Chapter 16 Nick #2
“Mom,” I say again in English because even though Melanie can understand Italian, my mom doesn’t know that, and I wasn’t going to be the one to reveal that part of Melanie.
“If you’d excuse me,” Melanie says, standing up so abruptly her chair scrapes against the floor. “I need to use the restroom.”
Before I can stop her—before I can even read the storm building behind her tight smile—she’s already halfway down the hallway.
“Ah, young love, it’s so much fun,” Cliff says with a chuckle, draining his glass like he’s watching a romcom instead of a live grenade about to detonate.
Colt’s eyes slice into me from across the table. He knows. I know he knows. I shove back from my chair and follow her before I can second-guess it.
“Melanie,” I call out, the hallway echoing back my voice. Nothing.
I glance around, panic flickering in my chest until I catch sight of her, through the back window, standing alone in the yard, arms wrapped around herself like she’s barely holding it together.
I push through the sliding glass door, and the cold slaps me in the face, but it’s nothing compared to the fury blazing in her eyes when she turns to me.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask, knowing damn well she’s not.
“No,” she snaps, spinning around like a live wire. “What the fuck was that?” She jabs a finger toward the glowing windows where our fake little audience sits.
“Shh, keep your voice down. They can see us through the windows.”
She glances back, her posture stiff and sharp, shoulders pulled tight like a bowstring.“Just fucking great. You didn’t tell me your mom is going to bring up the whole religion thing. Then babies. What the fuck? Do I need to start going to church now, too?”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt if you did, potty mouth.”
“Fuck me,” she mutters, throwing her hands in the air like she’s ready to combust.
“Not the time and place, Melanie.”
She shoots me a look that could turn bone to ash. And I’m not easily rattled—but right now, I swear she could take me out without lifting a finger.
“My mom grew up Catholic,” I say, trying to soften my voice. “She wasn’t always so strict, but with age… she changed. So I go with her on Sundays. Not every week, with the restaurant and all, but I try.”
“I love how your mom acts like she’s holier than thou. Didn’t she get pregnant with you at a young age? So God didn’t stop her from spreading her legs without being married.”
“Watch it,” I growl, the shift in my tone unmistakable. I can handle her fire, but not when it’s aimed at my mom.
She sighs, tips her head back, and stares at the dark sky like she’s begging the stars for mercy.
“Just pretend,” I remind her, stepping closer. “Remember, it’s only temporary.”
“Not if I kill you, that’s permanent.” Her smile is stretched tight, biting and brittle, as if she lets go, it’ll all unravel.
This girl… Jesus. She’s a wildfire, and I can’t tell if I want to tame her or let her burn me alive. I never know what she’s thinking. Never know if I’m going to get a slap or a kiss. And somehow, that uncertainty makes my blood heat in a way nothing else ever has.
“Come here,” I say.
“What, why?” Her head tilts, suspicion laced in every movement.
“Just come here. They’re watching us like hawks. Especially Colt.”
She steps in, reluctant and tense, and I wrap my arms around her. I slowly run my hand through her hair, like I’m soothing her. Like I’m the husband I’m pretending to be.
“Uh, what are you doing?” she mumbles into my chest.
“Being your husband. Comforting my hurt wife.”
“I’m not hurt, I—”
I silenced her with a finger to her lips.
Big mistake.
Her mouth is soft, warm. My finger lingers too long. The heat between us spikes like a sudden flame, and I imagine things I shouldn’t—her lips wrapped around that finger, then my cock. Her knees were on the ground. Her taste on my tongue.
My jeans tighten, and my thoughts darken.
I drop my hand and cup her face, needing to touch her differently. Needing to erase the filthy fantasy burning behind my eyes.
The next thing I know, my lips are on hers. I don’t plan it. Don’t hesitate. Just crash into her like instinct—raw and reckless, and it brought the blood in my veins back to life.
She stiffens, a flicker of resistance, and I’m ready to pull back—but she melts into me. Her mouth softens. Her hands grip my shirt. And when I tease her lips open with my tongue, she lets me in like she’s been waiting for this.
She whimpers, and the sound nearly undoes me.
I kiss her like I mean it. Like it’s real.
Because in this moment, fuck pretending. It feels real.
The noise of the house, the family watching, the whole damn world—it fades. There’s just her, pressed against me, tasting like frustration, heat, and something dangerously close to want.
When I finally pull away, her eyes flutter open like she’s waking from a dream. I smirk, heart thundering in my chest.
“Ready to go back inside?” I ask, voice husky.
She nods slowly, dazed.
After dinner, we hung back for small talk. Abigail gushed about baby names and gave us a tour of the nursery like we were next in line for parenthood. And then—mercifully—we left.
Mel insisted on the motorcycle, and thank God for that.
The silence between us was thick, but the hum of the engine and the wind gave us both something else to cling to.
Her arms wrapped around my waist tighter than ever.
I felt every shift of her body against mine, like her touch was no longer part of the show.
When we pulled up to my place, she hopped off the bike fast, like she was afraid of how close she’d let herself get.
“That went well,” I mutter, removing my helmet.
“Yeah, except for the part where your mom thinks I’m a heathen that needs an exorcist.”
“She does not,” I say, following her up the steps. “She’s just a believer. Have you never believed in anything?”
She stops mid-step, turns, and looks at me like I’ve just asked her if she believes in fairy tales.
“No, not really.”
“Your parents never taught you about God, or went to church?”
“I went to a private school, so I learned about God. But my home life…” She trails off, gaze drifting somewhere far away. “It wasn’t exactly full of daily prayers. They put me in private school for status, not faith.”
She moves to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and grabs a glass.
“Do you have any wine or alcohol?”
“Should you be drinking after such a big meal? Won’t that mess with your blood sugar?”
“That’s why I can drink. I can’t on an empty stomach—lowers my blood pressure.”
“Why do you need to drink at all?”
She pauses, eyes falling to the floor. When she meets my gaze again, there’s something hollow behind it. “It helps me sleep. I have a hard time falling asleep.”
“Well, you’ll have medical insurance now. Go see a doctor.”
She folds her arms around herself, suddenly small. Vulnerable.
“Yeah, I should go. But I feel like it wouldn’t help.”
“You won’t know until you try. Talking to someone helped me.”
She looks at me like I’ve just peeled off my skin and revealed something she wasn’t expecting.
“Why do you care if I drink or not? If something happened to me, it’s not like it would matter to you.”
Her voice is laced with bitterness, but underneath it—fear.
She’s used to being discarded. Used to no one caring.
And it fucking guts me.
“I just do,” I say. Simple. Honest. Maybe too much.
She stiffens like I’ve slapped her.
“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?