“This shouldn’t take too long.” I fasten my work belt around my hips.
“Melrose, why don’t you help him?” her grandmother says, all but herding us toward the garage pass through door.
Melrose’s nose wrinkles. “He doesn’t need my help. I’d just be in the way.”
“Yeah. It’s all right. I appreciate it though.” I adjust my belt and head out to the breaker box. I’m hoping it’s nothing more than a few fuses that need replacing and not the entire panel. I’m not doing that shit for free. Not for people with more money than God and Bill Gates combined.
Flashlight in hand, I kill the power and get to work. Five minutes later, the door opens and Melrose’s outline fills the dark space. From here I realize there’s something in her hand.
“Sorry,” she says. “Gram wanted me to bring you some lemonade before the ice melts in the freezer.”
“Power won’t be out long enough for the ice to melt,” I say, accepting the glass when she gets closer. “Thanks.”
I take a swig and sit it off to the side. The glass is heavy, feels expensive. I’d hate to knock it over in the dark. For all I know, it was a hand-me-down from Ingrid Bergman.
“So … everything good here?” she asks. “I hope it’s a quick fix.”
I nod, using my flashlight to find a fuse. “Yep. Almost done.”
“It’s so nice of you to do this,” she says. I get the sense that she’s lingering, that she wants to be out here, the two of us alone. But I don’t know why. I thought we’ve been doing a good job of keeping our distance lately, as hard as it’s been. “If I’m bothering you, I can head in.”
“Nah.” I grab the next fuse. “You’re good.”
Her gaze is intense, heavy.
“This is fun for you?” I ask. “Watching me do this?”
Melrose rolls her eyes, fighting a smile. “Honestly, if I go back inside, Gram’s just going to keep going on about how cute we’d be together, and I don’t know how much more of that I can take.”
“She’s not wrong.”
She’s quiet for a second, as if she doesn’t know how to interpret my comment. But it’s true. We would be fucking adorable together.
But that’s not going to happen. We’re never going to be together in the traditional sense.
It’s dark in here, but I’d be willing to bet she’s blushing.
“Plus my cousin just got here and there’s this whole peanut gallery thing going on. I’d rather be here.”
I chuckle under my breath. She’s completely ignoring what I said, which means she’s pretending she doesn’t care.
“Can you hand me that amp meter over there? By your foot?” I ask, pointing.
A second later, she steps closer, the meter in her hand, only when I go to take it from her, I underestimate how far away she’s standing and she overestimates my intentions because without warning, her mouth presses hard against mine.
I let her kiss me and I let myself enjoy it. And when it’s over, I lift my hand to her cheek and take a step back.
“I wasn’t trying to kiss you.” I calmly take the tool from her hand and turn back to the breaker box.
“How was I supposed to know?” she asks, voice high and squeaky, equally defensive and embarrassed, but it’s cute. “I mean, the other night you barged into my room like a feral animal and …”
Her voice tapers into nothing, and I wonder if she’s hoping to God her family can’t hear this conversation.
“What was that about anyway?” she asks, whispering.
I shake my head, focusing on breaker number six. “It was just something I wanted to do.”
“Really?”
“What, was it supposed to mean something to me?”
Her arms fold against her chest. “No. I … it was out of the blue.”
“Yeah. It was.” I laugh, grabbing my flashlight.
“That’s all you’re going to say about it?”
I turn to her, our eyes holding in the dim light. “What else is there to say?”
Her arms fall to her sides with a clap, hanging limp as she studies me.
Is she hurt? Angry? Offended? Hell if I know and hell if I care. Caring is dangerous. Caring is what gets a man in trouble.
She lingers a few seconds more, her expression impossible to read, and then she turns to leave.
“Melrose,” I call out to her before she reaches the door.
She doesn’t answer right away, but she stops.
“What?” Her back is toward me.
“Thanks for the kiss … I liked it.”
She hesitates, and a moment later, she reaches for the doorknob. “We should head back as soon as you’re finished. I’ve got an acting class tonight.”
And then she’s gone.
THANKS FOR THE KISS? Who the hell says that?
“All right, everyone. Please pair up. Boy-girl if possible,” my acting coach, Paula Perdue, flits around the front of the classroom, her beaded bracelets prattling as she moves her arms and her gauzy dress swishing with each step. Her silky white hair is tied into a low bun, shiny and tight, and her lips are slicked in the reddest of reds.