A knock sounded at the door and Melinda jumped. She blamed her attacker for the fact her nerves were shot; not the man opposite, who was making her emotions misfire and her pulse screech.
He sent a glance at his watch, a frown on his face. “It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“Shoot. Is it?” She flicked the heat off the stove and moved quickly across the apartment.
Tara smiled at her from the hallway beyond. Her dark hair was bundled up on top of her head, her face wiped clean of makeup. A sleepy bundle of little boy was cradled in her arms. “I thought I heard the door slam,” she whispered. “This little guy’s been fighting it for the last hour.”
“Thank you.” Melinda reached out and took him, instinctively breathing in the sweet smell of clean clothes and soap. As she moved back into the apartment, Tara followed, but the sight of Ra’if stopped her dead in her tracks.
“Oh!” She exclaimed softly, her eyes travelling from his dark head to this running shoes, and enjoying every single inch in between. “I didn’t know you had company,” she grinned.
Melinda shot a look over her shoulder and poked her tongue out. “He’s not company,” she whispered. “So much as a Good Samaritan I can’t shake.”
Ra’if laughed at the description, for it was as accurate as it was amusing. He watched, not bothering to hide his interest, as Melinda carried the dark haired little boy through another doorway. A minute later she reappeared, smiling at her neighbour. “Thanks again for minding him.”
“Anytime,” Tara said. “I mean anytime.”
Melinda laughed. “This is definitely not what you’re thinking, going from the way you’re ogling the two of us.” She shot another look at Ra’if and he felt a kick of pleasure in his gut.
“And what am I thinking?” Tara asked, moving quickly to the door. “That you’re having a well earned night off? That you’re having fun with a guy who’s fit as …”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Melinda laughed, pushing her friend towards the door. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow, okay?”
“We’ll see. You might be busy tomorrow.”
“Tara,” she groaned, pushing her one more time, so that she stepped out of the apartment.
“Just try to keep it down to a dull roar, okay? I’ve got my own sleeping kids to think of.”
“We won’t disturb them,” Melinda promised, fighting a burst of laughter. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night, love.” She craned back around the door. “Night, stud.”
Melinda rolled her eyes as she clicked the door back in place. “I’m sorry about her.”
Ra’if followed Melinda with renewed curiosity. “You have a child.”
“Do I? Huh. I thought it was just a small vagrant who had decided to live with me.” She sent him a droll look as she poured the still-warm milk into the mugs and stirred them both. “That’s Jordan.”
Ra’if nodded, trying to reconcile the implications of this fact to how he’d been feeling a moment earlier. When he’d been looking at Melinda and imagining making love to her against the sofa, with those darned reindeer cushions wedged around them.
“How old is he?” His calm voice belied the sense of urgency driving his curiosity.
“Five.” She reached into the cabinet above the range hood and pulled out a plastic jar. “I have to keep these up here or Jordan will eat the whole stash. He’s a total sniffer-dog when it comes to treats.”
“His father?” Ra’if winced inwardly at how to-
the-point the question was.
Melinda’s eyes flew to Jordan’s bedroom door. “He’s … not really in the picture,” she murmured after a significant pause.
“No?” What were those feelings pounding him from the inside out? “Does he support you?”
“Now, now. I think you’re taking the guardian angel thing a step too far, don’t you?”
“It’s a simple question.” His eyes narrowed. He turned and surveyed the apartment, looking beyond the Christmas explosion to the furnishings and décor. It was nice, neat, modern. Not luxurious, by any stretch of the imagination, but nor did it look as though Melinda was struggling to put food on the table.
“He’s not in a position to support us,” she said finally, her words clipped. She passed a hot chocolate mug towards Ra’if and reached for her phone. She pressed a few buttons and Christmas carols began to play through a speaker on the bench. They were the old-fashioned ones; he recognised the strains of Dean Martin and a flood of his own childhood memories danced on the periphery of his mind. Memories of his family. His mother. And life after she’d died.