Love Me More

Chapter Two

“I’m home!”

Gavin hung up his jacket. Silence greeted him.

“Melina?”

No answer. He wandered into the kitchen. She was always home before him, usually making dinner. But not tonight. Huh.

He went and changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt. In the living room he turned on the television and flicked through channels, catching the end of the news.

He should call her, see where she was. Did he forget about something she was doing after work today?

He called her cell phone. No answer.

Memories of the time they’d split up snuck into his head. How she’d left him, with nothing but a note. They’d made up a couple of days later, but he’d felt like shit those two days, thinking he’d lost her.

She must have just gone shopping or something after work.

Then why wasn’t she answering her phone?

His stomach grumbled. He needed food. He opened the kitchen cupboards and peered into them. Hell, he wasn’t much of a cook. Melina could whip up a meal out of nothing…but him on his own was sad. He opened the fridge.

Maybe he could make something nice for both of them? When she got home she’d be impressed. He grinned, rummaged through the fridge. He found some chicken breasts. Perfect, Melina’s favorite.

He hauled out a frying pan and heated it up. He needed oil. Found oil. Poured it in, tossed the chicken in. A salad would be good, another thing Melina loved. He pulled open a drawer in the fridge and surveyed the contents. Usually you needed lettuce for a salad…what was that head? It could be cabbage. He wasn’t sure if he could tell the difference. But hey, it was green and leafy, so it should work. There were also some carrots and a green pepper.

He chopped and tossed the vegetables into a bowl. Now for some dressing…back to the fridge. He poked his head in. He couldn’t remember Melina ever buying bottled salad dressing, usually she mixed up some concoction, but…mayonnaise should work.

He turned the chicken breasts over, tossed the salad and set the table. A glance at his watch told him it was nearly eight o’clock. Pretty late for dinner. He frowned. Where the hell was she?

He tried her cell phone again, still no answer. Damn.

A whiff of smoke had him running back to the kitchen to yank the pan off the burner. He lifted a piece of chicken. Thank Christ, it wasn’t too burned. Just well done.

So the food was ready but still no Melina. He leaned against the counter, folded his arms across his chest and studied his meal glumly. He’d been hungry half an hour ago, but now his stomach just burned.

Then he heard the key in the lock. He straightened and stepped into the hall. Melina was just dropping her keys into the bowl on the table near the door.

“Hey, you’re home! Where were you?”

She turned to him. “I went out.”

“Oh. Out where? I was kind of worried.”

“Really?” She paused. “What’s that smell?”

“I made dinner. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No. I ate.”

“Oh.” His heart sank a little. “Okay, then.” He rubbed his palms over his thighs.

Melina picked up the mail from the table and flicked through it.

“Where did you go?” he asked.

She lifted her head and looked at him. “Just out. I’m going to go change.”

She disappeared down the hall and with slow steps Gavin returned to the kitchen, feeling heavy and hollow.

What was going on? She was apparently pissed about something. What? What did he do?

Christ, he hated this shit. He stabbed a chicken breast with a fork and lifted it onto a plate, scooped up some salad. Then he sat down at their small table and stared at his meal.

It looked like crap. Hopefully it tasted better.

He heard Melina move around in the bedroom, go into the bathroom, then come back out. Then she appeared in the kitchen door, dressed in…good God. She hadn’t worn those pajamas for a while. Grey and blue flannel pants that were probably big enough for him hung on her, and a thick grey sweatshirt hid her beautiful body. She’d pulled her pretty, long blonde hair back into a ponytail.

She eyed the food. “You made that?”

“Yeah.” He forked a piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed. Uh…he looked at the piece on his plate. It was kind of pink inside. That was okay, wasn’t it?

He cut through the middle of the meat, and grimaced. It was practically raw. Very unappetizing. He set down his knife. Well, there was still the salad. You couldn’t go too wrong with vegetables.

The salad was pretty disgusting, too.

Melina got a bottle of water out of the fridge, cracked open the lid and drank from it. The silence in the room was as thick as the fleece sweatshirt she wore.

Gavin sighed and put down his fork.

“What’s wrong?”

She gave him a blank look. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He shoved his chair back and stood. “Something’s wrong. You disappeared for hours and now you’re acting colder than January. Come on, Mel. Didn’t we agree we were going to talk things out from now on?”

Her pretty mouth pressed tight and her eyes dropped. He could almost predict what she was going to say next. “If you don’t know…”

“I’m not a fucking mind reader!”

He shoved a hand through his hair, did a half turn away from her, hand on the back of his head. Oh, man.

Melina turned and walked out of the kitchen.

He stared at her back. This couldn’t be about the bachelor party, could it?

He should follow her, ask her that.

But goddammit, if she couldn’t even talk to him about it, why should he be the one to bring it up? If she was going to pretend she was fine with it, even though she clearly wasn’t, how was he supposed to know any different? Right?

He tossed the obnoxious meal into the trash, loaded the dishwasher and started it, turned out the kitchen light. He’d watch TV until bedtime and if she didn’t want to talk, fine by him.

Back-to-back reruns of CSI were the perfect thing to take his mind off their…uh…fight? Argument? No, they hadn’t argued over anything. Conflict? Disagreement? Whatever.

Melina huddled in bed, sweating under her sweatshirt and flannel jammies and the comforter.

Tears prickled her eyes, and she squeezed them shut. She knew she was acting like a child and she hated it. But damn it, telling Gavin what was bothering her would make her feel even more stupid.

It was this whole stripper thing. She had no problem with the bachelor party. And if they wanted to have dancers there, fine. But she kept envisioning Gavin with a gorgeous, stacked girl on his lap, naked, her breasts in his face. What if he…if they…she couldn’t bear the thought of him doing things like that in front of all his friends. She envisioned them hooting and cheering him on as the woman slid from his lap and undid his pants…no! She trusted him. She did. But it was easy for guys to get carried away.

She rolled onto her back and the covers twisted around her, her sweatshirt bunched under her. She yanked it free, fought her way out of the bedding and flopped her head down on the pillow.

Light sliced the darkness as the bedroom door opened. The slice widened and she heard Gavin moving around the room, the rasp of his zipper, the whisper of his clothes as he removed them. He’d likely leave them piled on the chair like he always did. One of those little things she put up with that could be annoying—or could be nothing. It all depended how you wanted it to be. Like the way he always put his dirty socks on top of the hamper instead of in the hamper. She could make a big deal of it, nag him until he changed his habit, but, in the big scheme of things, it wasn’t important enough to be a bitch about.

She swallowed, her throat tight. She loved him. She didn’t want to be a bitch. She didn’t want things to be like this between them. He must know she was upset about the stupid strippers.

Gavin left the bedroom and she heard water running in the bathroom, the toilet flush. Then darkness engulfed the bedroom when he shut off the hall light. The bed dipped beneath his weight, the covers slid off her. She yanked them back and heaved onto her side, her back to Gavin.

She felt him laying there, awake, heard his quiet, even breathing. Say something. Please, say something.

But his breathing deepened and slowed, grew raspier, and she realized he’d gone to sleep. Her lips pushed out and she pressed them together, stubbornly closed her eyes. Once again they’d broken that rule about not going to bed angry. This wasn’t supposed to happen again. And it was all her fault for being so oversensitive and jealous.

“Ah. You’re home tonight.” Gavin said the words in a mild tone, but she could hear the underlying steel.

“Yes. I made dinner.”

She’d seen the remains of last night’s dinner lying in the garbage: chicken nearly black on the outside, raw on the inside, and some strange combination of chopped carrots, green peppers and cabbage coated with something creamy. Eeeew.

She’d stood there for a long moment looking down at the unappetizing food, and her heart had squeezed at the fact that he’d cooked dinner for her. Badly—he didn’t have a clue how to cook. But he’d tried. That was so sweet. Meanwhile, she’d been acting like an immature idiot, hiding from him by sitting all alone in a movie theatre, just to annoy him. Her throat had clogged with tears as she stared at the pathetic meal. They were getting married in less than two weeks. She had to grow up and talk to him about this.

“Thank God,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “’Cause we’d starve if we had to rely on my cooking.”

The corners of her mouth pushed up into an unwilling smile. “Pasta,” she said, her voice sounding funny to her own ears. “Spaghetti carbonara.”

He made an appreciative noise. He loved anything with bacon in it. “I’ll go change.”

She dished out spaghetti and salad and set their plates on the table while he changed. She even poured glasses of wine for them, a crisp Pinot Grigio she’d picked up on the way home.

“God, that smells good.” Gavin pulled out his chair and sat down. “Hey, even wine.” He looked up at her.

Their eyes met. Melina felt the heat of shame spread over her. She drew in a shaky breath. “Can we talk?”