Page 36 of Prince Charmless
When I exit my car, a young couple passes me on the sidewalk. I hear the girl whisper, “That dude looks exactly like Prince Taylor,” as they walk by.
Idiots.
Now that her lock is fixed (grâce à moi yelling to the dry-cleaner-slash-landlord about how unsafe it is,) Melina’s apartment is pretty nice for what I’m assuming she can afford, especially for living in the more well-to-do part of the city. The place is full of art, strange-looking plants, and tourist trap fridge magnets. The woman has a lot of fridge magnets. I don’t even know the real color of her fridge because the thing is coveredwith them. I imagine that she gets one for every place she travels. The art that’s on the wall is all signed with a tinyMelinain the corner. She must be a painter. Yeah, I might’ve rooted around the place while she wasn’t there. Nothing creepy, just enough to know she likes mechanical keyboards and reads a lot of true crime novels. Her kitchen is small but not the most annoying to cook in. I might miss making food for someone else instead of myself, or Tom, or the house staff and gardeners when I blackout and make too much.
I knock on Melina’s door three times. I may have forgotten to text her that I was coming, and it’s a little late. I’m just here to give her the spare keys back and leave. I could have asked somebody else to do this, but who knows? I might be in the mood to tell her off.
Melina opens the door and furrows her brow at me. She’s dressed like she’s about to go somewhere, heels and everything. I try not to give her the up-and-down, but I do anyway. I haven’t seen her in a skirt before, and definitely not one this short. The contrast between the waist-hugging black leather and the loose baby blue blouse makes her very enticing.
Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it.
“Hot date?”
Curse my mouth.
Melina crosses her arms, hiding her chest. I’m not sure what she has to be shy about. “Didn’t Julien tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Sometimes, it’s more fun to start off conversations with a lie. I’m suddenly in the mood to draw out Melina’s torture for a very unnecessary amount of time, the consequences of her magic skirt.
She squints. “Why are you here?”
“To negotiate,” I say like it’s obvious.
Melina looks behind me. “I don’t see a grocery guy.”
“I had dinner planned at my place.”
I’m not sure where I’m going with this yet.
“At your castle?”
“Manor.”
She leans against the door frame. “Well, I can’t. I have plans. Why didn’t you text me this time?”
I’ll try to steer her away from that question and deflect with my own.
“What’s his name?” I sing like a gossipy teenager.
“I didn’t say I was on a date.”
I look her up and down once more, this time making it obvious.
“Okay, his name is Cody. What’s it to you?”
“Cody?” I ask, my voice dropping back to normal. “You curled your hair for someone with the name of a ten-year-old boy?”
She tucks some strands of said hair behind her ear. She seems to get bashful when I notice things about her. I’m not sure why, but something about Melina putting in effort for Cody makes me feel a strange, unpleasant emotion. I think there’s a word for it, actually. Maybe it starts with a...J? No. Never mind. The feeling is gone.
“He’s from Tinder,” she says. “They can’t all be perfect.”
“Can I see this Tinderman?”
After staring at me for a couple of seconds, she pulls out her phone, scrolls through it, and hands it to me. Cody from Tinder is blond, twenty-eight, and likes the beach. He’s okay, I guess, but way too sickly sweet-looking. The man has fucking freckles, for Christ’s sake. This is what she’s into? The J feeling begins to creep through my veins again.
Melina closes her eyes. “Just be straight with me.”
