We’re all exhausted.
“Please?” Tucker signs to his brother.
“You don't have to do this," Sutter says.
“Obviously.” Murphy squirms out of my arms, and I let him down, following after he scampers to the back door. When I come back a few minutes later, Tucker is gone—in my room, I assume—and Sutter is sitting on the sofa.
Alone.
And in the dark.
“You okay?" I ask.
He's hunched over, elbows on the tops of his thighs, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. Releasing a breath, he leans back and directs his tired eyes my way.
“Yeah,” he says.
I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get from him, but I'm okay with that. The man’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders. He doesn’t owe anyone an all-access pass to the deepest corners of his mind.
Taking a seat beside him, I breathe in the scent of the leather sofa and the faintest hint of his warm aftershave from his afternoon shower.
The tingle on my lips comes next. Out of nowhere. But I ignore it.
Or at least I try to.
He hasn’t so much as hinted about making a move on me, but all of a sudden my heart is banging around in my chest and my mouth is dry and my palms are damp.
I haven’t the slightest idea what’s happening right now.
“You don’t have to sleep down here tonight,” Sutter says a beat later. “Take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
“No,” I say. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t give up my bed just so I could take yours.”
“If you want a kink in your neck tomorrow, that’s on you.” He rises. “Just don’t say I didn't warn you, and don’t come asking for a massage.”
“What makes you think I’d ask you for a massage?” I give a half-laugh, peering up at him through my lashes. “You barely look at me half the time and every time you touch me, you act like you’re disgusted with your lack of self-control afterwards.”
Our gazes hold for what feels like an eternity before he finally speaks.
“I screw things up,” he says with a sigh. “That’s what I do. I’m not the kind of guy you have any business getting attached to. When I’m being an asshole, trust me, I have your best interests in mind.”
“How valiant of you.” I roll my eyes, smile fading.
“But I still think you should come upstairs,” he adds, and I swear I see the tiniest glint in his hazel eyes.
My heart ricochets, this time harder, and while the voice in my head is screaming, begging, and pleading for me to stay firmly planted right here on his cognac sofa, the burn between my legs and ache on my mouth is impossible to ignore.
I suppose you don’t have to like someone to have sex with them.
“You do, do you?” I lean back, crossing my legs and pretending I have no intention of giving in. If he wants this, he’s going to have to work a little bit harder.
Men never appreciate anything unless they have to work for it.
“I don’t know,” I say, forcing a yawn, “I’m kind of tired.”
“Tired my ass.” Without warning, Sutter reaches for my hand, taking it in his and pulling me to a standing position.
I suck in a startled breath. “Oh. Hi.”
His expression doesn't change. He doesn’t smirk or wink or smile. And when his steely stare lands on my mouth, I know what’s going to happen next.
It starts with his fingers beneath my chin, aligning our mouths at the perfect angle. Next, his hand slides along the side of my neck until his fingers are buried in the hair at the nape of my neck. He breathes me in. My heart threatens to explode in my chest. I lick my lips, swallow, and brace myself …
… for a kiss that doesn’t happen.
Sutter steps away, his eyes moving past my shoulders. When I turn, I spot Tucker standing at the base of the stairs.
Shit.
The two of them exchange a wordless conversation, and a second later, Tucker heads to the kitchen for a snack and a glass of milk.
“Go upstairs.” Sutter leans in and speaks against my ear, voice low despite the fact that no one else can technically hear us. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I bite a half-smile and linger, debating whether or not to indulge his wishes. But it doesn't take long for me to accept the fact that I want this release as much as he does.
“Fine,” I say. “But only because I want to. Not because you're telling me to.”
Turning, I make my way upstairs, my hand slicking along the wooden banister as I climb the steps, and then I turn left at the top, heading into his room.
His bed is neatly made, the corners tucked military-style, and one of his closet doors is half-open, lending a peek at his color-coded shirt collection.
I’ve always heard that people who grew up in chaotic, dysfunctional families with no real order sometimes grew up to have Type-A tendencies. It makes them feel like they have some kind of control over their life, even if it’s the small stuff.
Climbing beneath the covers, I fluff the pillow behind me and wait …
… and wait …
… and wait.
I fight the threat of sleep, but it's a battle I know won't be won unless Sutter gets his fine ass in here in the next two minutes.
But he doesn't come.
And sleep is the victor.
* * *
I come to in a pitch-black abyss. The unfamiliar covers around my body mixed with the warmth of another body beside me throw me off, and in my half-asleep stupor, I pull in a wheezy, startled breath and sit straight up.
“Melrose ...” Sutter’s groggy voice is followed by the reach of his arm, and before I realize what's going on, he’s pulling me against his smooth, bare chest, cradling me in his heat.
Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s being so endearing because he, too, is half asleep?
“Sutter,” I begin to say, but he shushes me and gives me a tight squeeze.
“Go back to sleep.”
I don’t know when he finally came to bed, but the alarm clock across the room reads four o’clock in the morning. The weight of Murphy on my feet is an added surprise.
I can’t believe he let him sleep in bed with us.
Here I thought he hated dogs and generally most things with beating hearts and the ability to feel.
Lying in the dark, in Sutter’s arms, I begin to come to with each gentle rise and fall of his chest, trying to wrap my head around how unnatural this should feel ... and why it doesn’t.
I watch him until the sun comes up—and I quite enjoy it because it's not something I get to do all that often. He’d give me all kind of shit if he caught me ogling him so shamelessly. He’s ridiculously, unfairly handsome with his chiseled cheekbones, full lips, and the kind of naturally proportional nose that would make an A-lister jealous. I’d run my fingers through his soft, sandy hair and brush the strands away from his forehead if I knew it wouldn't wake him.
But it hits me after a while, that I’m wasting my time indulging in the idea that we would ever be right for one another.
Not on this planet. Not in this lifetime.
We butt heads about everything.
We’re both too opinionated for our own good.
We can't have a civil conversation to save our lives ninety-nine percent of the time.
I creep out of bed and scoop my dog under my arm, slow and careful so as not to wake Sutter, and then I head downstairs to make breakfast.
It’s weird, this tit-for-tat kindness thing we have going on, but I can't let myself read into it. He told me himself, he screws things up. He's an asshole. I have no business getting attached.
But it’s the strangest thing … the more time I spend with Sutter, the less I think about Nick. The less I look forward to his phone calls and text messages and seeing him again—at least not in the giddy, schoolgirl crush kind of way.
Trekking downstairs, I let my dog outside and rummage through the cupboards until I find a box o
f Hungry Jack blueberry pancake mix. When I turn to locate a mixing bowl from a shelf beneath the counter, I spot Tucker standing at the threshold between the living room and kitchen.
“Good morning,” he signs, all smiles.
“Good morning,” I sign back. “Hungry?”
He nods.
I point to the pancake box, and he nods faster before taking a seat at the table.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me as I cook for him, as if I’m some famous chef in a five star restaurant and every move I make is fascinating and awe-inspiring.
It makes me think he's not used to this, and my chest burns at the thought of him never knowing what it’s like to have someone make you breakfast. Obviously, I don't know what his home life is like, but based on what little information I have about their father, I don't imagine he's the type to wake at the crack of dawn on the weekends and scramble some eggs or break out the waffle iron for his kid.
I plate a short stack of blueberry pancakes a moment later and bring them to a wide-eyed, grinning Tucker Alcott.
A second later, I turn back to the stove to start a fresh batch, and I find Sutter standing in the kitchen entry, studying me in a way that he never has before.
And the craziest thing happens—my heart skips a beat.
22
Sutter
My bed is cold in the morning. The side Melrose occupied is empty, light, covers smoothed and tucked under the pillow I gave her.
I drag myself up, run my fingers through my hair, and trudge to the bathroom—also unoccupied.
The scent of pancakes and syrup wafts up the stairs, and I get myself cleaned up before heading down to see what Tucker’s roped her into doing this time.
“Look who it is,” Melrose says when she sees me. She’s standing over the stove, flipping what appears to be blueberry pancakes.
I glance at Tucker who’s at the kitchen table, scarfing down a short stack drenched in sticky brown liquid.
“How many?” she asks.
I don’t normally eat breakfast, but I can’t remember the last time I had homemade pancakes, and not the kind you pop in the toaster or microwave.
Actually I can remember.
It was the morning before Mom left. She was in a particularly good mood, which I thought was odd. It didn't make sense at the time.
It made sense the last day.
I guess the breakfast feast she prepared for her husband and sons was a sick swan song of sorts.
Melrose places three steamy pancakes on a plate and hands it to me. All this time she’s been here, I’ve never actually witnessed her cook. And all this time, I’d assumed she’d grown up with a maid and a butler and a chef, but she claimed last night that she wasn’t raised as some spoiled princess.
I take a seat across from my brother, who wipes a drip of syrup off his chin before giving me a thumbs up and a huge grin.
It’s nice to see him happy, genuinely happy.
In this moment, there’s no drunk father, absent mother, screaming girlfriend, booze-soaked carpet, or dilapidated trailer.
There’s only Tucker.
And me.
And pancakes.
And Melrose.
But as incredible as this is, I don’t let myself get attached. No matter how remarkable a woman is, one of two things inevitably happen:
They leave. Because that’s what women do.
Or I fuck it up by leaving first when shit gets too real.
I’ve never been one to sit and wait around for the other shoe to drop, so I tend to get the hell out of there before the first one comes off in the first place.
Melrose clicks off the burner on the stove and joins us at the table with her own plate.
“What’s the plan today?” she signs, eyes moving from mine to Tucker’s.
I shrug. Tucker shrugs.
“We’ll figure something out,” I reply. “You?"
“My grandma has some banquet. She’s getting some lifetime achievement award or something, so the whole family’s going to that,” she says before turning to my brother, making a silly face and signing, “Boring stuff.”
Tucker laughs, eyes lit and smile huge.
He’s completely taken with her.
And I get it now.
She’s pretty great.
But I'll be damned if I tell her that.
23
Melrose
The gang’s all here: Gram, Mom, Dad, Maritza, Isaiah, Aunt Catherine, and Uncle Charles.
And Gram’s guy friend—whom she still swears is “just a friend” despite the fact that he brought her lilies today with a few red roses mixed in.
“Okay, so tell me about this guy,” Maritza says, her elbow perched on the white linen tablecloth as she leans in.
“What guy?” I reach for my champagne.
She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. The roommate.”
“The roommate?” I chuckle. “So is that what you guys are calling him now?”
Maritza laughs. “Gram insists he’s the one for you.”
“She met him once. Once.” I take another sip. “And trust me, he’s not The One. I don’t even believe in that stuff.”
I glance toward Isaiah, who’s deep in a conversation with my father, though his hand is still clasping hers under the table. They're so adorable it’s disgusting sometimes.
“When can I meet him?” she asks. “Like I know we saw him at Gram’s that one day, but that was in passing. Can we stop by sometime?”
“Maritza,” I say, chin tucked and voice low. “He’s my roommate. He’s not my boyfriend. Therefore, you don’t need to come over to meet him.”
“Melrose,” she says, copying my intonation. “He’s your roommate, but clearly you like him. The second I brought him up, you got this smile on your face that you immediately hid with your champagne flute.”
I did?
“Whatever.” I take another sip, this time finishing the glass. Scanning the room, I search for another penguin-suited, tray-carrying saint so I can procure another.
Gram accepted her lifetime achievement award an hour ago, so now we’re all socializing and cocktail-ing while we wait for dinner to be served.
“Come to the bathroom with me,” she says, rising from the table, releasing Isaiah’s hold and linking her arm through my elbow.
“O … okay.”
We head to the ladies’ room in a hurry, and I get the sense that she has some major bombshell to drop on me, something she can’t mention in front of everyone else.
“Oh my God,” I say when we get inside. “You’re pregnant.”
Her nose scrunches and she swats at me. “No. God, no. We’re so not there yet.”
“Then why’d you yank me in here like a crazy person?”
Maritza turns toward her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her dark hair into place and straightening the vintage Tiffany and Co chandelier earrings she borrowed from Gram.
“You’ve never lied to me before,” she begins.
“Never.”
“You’re one of the most honest people I’ve ever known.”
“Where are you going with this?” I ask.
Maritza turns to me, one hand on her lanky hip. “I don’t get why you can’t be honest with yourself. That’s all.”
“And you had to bring me in here to ask me that?”
“I see the way your face lights when you’re around him, the way you try so hard not to smile when I mention him,” she says. “You’re holding back. You’re fighting your feelings. I don’t understand why. If you like him … why fight it?”
Dragging in a ragged breath of pine-and-bleach scented ladies’ room air, I lean against the counter and fold my arms.
Maritza is right.
She’s right about all of it.
“You know, Nick made the weirdest comment the other day,” I change the subject. “He said he missed me.”
My cousin’s head tilts and her mouth pinches. “This isn’t
about Nick. Mel, I say this with nothing but love, but you’ve always gone for the guys you can't have and you've done it your whole life. You’ve never wanted the ones who were easy, the ones who wanted you. You've always pined for the ones just a hair out of reach because that’s who you are. You love a good challenge. Nick’s been the biggest challenge of your life, and you don’t even like him. You just think you do!”
Her words resonate with weight, actual weight, and I find myself unable to move, everything paralyzed except my racing thoughts and a single question: what if she’s right?
The ladies’ room door swings open and a forty-something actress with a vaguely familiar face clicks across the tiled floor in her red-bottomed heels.
“They’re probably wondering what's taking us so long.” Maritza eyes the door. “To be continued?”
I nod, following her back out to the banquet hall and asking myself yet another pertinent question: if Maritza is right … and I do like Sutter … do I only want him because I can’t have him?
I’ve never met anyone more unavailable than Sutter.
And evidently, unavailability is Kryptonite.
24
Sutter
“That’s the last fucking time.” This is the one and only time I’m grateful Tucker can’t hear what I’m saying.
My father leans back in his ripped La-Z-boy, running one callused hand over the faded arm and his other along his salt-and-pepper five o’clock shadow.
“You don’t scare me, boy,” he says with a leer on his wrinkled face. “The hell you thinking? Come in here, into my house, talking to me like you’ve got some balls on you.”
The stench of cheap whiskey permeates the stale air as he slurs his words. Of course the old bastard is drunk. He probably won’t remember a damn thing I said come tomorrow, but it’s not going to keep me from saying what I came inside to say.
“I’m hiring an attorney tomorrow,” I say. I’ve been saving for months for a good one, someone experienced in this sort of thing. You can’t simply tell the state that you think a child isn’t being properly cared for and then the state gives that child to you. It doesn’t work that way. There are processes and investigations and proper channels. There are protocols and court hearings and psychological evaluations.
The Complete P.S. Series Page 33