Pretty Ever After (Chicago Nights Book 3)

by Tabatha Kiss

  “Thank you,” he says as he returns his card to the wallet.

  I take back my glass and raise it to my mouth. “IOUs aren’t acceptable forms of currency outside of college campuses. Double-check that, Joel…”

  Robbie slides the glass from my fingers and passes it into Joel’s open hand. “Mel, come on. You’ve had enough.”

  “No.”

  “Melanie.”

  “Leave me alone, Rob.”

  He loops an arm around my waist and easily lifts me off the barstool.

  I gasp. “Unhand me, you scurvy cur!”

  “There’s the pirate-talk!” He guides me toward the exit. “Definitely time to go home.”

  “Not with you, I’m not!”

  Robbie pulls me along with him, clenching me so hard my face burrows into his chest. The scent of his leather jacket spurs through my nose, triggering a rush of old memories. Some bright and happy.

  Others, not so much.

  I push against him. “Rob...”

  “Just a quick cab ride.”

  “Rob.”

  “And a big glass of water.”

  “I left my purse on the bar.”

  He stops at the door and purposefully places me with my back to the wall. “Stay here,” he says. “Don’t move.”

  “I—”

  He pokes the tip of my nose, silencing me. “Stay,” he repeats.

  I plant my feet. “I’m staying. I’m staying.”

  Robbie takes a few slow steps backward, his eyes still locked on me. When he finally turns around to head back to the bar, I yank open the exit and walk outside.

  I didn’t even bring a purse tonight.

  Chump.

  I pause on the sidewalk to get my bearings, instantly wrapping my arms around me as a gust of cold-as-fuck wind slaps me in the face. I shiver beneath my jacket, quickly realizing that this was a shitty idea, but I walk toward my apartment, anyway.

  “Melanie.”

  I walk faster away from Robbie’s voice behind me. Yes, faster. That’ll spur some warmth.

  “Mel.”

  “Nope,” I say.

  “Let’s take a cab,” he says, right behind my ear. “It’s freezing.”

  “I’ll walk. It’s not far.”

  “It’s ten blocks!”

  “Just go home, Rob!”

  He steps out in front of me, halting me in my tracks. His breath rushes out in soft clouds of white between cold, pink cheeks. I lock onto his eyes. Those damn big, perfect eyes. Even through everything, he’s always looked at me the same way.

  I shake it off. “I’ll be okay, Rob,” I say. “Really. I’m cool.”

  “Let me get you home safely,” he says. “I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight knowing you’re out here wandering around by yourself in a drunken haze. Please.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He doesn’t budge. He just stands there. Tall. Dark. Stupid handsome eyes…

  I groan. “Okay,” I say. “But you’re not coming up.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “You keep your ass in the cab.”

  He laughs to himself and waves his arm at a passing taxi. It slows down and stops next to the curb beside us.

  “After you,” he says, gesturing toward the backseat.

  I walk toward it, secretly thrilled to get out of the freezing cold. Guess this Chicago winter will be a doozy...

  I slide into the cab, hopping all the way to the opposite door, and Robbie gets in beside me.

  “Where are we going tonight?” the driver says, her eyes studying us in the rearview mirror.

  I open my mouth to answer but Robbie talks over me, quickly stating my address from memory. She nods and hits the gas, easing the cab right back into the late-night traffic.

  I cross my arms and lean against the seat, sinking into it as the city lights pass by the window. Warmth from the heater bleeds beneath my jacket and sweater, lulling me into a place of comfort. I close my eyes, letting my other senses take over, and I detect a hint of Robbie’s scent again as I doze off.

  Two

  Robbie

  “How long you two been together?”

  I glance up into the painted eyes of the cab driver. “Oh, we’re not...” I pause and look to Melanie, who is no doubt ready to set the record good and straight about that question.

  But she says nothing. She sits there beside me with her eyes closed, her head gently propped against the seat. Asleep already, but I knew as soon as I got her into a warm, cozy cab she’d do just that.

  “Four years,” I answer.

  “You married?”

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  The woman kisses her teeth. “She ain’t gonna wait around forever, you know.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

  “Better pop that question while you can,” she continues. “I gave my man three years. Told him I ain’t gonna wait any longer than that. Not gettin’ any younger.” She chuckles. “Fifteen years strong next month.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.”

  I turn to Melanie again. Her body softly sways with the moving cab. City lights dance back and forth along the features of her face. Her hand falls free from her lap and rests on the seat between us. The temptation to reach out and take it is strong. If she came to and found me holding her hand, Melanie would surely break at least one of my fingers.

  The cab rolls to a slow stop outside of Melanie’s building.

  “Hey, Mel,” I say, giving her arm a quick tap. “We’re here.”

  Melanie shifts toward me and rests her head on my shoulder. I smile, feeling that warm rush of adrenaline tingle my toes.

  “Melanie?” I say again.

  She groans and snuggles a little closer.

  I sigh and push open the door.

  “Tick-tock, honey,” the cab driver says, her smile wide and knowing.

  “Thanks again,” I tell her as I step outside.

  I bend over and wrap my arm around Melanie’s waist to help her out of the cab. She opens her eyes and glances around with confusion, tilting her head away from me.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Taking you upstairs,” I answer.

  “Are we home?”

  “Yes, we’re home.”

  I expect her to argue against that. She and I haven’t shared a home together in quite some time, but she doesn’t correct me. Melanie clings to my jacket and leans on me to hold herself up as we make our way down the sidewalk to her door. I search her pockets with my free hand, listening for the jingle of keys.

  I find the keys deep in the inner left pocket of her jacket. “Okay…” I unlock the entrance while I keep a safety grip on her waist just in case she plummets. “In we go...”

  I take her across the lobby. She gets the hang of it halfway to the elevator but still keeps a soft hold on me until we reach her apartment on the third floor. I search her keyring for her door key and swiftly unlock that one.

  “Home sweet home,” I tell her, standing in the empty hallway.

  “Sweet homes,” she says, her eyes barely open.

  Well, I can’t just leave her out in the hallway.

  I lean over to pick her up, gently tossing her over my shoulder. She lets out another groan, protesting the sudden shift of her stomach; a shift I know very, very well.

  I take it slow as I carry her inside, gently nudging the door closed behind us. Her apartment is dark and quiet, but I remember my way around. I move past the living room furniture, taking the first left into the hall from the kitchen toward the bedroom.

  Melanie lets out another noise, one of cranky tiredness.

  “Almost there,” I say.

  We reach the bed and I slowly lower her down onto it. I catch my breath before flicking on the lamp sitting on the bedside table.

  Melanie slinks away from the sudden bright light. “Blegh,” she says as she glances around, looking far more lucid than she was outside. She looks up at
me and grunts. “What are you doing here?”

  “Would you rather I left you outside?” I ask.

  She scoffs but doesn’t answer as she tries to peel off her jacket. I bend over to help her with her boots. She tries to kick at me once but stops as soon as she gets her arms tangled up in her shirt. I drop her boots to the floor and chuckle quietly to myself before helping her out.

  “Keep the shirt on, Mel,” I say, forcing it back down.

  I laugh, but it wasn’t so funny for her when the roles were reversed. She didn’t have to do it just this once, either.

  And I wasn’t the cutesy drunk she is now.

  Melanie finally gives up and collapses onto her pillow.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say. “Just going to grab you some water, okay?”

  “Mi-ghah,” she says, her eyes closing again.

  I nod. “All right.”

  I walk out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. Assuming she hasn’t rearranged in here, I should be able to find a drinking glass in the cabinet above the silverware drawer.

  I open the cabinet and smile. Melanie never changes.

  As I fill the glass with water from the tap, I catch sight of a colorful group of ribbons hanging from a magnet on the refrigerator door. Six different colors, all one-inch ribbon from the bouquet of roses sent to her by her “secret admirer” over six months.

  She’s never told me about this guy. She doesn’t know that I know. She doesn’t know that Trix told me all about it, but Trix didn’t know that I already knew about all of it.

  It’s me. I’m the secret admirer.

  But I didn’t know that she kept the ribbons on display like this.

  I head back to the bedroom. Melanie’s kept her shirt on, but I can’t say the same for her jeans. They hang off the bed, still partially attached to her right ankle, leaving her legs and panties exposed to the world while she snoozes against her pillow.

  Cute.

  I keep a respectful eye to it, but I can’t help but feel an ache of weakness. It has been months since I’ve been alone with her in a room and even longer since I’ve seen so much of her.

  I walk over, being careful not to make too much noise. I set the water glass down on the bedside table near the far corner just in case she reaches out and knocks it over in her sleep. I pull her jeans off her ankle and tuck her legs under her blankets.

  “Robbie?”

  I flinch. “Yeah.” I pull the comforter up to her waist. “It’s just me.”

  Melanie sits up on the bed, her eyes dark and heavy. “What time is it?” she asks.

  “It’s time for you to go to sleep,” I answer. “Lay down. Get some rest.”

  She reaches for my hand. “Where are you going?”

  I pause as her warm fingers clutch my own. “I need to get home, too. It’s late.”

  Her other hand crawls up my arm and she tugs me closer.

  “Mel...”

  My balance shifts forward and our faces hover dangerously close to each other.

  “Stay with me,” she whispers.

  I flex my jaw. “That... is not a good idea,” I say.

  She touches my chest, gently sliding her palm over my shirt beneath my jacket. “Do you ever think about it?” she asks.

  “About what?”

  “You.”

  “Do I ever think about me?” I ask. “Constantly.”

  “You,” she repeats, ignoring my joke. “Me...”

  She tilts her head up, making our lips graze. I stiffen, holding back every impulse firing throughout my body. Her touch is warm and inviting, just like it used to be. Her breath smells like rum, making my mouth water in a bad way.

  “Melanie,” I warn.

  “Don’t you ever just want to go for it again?” she asks.

  I exhale, letting it all go. “You know I do, Mel,” I answer. “But you’re wasted. And I’m not that guy anymore.”

  Melanie leans forward and limply rests her head on my shoulder, succumbing to another wave of sleepiness.

  “Come on,” I whisper. “Lay down. Sleep it off.”

  She lets me guide her down to her pillows again. I turn her onto her side, tucking her in and taking a wide step back in case she reaches for me again.

  Saying no to Melanie Rose once is hard enough. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to do it twice.

  I stand still, watching her chest rise and fall and wondering what brought this on tonight. It’s not like Melanie to binge on anything stronger than a weekly mimosa or half a bottle of cheap wine. Something’s up. Something that I’m, unfortunately, no longer privy to.

  I flick off the lamp, sending the room into darkness. I walk with light feet out into the hallway. Melanie wakes at the drop of a pin, inebriated or not, but she seems out for the time being. Whatever is on her mind, at least she’ll sleep through it safely until morning.

  I pass through the kitchen, taking another look at those happy ribbons as I walk by, and head into the living room. It’s a mess — but that’s just Melanie’s brand of organized clutter. She knows where everything is and that’s all that matters.

  A heavy rush of emotion strikes me cold. Being here again, in her presence, among her clutter. It’s intoxicating. It’s hard to leave.

  So, I won’t.

  I slide my shoes off and set them down on the floor next to the couch. It’s late and cold as hell. No one will blame me for crashing — not even Melanie, I think.

  I turn on the lamp by the couch, illuminating the space as I find a blanket draped over a nearby chair. I sit down and stack a throw pillow or two on the edge behind me.

  Her laptop sits on the coffee table in front of me, partially obscured by a pair of old socks. I pick it up, thinking I’ll do a little surfing to wind down. The screen wakes up as I open it, revealing an open word processor.

  Derrick never thought about Cady in that way before. To him, she was the girl next door, but not in the good way...

  My brow piques. This must be award-winning romance author Melanie Rose’s latest masterpiece-in-progress. Her last few books have been a little underwhelming — according to her harsher critics (herself especially). They aren’t wrong, honestly. Ms. Rose’s elegant prose have lost a bit of that old spark she started out with. No less page-turny, however. She’s always known exactly how to grab my attention, that’s for sure.

  I lean back on the couch and prop my feet up as I scroll to the start of the document. Nostalgia pinches my cheeks as I settle in, eager to scan Melanie’s new, unedited words, just like I used to. Melanie lets no one read first draft words.

  Except me.

  Once upon a time, that is.

  Three

  Melanie

  I sit up in bed, squinting hard at the blinding sunlight cascading in through an unfortunate break in my blackout curtains. My stomach feels heavy, like a giant, gray rock is pressing somewhere between my lungs and liver. Oh, my poor liver. If that horrible, sticky sensation on my tongue is any indicator, it did not have a good night last night.

  I look at my bedside table in search of my phone. Instead, I find a glass of water I’ve never seen before. Come to think of it, I don’t even remember coming home last night.

  I raise my blanket to check beneath it. No pants. Only panties and the shirt I wore to the bar.

  The bar.

  A soft thud echoes in from the kitchen. The cabinets. The clink of a pan setting down on the stove.

  I cover my mouth. Someone’s in my apartment.

  Oh, god. Am I getting murdered?

  I look over the side of the bed. My jeans are on the floor. Inside out.

  I cringe.

  No. Not murdered.

  I brought some dude home with me, didn’t I?

  I got drunk, hooked up, and now they’re in my kitchen and... cooking, from the sound of it?

  Oh, goddammit.

  I crumble forward, instantly regretting the pressure it puts on my stomach as I reach for my pants. I feel for my phone in my pockets and s
lide it out, careful not to alert my house guest as I swipe it on. I hold it away from my eyes, the sudden brightness killing my head as I try to navigate to my contact shortcuts.

  Surely, Trix will know what happened.

  It rings twice.

  “Hello!”

  I wince and pull the phone an inch or two away from my throbbing head. “There’s somebody in my kitchen,” I whisper.

  “Uh...” she says. “Okay?”

  “What happened last night?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I remember you. And Nora. And the guys. And a lot of rum.”

  “Right. We left around nine and you stuck around to people-watch, as you do.” She gasps. “Did you hook-up with somebody?”

  “I don’t know. I think so? Maybe. I must have blacked out.”

  “Oh, boy! Is he cute?”

  I stare into the hallway as I hear the refrigerator open and close. “I don’t know. I’m too scared to look.”

  “You haven’t talked to him yet?”

  “No, I just woke up and heard him moving around my kitchen.”

  “Aw, he’s cooking you breakfast?” she coos. “What a nice guy. You should keep him.”

  I groan. “Thank you for taking this so seriously.”

  “I’m suddenly really looking forward to brunch today.”

  I hang up, tossing the phone onto the bed while I slowly slide off. I sneak into the bathroom to check the damage. Blacking out at thirty isn’t nearly as fun as it was at twenty — and not nearly as cute either, that’s for damn sure.

  I brush the tangles out of my brown hair and pull it up into a strategically sloppy bun. This breath has got to go, so I give my teeth a quick brush and rinse with mouthwash, all the while moving slowly because that urge to hurl is definitely stronger than it was at twenty, too.

  I pull my jeans on before poking my head out into the hallway. Whoever it is, they know their way around a kitchen based on the cooking sounds echoing down the hall.

  I pause outside the kitchen, taking a long, soothing breath to calm my nerves.

  Time to go meet my one-night stand.

  Please don’t be a serial killer...

  I step into the kitchen, and my heart plunges downward toward that horrible, gray rock.