6. Turnabout’s Fair Play #2
She heads for the kitchen, and I follow, sneakers squeaking softly against the tile. She flicks on the under-cabinet lights, casting a warm glow across the counters, as I drop onto a barstool at the island. I watch her move—effortless, graceful—as she pulls down two mugs.
“We’ve got French Vanilla and Hazelnut,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Which one?”
“Hazelnut. Obviously.”
A smirk forms at the corner of her mouth. “Good choice. That’s my favorite too.”
Of course it is.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Please.”
She preps my cup, then slides it across the counter. I wrap my hands around it, letting the heat seep into my fingers before taking a sip. The flavor is rich and nutty, with just enough sweetness to cut the edge.
Melina lingers, biting her lip. “Do you, uh… want a shirt?”
I shake my head, a laugh slipping out. “Doubt you’ve got one that’ll fit me, babe.”
“I might,” she says after a pause, quieter now.
That gets my attention. Curiosity twists low in my gut, tangled up with something darker. “Yeah?”
She nods, heading for the hallway. “My ex. He left some things here.”
Relief hits fast. Too fast. She isn’t talking about someone current. She already told me she wasn’t seeing anyone, but the thought of another guy in this house—living in her space, leaving clothes behind—makes my stomach turn.
When she disappears down the hall, I take a moment to look around her kitchen. It’s cozy. Lived-in. Not the kind of place set up to impress, but the kind that’s been shaped by time and memory, softened by the people who’ve called it home.
White cabinets and countertops. Warm wood floors. A farmhouse sink beneath the window. Glass jars lined up near the stove—flour, sugar, coffee. I wonder if she bakes.
The fridge is covered in life. Spencer’s soccer schedule. A school calendar with scribbled notes. A crayon dragon, maybe. A couple Polaroids—her and the kids in one, Arrow in the other. And right in the center, a stick-figure family. Three children. One dog. And her. No dad.
I swallow hard, chest tightening. Something about being in her space hits deeper than it should. She’s not just surviving. She’s building a life. A home. And I like that more than I should.
Before I can dwell on it, soft footsteps pad down the hallway. She reappears with a black T-shirt in hand. I take it, give it a quick once-over, then pull it on. Snug across my chest and arms, but it works.
“Better?” she asks with a faint smirk.
I stretch. “It’ll do.”
She makes her own coffee and settles onto the stool beside me. For the first time all night—hell, early morning—it’s quiet. But quiet won’t last. I’ve got questions.
I take a slow sip, watching her over the edge of my mug. “How long have you been divorced?”
Her gaze drops to her cup, fingers skimming the rim. “Three years.”
“How long were you married?”
“Eight.” Her voice is even, but her expression shifts—guarded now, careful. “That was my second marriage. Lee. Spencer’s father.”
“And Harper and Declan’s dad?”
She goes still. “He’s been out of the picture for years.”
There it is. The tension in her shoulders, a shadow in her eyes. Not a deadbeat. Something worse. I could push, but I nod instead, letting her hold on to whatever she’s not ready to share.
She exhales, then lifts her gaze. “What about you? Ever been married?”
I snort. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
I lean back on the barstool, arm hooked over the backrest. “Never in one place long enough to make it work. And honestly?” I shrug. “Didn’t think I’d be much of a father.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Yeah?” I raise a brow.
“Yeah,” she says, firm. “You still have time, you know.”
The corner of my mouth kicks up. “I’m pushing forty, girl. You’re trippin’.”
She laughs—really laughs—and it knocks something loose in me. Her head tips back, eyes bright, and I swear to God, I want to make her laugh like that every damn day.
I take another sip of coffee, grounding myself. “Tell me about the kids.”
Her expression softens, a tired smile tugging at her lips. “Declan’s my oldest. He’s studying musical theater at Tisch—NYU. Full ride.”
I let out a low whistle. “Kid must have some pipes.”
She nods, pride sparking in her expression. “He really does. Harper sings and acts, too.”
“Yeah?” I lean in a little. “She planning to follow in his footsteps?”
Melina sighs. “I’m not sure yet. She loves it, but I think she’s still figuring out who she wants to be.”
“And Spencer?”
That pulls a laugh from her, rich with affection. “Spencer’s… a force of nature.”
I laugh. “That bad?”
“Worse,” she says, teasing. “He negotiates everything—bedtime, screen time, vegetables. It’s like living with a tiny lawyer.”
“Sharp kid. I’ll give him that.”
“Honestly, he’s brilliant. Very advanced for his age. The things that come out of his mouth… sometimes I forget he’s only eleven.”
Despite the chaos, it’s clear that her kids are her whole world.
“How are you liking McKinoak so far?” she asks.
I lift my coffee, my lips curving into a grin. “It recently got a lot more interesting.”
Her cheeks flush, color creeping up her neck. She’s cute when she’s flustered.
“And you?” I ask, giving her a reprieve. “What do you do?”
“I’m a copywriter. Freelance.”
“That what you always wanted to do?”
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “No. But I’m good at it and it pays the bills.”
“If you could do anything?”
Her smile is faint, a little wistful. “When I was younger, I wanted to be a professional dancer, but that ship has sailed. Now? Probably an author. I really do love writing.”
“What would you write? Romance?”
She snorts. “You think I’d write romance?”
My smirk deepens. “You did blush when I said McKinoak got more interesting.”
Her eyes widen before she huffs, shaking her head. “You are so full of yourself.”
A quiet laugh escapes, low in my chest. My gaze drops to her mouth before I catch myself—the almost-kiss flashing through my mind. I shift back in my chair, needing the space.
“Tell me about your family,” she says, steering us somewhere safer.
I study her for a beat, then nod. “Yeah, okay. Turnabout’s fair play.”
She gives me a look that says damn right it is.
“I’ve got two little sisters, Molly and Maddie. They’re twins.” My lips curl into a smile. “They drive me crazy, but I’d do anything for them.
“And your mom?” she asks.
“She’s incredible. Strong. A lot like you.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s weighted. Full of things neither of us is ready to say out loud.
I set my mug down. “You’re an amazing mother. You know that, right?”
Her breath hitches. “You barely know me.”
“I read people for a living, Melina.”
Her lips part, like she’s searching for a response. But for the first time since I’ve known her, she doesn’t have anything to say.
I glance at the microwave. 3:04 a.m. Shit.
I scrub a hand down my face. “I should head home. It’s late.”
“Jesus, yeah.” Her gaze flicks to the clock. “I’ll walk you out.”
“Well, this feels a little redundant.” I huff a quiet laugh as we move toward the door. “Didn’t we just do this?”
“I guess we did.” She chuckles as I turn to look at her.
“You sure you’ll be alright?”
She nods, though hesitation lingers in her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”
I hold her stare. “Call me if anything else happens. Promise me.”
“I will. I promise.”
Then, before I can respond, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me. It catches me off guard. For a second, I freeze, my body tensing out of habit. I’m not used to this kind of closeness. Flings don’t count. This is different. Quiet. Real.
I let myself sink into it, pulling her close. She fits against me like she belongs there. Her face rests against my chest, breath warm through my shirt. I feel all the tension leave her body.
God, she feels good. Vanilla and something sweeter cling to her skin. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anyone as much as I want her.
She shifts back slightly, palms flat against me, my fingers brushing her waist. Her chin tilts, and for one suspended moment, it feels inevitable. But then she hesitates. She’s not ready.
Her lashes lower as she exhales and eases back, enough to leave me aching.
“Thank you,” she whispers, voice soft. “For coming to my rescue… again.”
“Anytime.” My hand finds a strand of hair, tucking it behind her ear. I let my fingers linger against her cheek before I bend and press a slow kiss to her forehead. Careful. Deliberate.
Not what I want. Not even close. But for now, it’s enough.
“Good night, Melina.”
She looks up, something flickering across her face that I can’t name. “Good night, Matt.”
I step back, hand on the doorknob. One last look, then I force myself to walk away. But I already know—I’ll be back. Tomorrow. And every damn day after that.