Chapter 20 Nick
NICK
Melanie moves through the kitchen like she owns the space, like she owns me without even trying.
She pulls out bread and cheese, tossing them onto the counter with casual grace, her pajama pants hugging every curve, the fabric clinging to her ass like it was designed for temptation.
Her hair, messy in that effortless, I-just-fucked way, bounces slightly when she ducks her head into the fridge.
I step in close, the heat between us already starting to climb. “What are you looking for?”
“Butter,” she says, voice muffled by the open fridge.
I reach above her, arm brushing against her shoulder, just close enough to feel the warmth of her skin. I grab the butter and hand it to her. She turns, fingers brushing mine.
“Thanks.”
Her eyes flick up at me, and for a second, time glitches.
I hear her words from earlier echoing in my head.
The filthy things she whispered. My jaw clenches.
My gaze drops to her mouth. I imagine those same lips pressed to my ear again, saying every dirty promise she made sounds like a vow.
She catches the look. Her brow rises, a flicker of amusement sparking behind her eyes.
I cough and step aside, letting her pass, tension clinging to my skin like sweat.
She sets the butter on the counter, pulls out a frying pan, focused but completely unaware of what she’s doing to me.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to cook you a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“A grilled cheese?” I say, mostly to stop myself from staring at her ass again.
“Is there an echo in here?” She crouches to light the gas stove, and I get another eyeful. “You told me cooking soothes your anxiety, and the only thing I know how to make is grilled cheese.”
She remembered that.
If she weren’t so guarded all the time, maybe the world wouldn’t see her as a bitch. Maybethey’d see this version—the one standing in my kitchen, barefoot, in pajamas, making me a goddamn sandwich.
“That’s sad,” I murmur with a crooked smile, watching her shake the pan. Her ass jiggles just enough to make my dick twitch.
She doesn’t miss a beat. “So is the fact you’re probably hard from just watching my ass move around this kitchen.”
She throws me a glance over her shoulder, smiling like she’s already won, and snatches a spatula off the counter.“The key to a good grilled cheese is all in the butter. And good cheese. Too little butter, it burns. Too much, and it’s just buttered bread.”
I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. “Is that so?”
She drops a slice of bread in the pan, layers cheese, then tops it with another slice. The sound of the sizzle fills the kitchen like a slow seduction.
“So this was the only thing you cooked growing up?” I bite back a laugh.
“Yeah. When Olga was gone or busy with her family, I’d get hungry. My mom kept the pantry locked up—she believed in intermittent fasting, like it was gospel. But she never thought to lock the fridge.”
She pauses, flipping the sandwich, and that smell—rich butter, melted cheese—makes my stomach groan. “I’d sneak into the kitchen in the middle of the night and make grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“How old were you when your mom started doing that?”
“Eight. Right after, she put me into acting.”
“Holy shit, that’s young.”
She doesn’t turn, just keeps working. “Yeah. Being on camera adds ten pounds. And I liked to eat. My mom never let me forget that.”
“Did you like acting?”
“I used to love it.”
The way she says it makes my gut twist. She flips the sandwich again, and I see the shift—her mouth tenses. Her voice drops.
“Until I realized I didn’t anymore.”
“What does that mean?”
She doesn’t look at me as she speaks. “It’s no secret the industry is corrupt. Most people in Hollywood are into dark, twisted shit. The rest… probably sucked dick to get where they are.”
Damn. “Are you always this blunt?”
She laughs softly, grabbing two plates. Loco pads along behind her, tail wagging, as she sets the table.
“I just cut through the bullshit.”
“Were you a chunky kid or something?”
“Now who’s being blunt?” she quips, smiling as she sets the sandwiches down.
“I mean, your mom sounds extreme.“I wasn’t chunky. She was just a perfectionist who never made it. She was beautiful, but not talented. I was both. And she hated that.” She trails off, her voice catching slightly.
“But what?”
Her lips part, then shut. “That industry is filled with predators.”
My eyes drop to the tile floor. Her tone changed. Everything changed.
“Men with power are usually the worst. I thought you were, too… until I saw your tiny house.”
I can’t tell if she’s teasing or taking a jab.
“I’ve always lived beneath my means.”
“I like that about you.”
Her voice is soft now, almost careful. Our eyes meet and linger, heat tightening the air between us. She slides into the chair across from me. The grilled cheese lands in front of me like a peace offering.
“What about you? Why does everyone here look at you like you’re some hero?”
I stare down at the sandwich. The smell brings comfort I didn’t know I needed.
But I’m not ready for the memories it stirs.
Ever since I returned home, I haven’t wanted to really talk about my time in the military or the trauma I developed during my time serving.
And I certainly haven’t talked to anyone besides my therapist about the last mission I was on.
“I’m not a hero. I was just doing my job, is how I see it.”
“Okay, and what job is that? What exactly does a tier one operation look like? Like what kind of stuff did they make you do?”
“Okay, and what job is that?” she asks, mouth full of sandwich. I laugh—can’t help it. She’s beautiful when she doesn’t care what she looks like.
“It just depends on the mission. We are involved in various high-profile military operations like counter-terrorism, hostage rescue, high-value target extraction, ya know, stuff like that.” I shrugged my shoulders and picked up my sandwich, taking a bite.
The gooey, warm cheese woke my taste buds up, and my stomach danced at the thought of the yummy food coming down my throat.
“This has to be the best grilled cheese sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say with wide eyes.
“Okay, you don’t have to lie.”
“Seriously. I never thought I could get addicted to bread and cheese, but I was wrong.”
“You’re Italian. Isn’t bread and cheese your life?”
“I’m half and bread and cheese is more of a French thing.”
“Okay, Mr. technical.”
We sat in silence for a moment before she said.
“Ya know, I read this fiction book about a military guy, and he would have recurring nightmares like you, and he said his therapist called it PTSD nightmares, but it meant that he had unresolved issues. The longer you avoid addressing the problem, the more likely you are to have the same dream.”
I chewed slowly as I stared at her. This girl really was clueless to shit like this. No damn fiction book is going to describe what I’ve gone through in real life.
“I don’t think that’s why I have the same dream.
It’s called combat. And I’ve seen things far worse than expected in ways you couldn’t even fathom.
The weird thing is that the more time between combat and me, the worse it gets.
You’d assume the opposite. While the jumpiness and stuff like that subsides, a good bit is replaced with depression and difficulty maintaining a normal life or healthy relationship.
There’s a loss of interest in things I used to find fun.
I easily stress out and can be quick-tempered. ”
“No, you?,” She says, sarcasm spilling from her lips.
“Very funny.”
“Thank you.” She says with a cocky smile.
Liking how this felt, to open up and release some of the skeletons I’ve been holding since I got back. I continued on.
“It’s hard to describe. I mean, sometimes I have a general disgust for humanity and what we are capable of doing for the most petty reasons.
I have no patience for people complaining about how hard their lives are when there’s this sickening dread that I constantly feel inside, and I assume it’s because once you see the darkness that exists out there, it’s a curse because you know it’s there, lurking, just out of sight every day of the rest of your life. ”
She leaned forward and placed a hand under her chin, appearing rather interested, so I carried on.
“On top of that, working in general is torturous, and life is generally unexciting. How could it be? Because nothing comes close to the emotions and adrenaline surges of combat, and it’s hard to feel like anything you do has meaning.
While things do have meaning, it’s just I don’t know, different.
I often go through long stretches of my life where the only thing I’m capable of is waking up every day and waiting to die until I open this restaurant.
Adrenaline comes back to me when I’m back there, sweating and helping the line cook get food out. ”
And now, when I think about you, and pulling this fake marriage off.
“Shit, I opened a can of worms.” She takes another bite of her sandwich.
I laughed lightly. “Sorry, just don’t talk much about that stuff to anyone. My mom and sister worry enough, and the psychologist made me feel like a science project, remember?”
“I remember,” she gets up and pulls out two glasses, placing one under the water filter in the fridge.“I brought up the book because the female character started waking the soldier up before he could have the nightmare.”
“Did it help?”
She places a glass in front of me and the other beside her. I sip a generous amount of water, not realizing how thirsty I was.
“Yeah, I mean, they would swim naked in a pool, but since you don’t have a pool, I figured I could continue making you grilled cheese sandwiches.” A sexy smirk curled at the ends of her lips.
My dick twitched at the thought of going skinny dipping with Mel. Even though our marriage was fake, I still was a man with blood running through my veins and any man would look at her and want to fuck her. She was so damn beautiful I probably would cum at just the sight of her alone.
“Why do I feel like I’m getting duped now that I know he got tits and ass, and I’m getting a grilled cheese sandwich.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she tips her glass toward me before taking a sip.
“So it’s a date?”I brought my glass up to make a toast. She clanks her glass against mine, following my gesture.
“It’s a date. Two a.m. sharp.”
“I’ll be there,” and we both drank to that.