towards me, I backpedal to the bookshelf and put out my arms to block the beast. Just when I think it’s going to pounce, the basset hound screeches to a halt and sniffs me up and down.
It barks, but not in an aggressive way, more in an excited-to-see-me way.
I kneel to scratch him or her under their chin.
This is Taylor’s dog? This droopy-looking animal that could trip over its own ears?
It follows me to the kitchen.
“I’ve made a friend!” I exclaim. The dog sneezes in excitement as if to say the same thing. “I don’t know why, but I thought you were lying about the dog.”
Taylor opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and goes back to mixing batter.
“What’s the name?” I ask.
“Vinnie.”
“When did you get him?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember when you got your dog?”
Taylor sighs. “All right, he’s not my dog. He’s Tom’s.”
“Hey, I was right!” I clap my hands. “I’ve spent so much time with you, I can tell when you’re lying now.”
He cocks his head. “You think so, eh?”
I don’t answer because he’s being cryptic and weird. Instead, I lean over the counter and watch him cook. Every once in a while, his arm brushes up against mine. I don’t think either of us minds.
“I’m sorry if I ruined your plans of getting laid tonight,” he says casually.
I freeze.
“I mean, that’s what Tinder is for, right? I’ve never ventured.”
“Uh, I wasn’t planning on it. I just thought he looked nice.”
Taylor hums in the most judgmental way one can hum. Again, cryptic and weird.
After a while, he flips the pancake using a spatula, though I’m kind of disappointed he didn’t flip it in the air.
Eventually, I’m sitting at the kitchen island with a plate in front of me.
The pancake looks warm, buttery, and delicious.
Pancakes are the best. My mom used to make them when I was sick as a kid.
Even the smell takes me back. I take a bite of Taylor’s, and of course, they taste incredible. Why wouldn’t they?
I point my fork at the plate. “This is so fucking good,” I say with my mouth full.
Taylor busies himself with dishes. He hides his smile well, but I can see he’s blushing.
Doesn’t he have someone to do dishes for him?
After I finish, I get up to put my plate in the sink, but Taylor turns around, takes it out of my hand, and sets it back on the counter behind me. He leaves his arm to linger by my waist.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asks very close to me.
“If I’m coming back on the project?”
Both of his hands are on the island now, caging me with his arms. “So did I convince you?”
I rest silent. How could I not? I already told Julien I was back on the project before I got here, but I don’t want to admit to Taylor or myself that I came over just for funsies.
God, he charmed me. I’m weak!
Taylor uses the tip of his middle finger to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I can hear my breathing. I can hear his.
“What are you doing?”
He traces the neckline of my shirt with his thumb. “Why did you undo the top button of your blouse?” he asks, gently pulling the fabric and revealing more of my chest. When I look down, he immediately nudges my chin back up to look me in the eyes. “Hm?”
I gulp. “I was, uh, hot.”
“You were, uh, hot?” Taylor’s smirk turns into a pout. “Do you want me to turn down the temperature?” he asks like I’m a child. “I can do it from my phone, too. This house might look old, but it’s very technologically advanced.”
I need to get better at lying.
His hands settle low on my waist. “I was just wondering, Melina,” he says, pressing up against me lightly, lips so close. “You know, if you’re not too hot,” he continues, our noses practically touching, our foreheads actually touching, his thigh in between my legs—wait, when did that happen?
You should kiss him.
Yes. I should kiss him. I lean in to go for it, but he instantly tilts his head to the side.
“If I could get an ETA on the website?” he whispers into my ear.
What?