Page 136 of Out of the Gold

My breath.

Time.

When he clears his throat, I push the door forward.

He moves his foot over the threshold to block the door’s closing. His achingly familiar tenor voice reaches out, “Melody. Please.”

The door bounces off his foot. I regulate my voice downward. “Go. Away.”

He pushes, and I press back. “Please. I need to talk with you.” His voice contains a timbre I’ve never heard from him. Desperation?

Perhaps it’s the pleading note in his voice. Maybe it’s my own traitorous body wanting to give him a better put down than I just did. Whatever the reason, I let the door go and step to the side, causing him to fall forward, fueled by his own momentum. He catches himself before he hits the floor. Unfortunately.

Standing behind the door, I give him the evil eye. My brain yells for him to die. DIE!

Clearly he doesn’t hear me, because he continues breathing. With precise movements, he turns to face me.

I cross my arms.

His head motions toward the living room. “Can we talk in there?”

“No.”

He swallows and tugs his hand through his hair, ending on his forehead. Then he draws to his full height.

I don’t move. Not an inch.

“You look thin.”

I point to the open door. “You can leave if you’re here to comment on my weight.”

He licks his lips. “No. I’m not here for that.”

I force a breath to go in. And out.

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

Out of all the things I expected him to say, that was not one of them. My hands land on my hips. “Still a great movie star reciting lines, I see.”

He flinches. “Melody, please, I’m not acting. Youarebeautiful. You have hair like spun gold and a royal profile.”

I throw my head back and force a harsh laugh. “You’re much better when someone else writes your words.”

His jaw tightens. “They’re not lines.”

“Fine. They’re not. Since that’s all you have to say, you may go. Now.” I point at the open door.

“No.”

I flick the rubber band around my wrist. “Why are you here, Chase?”

His gaze bounces from my wrist to my eyes. “Charles.”

“Spit out what you came to say and leave.”

He strides toward the kitchen island and stops on a dime. Picking up the stupid magazine I was reading, he brings it back to me. “You were reading about me?”

“Don’t get a swelled head. Someone left it down by the mailboxes and I brought it up here because I needed the newsprint to, to pack up a few things,” I prevaricate.

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