Chapter 19 Melanie
MELANIE
“Good evening,” Nick’s voice slices in behind me, low and close. I snap my head back, pulse kicking up.
“Nick, hi,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice like I’m shoving it through clenched teeth.
“Hi, Honey,” he murmurs, palm landing low on my back. He leans in, lips brushing my cheek—warm, possessive—and then squares up to Josh.
“Nice to see you in here again. No Colt or Abigail tonight?”
There’s an edge to his voice, like something sharp wrapped in velvet. I glance at him, then at Josh. Nick’s jaw tightens. I see it—feel it—in the way his hand grips just a little harder.
“No, since I was late coming to the Thanksgiving dinner, I heard about the news after y’all left, and I wanted to congratulate Mel personally. We go way back.” Josh grins at me, big and familiar, like he’s remembering things I wish I could forget. Nick’s fingers dig a little deeper into my waist.
“Do you now?” Nick’s voice is like heat pressed to my skin—burning, accusing. I know exactly what he’s thinking. I told him about my stepfather. About the mess I was. And now here’s Josh—living, breathing proof of a past I hoped stayed buried.
The truth? I did have a phase—a long, messy one.
Started in high school, peaked around the time Josh came around.
He was the last—the final name on a list that didn’t mean anything.
I was numb—sex was just a thing I did to stay disconnected.
When blackout sex wasn’t easy anymore, I started drinking.
Not for fun—just to blur it all. To disappear.
I’d drink until I was hollow. A doll on autopilot.
And when Josh would tell me the next day how wild I was, how into it I’d been—I’d smile like it wasn’t eating me alive that I couldn’t remember any of it.
He never knew why. Just knew I had a problem.
Told me to get help. That’s part of why it didn’t last. But we stayed friends.
Always. Abigail used to say it was the zodiac signs that doomed us.
She had no idea. The truth was, I was broken.
I still am. That’s why I’m standing next to the man pretending to be my husband.
“Ya,” I say, voice too bright. “Josh, Abigail, and I met in college, and we’ve stayed close since.”
“We dated, but it was short-lived.”
I shoot Josh a look. Why bring that up now? Was he trying to rattle Nick? Test him? Yeah, that was more like Josh—probing for cracks, checking the foundation. Trying to protect me in his own way.
If only he knew.
“And I’m just now hearing about this, princess?” Nick’s voice tries for sweet but lands awkward, a little too forced, too brittle.
“Oh, stop it,” I say, swatting his shoulder with my towel. “There’s not much to tell. We dated for a few months, then I came to my senses, and we decided we’re better as friends.”
“You came to your senses?” Josh laughs, but there’s something behind it—something heavier.
Nick’s gaze is a furnace on the back of my neck. I need to shut this down before either of them says one more thing.
“I’d better go check on my tables. I’ll be back to take your order.” I turn fast, walking away before I unravel right in front of them.
Alexa is wiping down a glass like it personally offended her, lips tight, that signature resting bitch face locked in place as I step up.
“Where is the Moscow Mule and martini table nineteen ordered fifteen minutes ago?”
She barely glances up. “Oh, sorry, it must have slipped my mind.” Her voice is sugary in the most poisonous way.
“No, it didn’t,” I snap. “You meant not to make them on purpose.”
“Now why would I do a thing like that?” she says, tilting her head, fake-innocent, condescending as hell.
“Because you’ve had it out for me since day one. And now that you know Nick and I are married, making my life miserable is your new hobby.”
She scoffs, a slow roll of her eyes that makes my skin crawl. “Please. Get over yourself. I’m sure this marriage won’t last long. Once he’s done screwing you in every position, he’ll get bored and realize he made a huge mistake. No one likes used toys.”
My blood spikes. “Listen here, you l—”
“Is there a problem, ladies?” Nick’s voice cuts in like a blade. I spin around, pulse thudding, and take him in—tall, sharp-jawed, dangerous. My lips curl up slowly.
This is going to be fun.
“No, baby, nothing is wrong,” I purr, sliding my arms around his neck like I own him. “Alexa just forgot my drinks for my table.”
Nick’s gaze flicks to her, cool and commanding. “Is that true, Alexa?”
“Yes, sir. I had a rush, and it slipped my mind.”
She’s already pouring the drinks, eyes locked on the counter, pretending not to be listening but I know she hears every damn word.
“I’m hoping after our talk about being a team in this restaurant, you two will work together and not against each other.”
“She’s just having some jealousy issues, baby. I don’t blame her.” I drag my hands slowly down his sides, letting my fingers trail over his waist, my voice a lazy tease. “My husband is hot. It’s no wonder I can’t keep my hands off you.”
I lean in, whispering just loud enough for Alexa to hear, “Can’t wait to have you inside me later. Last night… and again this morning.”
My teeth graze his ear. I feel him tense—his body going rigid under my hands, but not from resistance. His cock’s already responding, pressed against my hip, rock hard. A thrill curls through me.
“You’re an animal,” I whisper, pure amusement in my tone, like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Dovrei dirle quanto è duro il tuo cazzo,” I murmur in Italian. Should I tell her how hard your cock is?
Nick lets out a short, low laugh, trying to keep it in but losing the battle. “Okay,” he says, dipping his chin, “I know you’re a little nympho, but not at work, princess.”
“Here’s your drinks,” Alexa spits, nostrils flaring like she’s about to breathe fire.
I unwind my arms and turn, taking the drinks with a plastic smile. “Thanks so much, Alexa.”
Her eyes narrow into slits. I swear I see a vein throb in her temple.
“You’re welcome, Mel.” Her teeth are clenched so tight, I’m amazed she can speak.
“Please, call me Mrs. Consele. I just can’t hear it enough.”
“Okay, princess,” Nick mutters behind me, smacking my ass as I walk away. A jolt shoots through me—sharp, hot, unexpected.
I glance over my shoulder with a smirk. “Promise.”
I sway my hips as I head back to the tables, and I can practically feel Alexa’s hatred boiling behind me.
Hours later, I’m in bed, wide awake. My body’s still buzzing. Sleep won’t come—won’t even pretend to. Alcohol would knock me out, but I already know how that story ends. I glance at the clock—2:15 a.m. I sigh, throw the covers off, and Loco stirs at my feet.
“Sorry, buddy,” I murmur, scratching behind his ears. He looks at me with sleepy dog eyes.
“Maybe chamomile tea will help.” I pad downstairs, the house quiet, cold pressing in at the edges. I open a cabinet in the kitchen when I hear something outside.
A voice. Low, frantic.
“Mike, no. Stop. Mike. No.”
I freeze. My hand stills on the cabinet door. I glance out the window. Nick’s on the couch, tangled in a blanket, thrashing. His face is twisted, locked in some torment.
My stomach knots. I run outside, cold air slapping my skin, guilt crawling up my spine. He’s been sleeping out here, and December is approaching. He can’t keep doing this.
“Nick,” I say, shaking his shoulder. “Nick.”
He doesn’t wake. I shake harder. “Nick.”
Suddenly, he bolts upright, hand around my neck in a blur. His grip is crushing. My breath chokes off instantly.
“Ni-Nick… I-can’t… breathe…” My hands claw at his, but he’s too strong, too deep in whatever nightmare has him by the throat. Then his eyes focus. Realization dawns. He releases me like he touched fire.
“Sorry,” he gasps. “ I-I’m sorry. I was having a bad dream.”
I cough, rubbing my throat. “Clearly.”
“Why did you come out here?”
“I couldn’t sleep. Went to the kitchen to see if you had chamomile tea.”
“Tea?”
“Yes. Trying not to drink, diabetes, remember?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I’m impressed.”
“I heard you yelling. I came out to wake you.”
“That’s great and all… but don’t do it again.”
“Again? Does this happen a lot?”
He exhales sharply, eyes shadowed. “Yeah. Every night. At 2:20 a.m.”
“Too bad it’s not 4:20. We could smoke a blunt together. I’m sure it’d help us both sleep.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Yeah, I’ve tried that. Weed makes it worse—more vivid. Not an option, princess.”
“I was kidding. Kind of.”
He pulls the blanket back up like it’s armor.
“Why don’t you come inside? It’s freezing out here.”
“I’m fine. I sleep better when it’s cool.”
“Nick, it’s almost December. This isn’t California. You can’t do this much longer.”
“I’ll be fine,” he growls.
I exhale, frustrated. “Nick, stop being stubborn. Just come inside.”
He rubs his eyes, worn down. “Ha. That’s rich coming from you.”
Something in me cracks watching him—shoulders tense, eyes haunted. He’s exhausted. And alone. And I know that feeling too well. My blackened heart aches for him.
“I’m serious. Just come inside. I already feel bad enough for stealing your bed.” I pause, lowering my voice. “Besides… I have an idea.”