Chapter 11 - Impulsive

“Where did I put it?”

Opening the cabinet in front of her for the third time that she could remember and only seeing the same stacks of plates and bowls, Melissa released a frustrated sigh. Every single inch of counter space she had was covered with overflowing bowls of ingredients and baking pans waiting to go into the oven when the food already there was ready to come out.

Donned in her old orange floral print apron and covered in flour dust and dried batter, she was starting to feel panic set in. The sun would be setting in a matter of two hours and she wasn't even a quarter done with the making of the appetizers for the party the next night. At the continued rate she was going, she anticipated being up until well past midnight trying to finish preparations – and then up early to do the rest before she went to work.

“Flour...flour...” She continued opening cabinets, only seeing glasses, cookware, and canned goods behind every cabinet she opened. “I just had it!”

She threw another cabinet door closed and while reaching for another, her elbow caught the edge of a metal mixing bowl, knocking it over and sending it to the floor with a loud clatter. As she was about to let a string of obscenities fly from her mouth, she stopped when she heard a knock on the door.

She wasn't expecting company, especially at this mid-evening hour. Leaving the bowl as it laid and the mess on the counter, she tried the best she could to smooth her slightly frizzed hair and wipe some of the crust off of her apron as she walked to the door and threw it open.

“Oh, it's you,” she said when she saw Chris standing in front of her.

“Well I know I'm not Tom Cruise, but I usually get a 'hey Chris' or something to that effect,” he said.

“Chris, what are you doing here – yet again?” she asked, walking away without inviting him in, knowing he would get the message and welcome himself in anyway.

“I thought maybe you could use some company,” he said, walking through the threshold of the door and closing it behind him.

“I don't really have time for company,” she said, making her way back into the kitchen and picking up the bowl on the way in. “I'm kinda busy here.”

“I see that,” he said as he walked in after her, his eyes moving immediately to the mess over the counters and all over her. “You know you're supposed to eat food, not wear it.”

“Gee, thanks for the tip, Mr. Versace,” she said. Making an attempt to do something with the mess she had made and free up some space to work, she threw a couple of dirty bowls in her sink and dusted a bit of powdered sugar into her hands before she briefly looked up at him. “Meanwhile, I like the Brawny man thing you have going here. I thought plaid button-ups were only for loggers and camping trips these days.”

Chris looked down at his blue plaid button-up shirt he had thrown on over a white wifebeater before leaving the house that evening.

“Oh, this old thing?” he said with a shrug. “Eh. It was clean.”

“I'm sure that's an improvement for you,” she said as she smacked her hands together over the trash can, emptying her hands of the powder.

“I'm a guy. If it looks to be its original color, doesn't smell like beer, and isn't a step away from growing legs and walking away on its own, it's fair game.”

“You're so disgusting,” she said, not being able to help the smile spreading across her face.

“Maybe,” he said as he walked up next to her at the counter, “but I got you to smile.”

Looking over at him, she saw the smirk on his face and couldn't help but smile a little more. Suddenly realizing that he was standing close enough to her for his arm to slightly touch hers, she felt a warm blush come to her cheeks.

“Chris, you know, I'm super busy,” she said, looking away from him and attempting to look busy cleaning off the counter. “As much as I adore our little zing sessions, I have a lot of work to do if I want to catch two or three hours of sleep tonight.”

“What exactly are you doing here, aside from making a huge mess?” he asked.

“I made the huge mistake of telling Addy that I would cater the hors d'oeuvres for the party tomorrow night. I mean, they paid for the whole shopping list and paid me good money to do the work, more than I make per hour at work, but...I think I underestimated exactly how much work it would be.”

“They're still having the party?” he asked. “I mean, I know Lance mentioned earlier this week that Addy wanted to cancel.”

“Yeah, as far as I know, they're still having the party,” she said, wiping her dusty hands on a dishtowel. “And I'll tell you that if she decides to cancel the party at the last minute...a stalker will be the least of her worries.”

“You'd better not say that too loudly,” he said. “You might become a suspect.”

She smiled, leaning against the counter facing him. “Do you think I'm a suspect?”

“You look pretty suspicious to me,” he said. “You have to watch out for women in flowery aprons. They're the dangerous ones.”

She giggled. “If I'm a suspect, so are you, Christopher. You're a chainsaw away from looking like a murderer.”

“I'm more of an ax kind of guy.”

“Oh, so you have a Lizzie Borden complex?”

“What can I say, I like to get in there and get dirty. I'm a hands-on man.”

She laughed. “This is really sick. We shouldn't be joking about this, it's inappropriate.”

“You started it,” he said.

He looked away from her for a moment, grabbing bowls to help her clean up the counters. He only looked back briefly, expecting an answer from her mouth – perfect timing for a handful of flour to hit him in the face, covering his eyes and sticking to his goatee and black hair.

“I found the flour,” she said with a giggle.

“Nice, Weston,” he said, smiling. “Make an even bigger mess.”

“What can I say?” she said. “I like to get in there and get dirty. I'm a hands-on woman.”

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“...and then, drunk as a skunk, she yells out 'karaoke' and runs off with Joanna...”

Chris paused to take a breath and let Mel do the same, even though she was laughing so hard it was a struggle.

“...and the two of them climb on his living room table and start belting out this song. Lance and Joey looked on in horror--”

“Oh yeah,” Mel said between laughs. “I'm so sure that they were completely horrified at these two drunk women table dancing in front of them.”

“Okay, so it was less horror for Joey and more intrigue, but I hear that Lance was truly horrified,” Chris said. “Addy's wearing this short skirt and this top that she's about to fall out of, she's the center of attention to all the men in the room – including Joey – and all he wants to do is wrap her in his coat and hide her away until she's less Jenna Jameson and more...Addy.”

“That's actually sort of sweet,” Mel said.

“In a pornographic way, sure,” Chris responded.

Mel laughed again as she reached for the bottle of wine on the table and topped off her glass first, then Chris's.

“I'd have paid good money to have been there,” she said. “Addy's so modest and put-together, I can't imagine seeing her do something like that.”

“Well, wait a few more months until October rolls around,” Chris said, reaching for his wine glass. “Ply her with some whiskey, put on Katy Perry, and you might get to see it in person.”

There was a pause as their laughter died down and they both sipped from their glasses, slipping into silence as they lowered them from their lips.

“This feels weird,” Melissa finally said as she wiped a stray drop of the reddish liquid from the lip of her glass.

“Talking about Addy behind her back?”

“No,” she said with a chuckle. “Talking period. Have you noticed that you've been here for hours and we haven't fought once?”

“Is that...bad?” he asked hesitantly.

“No, I mean...” She stood up from the couch and carried her glass over to the counter, setting it down. She looked up for a moment, then turned toward him, leaning her waist against the edge. “Do you know how intimidating you are to talk to?”

“Me – intimidating?” he said, surprised. “Wow. The last word that people usually use to describe me, and it's the first one you use. Most people think I'm a gentle giant – minus the giant part.”

“Not intimidating in a scary way,” Mel said. “I'm sorry, I know you hate being seen as a celebrity, but Chris – you are. I have a pop star in my living room, sitting on my couch, drinking my wine, and you expect me to talk to you like I'm completely comfortable with it.”

“Well if it makes you uncomfortable, I can reimburse you for the wine,” he joked.

“You asshole,” she said, the slightest smile on her face. “You know what I mean.”

“I know,” he said. “But Mel – I am who I am. I can't help being a celebrity any more than Lance can help it. It's nice to pull out every now and then when you want a better table at a restaurant or you want to get into the VIP room at a club, but sometimes you don't want to be put up on a pedestal. You want to fade into the background like everybody else; you don't want to be treated any differently than you were before people saw you on TV every day.”

“I don't know you any other way,” she said.

“I'm exactly like you,” he said. “We're exactly the same. I once went to school and worked a part-time job for minimum wage; paid the bills, came home, cracked open a beer, and watched television in my pajamas before I went to bed.”

“We are not the same, at all,” she said.

He had been at her apartment for hours. After he had wiped the flour off his face with a towel, he had offered to help her with the rest of the preparations, so she could get them done in time. After only a moment of reluctance, she had agreed – and handed him a frilly, pink lace apron to wear. He had put it on with a smile and excitement, and it had only been the start of hours of laughter.

She was surprised to find that he was actually helpful, not a hindrance like she thought he may be. He had helped her keep the counters somewhat clean to free up room for the next appetizer to be made, had stuffed and rolled multiple egg rolls with a few sexual references to keep the mood light, and was fantastic at dipping cake pops into melted chocolate and rolling them through sprinkles. The best part wasn't the help; it was the company he provided her, the joking around that she once thought was annoying – and it didn't seem so much anymore.

They had finished with all they could before eleven and, enjoying each other's company a little too much to end it for the night, they had opened a bottle of wine and turned a little music on her phone. They had been there for almost two more hours and she knew she would regret it when she had to get up for work at seven, but she couldn't kick him out yet.

“How are we not the same?” he asked.

“We're just...not,” she said. “You're you and I'm me, and we're different.”

“That won't fly with me, Weston,” he said, standing up and walking toward her. “Incomplete answer. I need a valid reason or you're out of the game.”

She wanted to give him a specific reason. In fact, she wanted to give him a complete list of reasons that they were so different. The problem was, she couldn't think of a single reason that was specific enough for him.

“You can't come up with anything,” he said, walking toward her until he was face-to-face with her, her body leaning against the wall. “In fact, we're more alike than you ever planned for. We're more like Addy and Lance than you ever thought, and the idea drives you nuts.”

He leaned the palm of his hand against the wall, leaning into her so his chest was against hers, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing. As he leaned in closer to her, her heart sped up and he could feel her breathing faster.

“It makes you nervous,” he said, looking her in the eyes. “You're intimidated by the Chris Kirkpatrick you read about in the tabloids. You think you're this simple girl; what in the world would Chris Kirkpatrick find attractive in Melissa Weston?”

Lifting a hand to her face and watching her gently flinch at his touch, he ran a finger down from her eye to her cheekbone.

“Definitely not her eyes,” he said. “Or the way she blushes when you look at her. Or the fact that she's not embarrassed to be seen in an old dusty shirt from cleaning or a flowery apron while cooking.”

“Chris,” she said as his hand moved down to cup her chin.

“Or the way she says your name, like nobody else you've met ever has,” he said.

She couldn't have told you what song was playing as he leaned down. She had to remind herself to keep breathing, to keep pushing air through her lungs as his lips closed in on hers and finally met.

Sparks didn't fly when he kissed her. Fireworks didn't go off like Disney World at Christmastime; but she couldn't have imagined that having anybody else's lips against hers could feel more right. It was all too soon that he pulled away and smirked at her.

“See?” he whispered. “Not anything earth-shattering.”

“Not earth-shattering,” she said, blowing a breath of held air out of her mouth.

It was only seconds that they took to regain their composure before their lips met again. Wild and taken over by wine and the unexpected tension and chemistry they felt, it wasn't long before he had her pinned against the wall. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt from her awkward position, slipping it off his arms and letting it fall to his feet, revealing his tight white undershirt.

She leaned her head to the side to allow his lips to move over her neck, nibbling the sensitive spots as he made quick work of the buttons on her shirt. It fell to the floor along with his before his hand moved to her pants to unbutton the band, leaving her torso exposed to the air.

“Let's take this to the bedroom,” she said as she had her hand on his jeans working the button and zipper with shaky hands.

He disposed of his shirt at the threshold of her bedroom door. The room was dimly lit by a bedside lamp, enough that he could see a few details of her face. He followed her over to her bed, pushing her down on it width-wise, her legs hanging off the side.

She worked her hands through his hair as he climbed on top of her carefully, giving her neck attention before he moved down to her chest.

“Chris,” she said, slightly moaning as his facial hair tickled her chest.

He didn't respond, he only moved his lips between her breasts and down her stomach, opening the band of her pants as he kissed around her belly button. She lifted her hips when he hooked his fingers to allow him to pull them down off her, exposing her blue lace panties matching her bra.

“Wow, Mel,” he said, smiling slightly at her.

She only smiled back at him and hooked her fingers through his pants, lowering them slightly off his hips.

They spent a few minutes nearly naked, with only their undergarments covering them, before she lifted her body and wrapped her arms around to her back, starting to unhook her bra.

“Condoms are in the top drawer,” she whispered through the dark.

Still straddling her with a leg on each side of her body, he reached over to the bedside table and opened the drawer as she removed her bra. In the dark, he had to rummage around in the drawer to feel around for the small foil package, grabbing the first thing that felt like one.

It was then that something stopped him from ripping into it right away. A stab through his gut that he'd never experienced before – a stab of guilt. He was willing, and more than ready – and with her nearly naked in front of him, she obviously was as well. But it had moved so fast – from them hating each other one day to tolerating each other the next, and now all of a sudden they couldn't keep their hands off each other.

He didn't want to send the message that she was worth nothing more than a one-night-stand. He couldn't say that he was in love with her; he could admit that maybe he had feelings for her. But he couldn't guarantee that tonight would lead to anything more.

“Mel,” he said, “I can't do this.”

She had managed to get her bra unhooked, but the straps were hanging down her shoulders and she was holding it up to her chest with one arm.

“What?” she said as she looked at him, shock registering across her face.

“I'm not Joey,” he said, grabbing his jeans off the floor as he struggled in the dark to put them on. “I can't do this one-night-stand thing. Not with you.”

She watched him slip his pants over his hips and button them, feeling a mix of shock and insult, in addition to the vulnerability of being splayed across the bed in nothing but her panties.

“Oh, so suddenly you have standards?” she asked, lifting herself off the bed, clutching her bra to her chest tightly to keep her from exposing herself. “You didn't ten minutes ago when we were in the living room but now that we're naked in the bedroom, you do?”

“No, Mel, it's not standards,” he said. “I can't do this with you, it's not right. You deserve better than this.”

“Do I?” She felt tears sting her eyes, but she held them back. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry as well. “Or are you having second thoughts and coming up with a good excuse to look like the good guy?”

“Mel, I'm serious,” he said. He watched her grab a blanket off the top of the bed to wrap around herself, being careful not to expose more skin than she already was. “I just...I care about you more than this, at least as a friend.”

He heard her scoff.

“We're a little too drunk to make decisions like this, it's late, our judgment is way off...we'll regret it in the morning.”

“You mean you'll regret it in the morning,” she said, reaching for her pants. “That's what you mean.”

“No, Mel, I...”

Chris sighed, watching her move around the room angrily. He was trying to say the right thing, but nothing came out right. She was already too angry. Anything he said from this point on would be taken out of context and he would make things worse for himself if he said anything more.

“Thanks for all your help with the food, Kirkpatrick,” she said. “Do me a favor and get your shirt on your way out the door.”

He sighed, hanging back a moment before walking out of the bedroom to the living room. As he bent down to grab his shirts, he heard the bedroom door slam behind him, and he sighed again.

After she closed the door, she sat down on the bed with her legs pulled up to her chest, her forehead leaned against her knees. It was only a minute or two before she heard her door outside close, and then she allowed the tears to fall down her cheeks.

A couple of hours ago, it wouldn't have hurt. She wouldn't have balked at him rejecting her. Somewhere between the time when they were in the kitchen cooking together and when he had her up against the wall kissing her, she had let feelings slip in unknowingly. Now, she knew better; she wouldn't let it happen again.