6. Open Up
Open Up
Melody
“Melody?” I knew that voice. I knew it very well. Too well. “You in there?”
It was a little bright spot in my existence. A guy too pretty to be real. A rugged lumberjack mountain man next door with wild green eyes and long, wavy, nutmeg hair.
The hottest thing I had ever seen was when I’d visited the McClanahan farm one day, and he was outside chopping wood without a shirt on.
I’d driven by in my truck, my mouth hanging wide open.
He gave me a nod before putting his axe into a nearby stump, lifting his arms—biceps perfectly rounded—and pulling a hair tie from his wrist, gathering his hair into a ponytail at the crown of his head.
I stared so hard that I’d almost crashed my truck right into the McClanahan front porch!
And then Lottie McClanahan called him over to help unload the fresh vegetables from the bed of my truck, and I almost squealed when he held out his hand.
“Lemme get that, Miss.” His voice was slow, drawled, and with a rhythm like the lapping waves on a rocky shore.
Had I had long, inappropriate fantasies of him?
Maybe. Maybe he was shirtless. Chopping wood.
Carrying them over to me in slow motion under the light snowfall to get a fire started in my fireplace before he made himself at home on my couch.
Or perhaps he’d cook a meal for me and the kids, bring over a couple of beers, then wash up afterwards.
What did it say about me that such an easy, domestic vision made me weak in the knees? A man who washed dishes? Drool worthy. There was nothing sluttier than a man who folded laundry. Nothing.
So what the fuck was he doing at my door now?
I hid like chicken shit, my back to the wall between the kitchen and the foyer.
If I stepped out there, he’d see me. The damn door had a stained-glass pane that looked like trees and pine.
He’d see me through the warped glass, and I didn’t want to be seen.
The last thing I wanted was be seen for what I was.
“Melody?” he called, the knocks getting faster, more desperate.
I held my hands over my heart, trying to calm the frantic beating that threatened to escape through my ribs.
I’d avoided crying or panicking in front of Sheriff Whitlaw. Then the lawyer, and the text message. It was a performance so good, I should have won a Lawrence Olivier!
But to keep my shit together in front of a man who turned my brain to mush, and who made me stand like an idiot with my mouth open, tongue rolling out like a Looney Tunes wolf seeing a hot piece of tail walking by…?
If he was wearing a button-down that showed just a little bit of chest hair, then I’d be done. Brain would be gone.
He already thought I was some ditzy girl next door who didn’t have her shit together, who was one paycheck away from losing her house or losing her family to foster care…I was always at the McClanahan’s for handouts, and the hand that did the handing out was always—always—his.
And that made it so much worse. The way he looked at me with those gorgeous green eyes.
Why couldn’t he have been normal? Like a five out of ten, instead of an eleven out of ten?
Why couldn’t he have been a normal looking guy of medium build and medium height, with a normal face?
No, he had to look like Captain America’s more muscular stunt double!
“Melody, I know you’re in there. I’m parked right behind your truck.”
He was bluffing. He had to be. Maybe I’d gotten a ride from someone else. How’d he know?
I heard a thud. Just one. Not a knock or a knuckle, but like he had put his forehead against the glass.
“Honey, I was there when they fished the body out of the lake. I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”
Shit.
“Melody…”
I swallowed as the weight of Greg knowing added something humiliating to all of this. I looked to the side, to where the family room was in full view. The fireplace. The family photos. Luke. Staring out from his wedding photos. I stood between him and my mother, in a floral dress.
I didn’t realize until years later that his hand shouldn’t have been so low on my waist, tugging me into him with one arm as the other held my mother’s hand.
“Open up, Melody.” Greg said it so softly that I’d barely heard.
It floated in like the cool wind through the ventilation window beside the stove—except the vent above the stove had been broken for months.
I didn’t have the money to replace it, and as hard as I’d tried, I couldn’t fix it myself.
So there it stayed. Broken, useless. Like so many other things in this fucking house.
“I’m here to help, sweetheart. Honest.”
That did it. That was the thing that made my heart clenched, and my stomach turned.
No one was ever here to help. Never. Luke used to say he was just trying to help me feel better. He just wanted to make me happy. That he loved me.
It had made my body recoil as bile crawled up my throat.
“Melody? Mel…sweety heart…”
I pushed off the wall. Using my hand to help me stay upright, I went through the small threshold to the foyer, my bare feet touching the rough runner that was supposed to catch the mud, snow, and salt from our shoes as we walked in.
“What do you need?” My voice was shaking.
“I’d like to see your face. To see if you’re alright.”
His silhouette was visible through the glass. Tall, wide-shouldered, fit, with long wavy hair that always effortlessly fell to his clavicle. Long enough to put in a ponytail, but not quite long enough for a bun.
I didn’t think I’d like that in a man, but here he was. All…likeable.
“Can you open the door?”
My brain must have become completely smooth, because I had forgotten that we were separated by a glass door. As in see-through. He could see me standing there like an asshole, not sure how to do a damn thing.
When someone was at the door, you opened it, invited them in for a cup of coffee or tea, and offered food if it was available. My mother would have hated my bad manners.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered as I took one tentative step after another, until nothing but the door stood between us, and the worn floral runner of the foyer was stiff under my feet. I placed my hand on the glass, as if I could feel him through it.
He lifted his palm and placed it on the other side. The shadow of his hand was so much bigger than mine.
I swore I felt his heat through the pane. Like his palm had transcended the glass and pressed against mine.
“I was worried about you.” He was so earnest.
And in my deluded little brain, I thought that maybe he liked me. That was why he worried. People worried about those they cared for.
But in reality, he was just a good guy, probably here to make sure I didn’t absolutely fuck up everything and cause harm to myself and others.
He was always taking care of me. He always gave me baskets of vegetables from the garden he tended at the back of the property.
But it wasn’t just vegetables. He gave me fruits, canned preserves, and even flour and bread that Lottie made from her new sourdough starter.
He always reminded me to eat and drink and asked whether I fed my two little hellions enough. He’d even bring leftovers.
I thanked him, because how could I be anything but utterly grateful? I kept telling myself that it wasn’t special. He was nice to everyone! But sometimes I let myself think that maybe he did it because he liked me.
I had to pull hard to open the door, thanks to the damn warped wood.
His hand was still on the glass. Thick lashes made his green eyes even brighter, and his beaked nose tipped down at the end over his closely shaved beard.
I’d always wondered if it would feel smooth or sharp.
Would his cheek scratch against mine if we ever slow danced in the rain?
He seemed very much like the kind of man who would dance in a summer rain.
He leaned in. So close I almost felt his breath on my skin.
He smelled like cigarettes. Did he smoke? I had never seen him do so.
He smiled. Not a happy smile, but the kind that showed sympathy, designed to make me feel better—or, perhaps, designed not to make me feel worse.
“I helped Whitlaw with the body. I eavesdropped a bit and found out what’s going on.
” He dropped his hands and stuffed them into his jeans pocket.
Nice and restrained. Not ready to reach out and touch me.
Safe. Not the kind of man who couldn’t restrain himself from hurting the woman he desired.
He didn’t take what wasn’t given. “I wanted…to see if you needed anything. I can ask Mamma Mack to make you a meal. I can go get groceries. Help you with the dent in your car?”
He flicked his thumb to my yellow Ram 1500. There was a big, vertical dent on the passenger door that I’d slapped a Wile E. Coyote sticker on it and made it a feature instead of a flaw.
“Don’t touch my dent.” I almost pouted.
“You’re right. It gives it character.” He leaned his forearm on the door jamb, thumb flicking at his lower lip. He smiled, and I couldn’t help smiling back.