“It’s so black. It makes you look a little pale.”
“You’re one to talk about hair color.” I gestured to Mel’s wild red locks. “That cannot humanly be natural.”
She shrugged.
We stared at one another in a silent deadlock.
My God, a twenty-two-year-old. I wanted to kick myself. Had I known Mel was so young, I would never have invited her. It felt weird—wrong, almost—to have this girl at the cabin. I should keep my distance. Keep this as professional as possible.
I cleared my throat.
“I’m going to my room,” I said. “Your room is down the hall to the left. Knock if you need anything.” I checked my watch. “I was hoping to go to Denver tonight, but it’s getting late and I’m sure you’re tired of driving. We’ll head down tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Mel began to unpack her duffel. I loitered and watched as she got out an iPad and a laptop and turned them on.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a hotspot.” She grinned at me. “You know, so I—”
“I know what a fucking hotspot is. I mean why?”
“I have to update my blog.”
“You can’t blog about this!” I towered over Mel and glared at her laptop.
“Down, boy. I’m not blogging about this. I’m just writing about my trip.”
“Typical.” I threw up my hands. “Typical.”
Melanie began to laugh, the sound high and fluting.
“What are you laughing at?” I snapped.
“If—if you could see yourself.” She was breathless with laughter. “Oh, my gosh. You looked so mad just then, like you were going to attack my laptop.” She gulped down another laugh. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry. Please don’t have a heart attack.”
“You know I trust you, Melanie.” I stabbed a finger at her. “Don’t fuck me over.”
That chastened her. She frowned and looked at her feet.
I stalked toward the bedrooms, then doubled back to collect my notebook. I glanced around. “And don’t … try anything funny. Don’t make any trouble in here.”
I closed the bedroom door behind me. I stood with my ear pressed against it.
No sound.
I stood like that for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mel had deceived me. She wasn’t simply a fan of my writing. She had an online presence, some silly blog. If she wanted to out me as the author of Night Owl—and as being alive, for that matter—she had an audience ready to listen. Fuck.
Plus, she acted like a thirty-year-old on the phone. I’d been duped.
The smell of garlic drifted down the hall.
I stormed back out of my room.
Mel stood at the stove humming and doing salsa steps, her hips swaying. I blinked. She’d removed her coat and wore a tight black sweater with a silver skull on the back.
“Stop dancing.”
She whirled. A piece of scrambled egg flew from her spatula.
“Unless your name is Hannah, this is a no-ass-shaking zone.” I padded over to inspect Mel’s cooking—a heap of scrambled eggs.
“Want some?” she said.
“No.” I popped a piece of egg into my mouth. “Yes.”
She made two plates. I pulled out a chair for Mel and took the opposite seat. As I was shoveling a forkful of eggs into my mouth, she said, “Do you mind if I say grace?”
I paused and regarded Mel from across the table. She held out her hand. After a space, I nodded and took it.
Her hand was tiny and feverishly hot.
For the first time in a long time, I lowered my head for prayer.
Mel began. “God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”
“Amen,” I said, and I finally smiled.
Chapter 27
HANNAH
Chrissy dropped me off at the condo. We had a tense, silent ride home after I bawled her out for bailing on me. “Did something happen with Seth?” she said. I told her no. I told her it was the “principle of the matter.”
My heart was still speeding.