Page 10 of Unhitched

Unbothered by my touch, she smiles at me, inches from my face. I want to pull away. I should pull away. I’ll blame not pulling away on shock. This girl seriously has no personal bubble. She met me a few days ago for Christ’s sake.

“Hi,” she greets me.

I chuckle. “Hey.”

“Oh. My. God.” She pulls one hand from my neck to slap it against my chest. “You are capable of a smile. I’m so happy.”

I bite back a grin and level a stare.

“Nooooooo,” she whines in the absence of my expression.

“Are you drunk?”

“I’m a little buzzy.” She pinches her fingers together in front of my face to show me how little drunk she is.

I’m tempted to lecture her about all the danger she put herself in tonight, but besides the fact that she probably wouldn’t remember it, I’m sure she wouldn’t care. “You look like you’re having fun,” I say instead.

She twists her fingers through the strands of hair at my neck, and it feels fucking good. “Do you know what fun is, my little rain cloud?”

“Rain cloud?” I clarify, although I’m using the majority of my brain power to refrain from brushing my thumb across where I hold her bare thigh.

“Umm, yeah. I know I don’t know you super well, but you seem a little gray. You know what I mean?”

“You’ve known me for two days.” I deadpan, refusing to humor her.

She shrugs like that isn’t a factor at all. “Technically a week.”

“Alright, buttercup.” Her grin widens, and I will myself not to let it affect me.

“Did you see my music video in the making?!” She doesn’t give me a chance to respond before she continues. “It won’t be as iconic as the one Ella and I made to ‘Upside Down’ by A*Teens during summer camp as kids, but I have high hopes for it.”

As if she’s been flung onto the next train of thought, she turns toward the people sitting at the coffee table behind her.

“It was awful,” one girl says to another. “Every time I tried to ask him a question, he would deflect with a semi-connected trivia fact.”

“Like what?” the girl next to her asks, appalled.

“I asked him what his favorite food was, and he asked if I knew that the fear of peanut butter getting stuck to the roof of your mouth is called arachibutyrophobia.”

The group of girls burst into a fit of giggles, then one adds, “That’s nothing compared to the guy who touched my stomach and told me that’s where his baby would be. On a first date. ”

“People are insane,” another girl claims. She’s not wrong .

“I see you got my note,” Mya says, pulling my attention back to her as she links her hands behind my neck again. She leans back so far I’m worried she’ll fall over and crack her head on the coffee table if I don’t hold her tighter, so my grip adjusts accordingly.

“I did.” I hold my stare on her glossed-over green eyes, faded in the darkness of the party.

She doesn’t respond. She just stares back at me, her face a little pale.

“Are you okay?”

She stares another second, then nods her head. Then she shakes it.

“Mya?”

“Uh huh?” she slurs, her eyes staring past me and her arms loosen around my neck.

I think that last shot took her over her limit. “Are you ready to go home?” Did I say home? I know it’s mine, but fuck if it didn’t sound like I meant it was ours. Note to self: watch your fucking language, so there’s no misunderstanding between us about what this arrangement is.

She gives me a smile that's a combination of sleepy and totally wasted even though it’s only 8 p.m. “Okay.”

I begin to stand, and she stands with me. Her friend, who I didn’t realize was still there, holds Mya’s phone out for me. I pocket it, and when she says goodbye, Mya perks up. “Bye!” she shouts, pulling away from me to throw her arms around her new friend.

When she releases her and turns back to me, her face pales again and her eyes drop. “Oh my god,” she mutters under her breath.

“What?” My brows furrow.

I step behind her, guiding her toward the door, and she looks back toward me–horrified. “I touched you like a girlfriend would.”

My tongue swipes across my lip, my brows still pinched .

“That was so inappropriate. I’m sorry, Kace.” She seems distraught.

“It’s fine,” I assure her, although I think my voice comes out more prickly than I intended.

“No, it’s not. It won’t happen again. Please forgive me. Don’t kick me out. I love your couch. It’s so much better than my car.” Her words slur, and her sentences run together.

“I’m not going to kick you out.”

A sigh of relief leaves her. “Thank you.”

I respond with a nod and point down the hallway toward my apartment, hoping we’ll make it there sooner rather than later.

Once we’re through the door and it’s locked behind us, Mya stumbles toward the couch. She nearly falls over, but I reach out in time to grab her elbow and steady her.

She glances at where we’re connected before her gaze slowly focuses on me. “Oh!” she exclaims, a memory coming to the surface. “I got us cereal! But it’s in the car. I’ll go get it.” She tries to walk past me, but I stop her.

“We’ll get it tomorrow.”

“But I thought you like cereal?” she pouts.

I chuckle. “I do.”

“What’s your favorite?” She stumbles into the kitchen and leans against the counter next to the fridge.

“Did you eat dinner?”

“Nope,” she says, popping the “P” as she shakes her head. “Let’s have cereal. Make me your favorite.”

I study her face, her insistence on learning something about me while she’s drunk is impressive. “Alright.”

She hoists herself up onto the counter, and I fill a glass of water for her.

She takes a sip before abandoning it on the marble beside her in favor of watching me.

I reach for the Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the counter next to her ass.

She follows the movement as I open the box and make two bowls.

Handing one to her, I prop my shoulder against the refrigerator and cross my ankles.

We eat for the next few minutes in silence, except for the crunch of the cinnamon sugar squares.

Having Mya in my space is so odd compared to sharing it with Ruby, who was always put together with her perfectly pressed pantsuits and brown hair pulled back tightly–always caring what everyone thought.

Despite the unfamiliarity, somehow all of this feels somewhat normal– better .

She hops off the counter and places her bowl in the sink, but as she backs away, she loses balance, gripping the edge for balance. “I think I need to lie down,” she whispers, and I’m thankful she’s not the kind of drunk who wants to keep drinking more.

“Alright.” I put my bowl in the sink next to hers and walk past. Opening the door to my room, I swipe my pillow off my bed because I’m too damn old to sleep without the right type. I return to the living room with Mya right where I left her, tracking my movement.

“What are you doing?” Her eyes still follow me as I walk toward the couch.

“No fucking clue,” I mutter to myself, truly baffled by my behavior.

It’s not that I’m not a gentleman. I know how to open a damn door for a woman or make sure she comes before I do.

But for my woman. And Mya is far from mine .

I don’t want her to be either, but something about making her sleep on the couch while her world is likely spinning feels wrong.

She steps closer to me. “What?”

“Nothing. Here.” I hand her pillow over.

“I thought you weren’t kicking me out?” she says, her voice small. In the glow of the light from my bedroom behind her I have a decent view of the way the curls in her short hair have fallen, and the thought that I wish I could mess them up myself slips into my mind uninvited.

I shake my head. “Just kicking you off the couch. You can sleep in my bed tonight.”

She glances toward my room. “Are you sure? ”

I nod. “Yup.” I take a seat on the couch, making my point. Mya is already going to feel like shit from her hangover. It’ll help if she doesn’t wake up with a sore back on top of it. Reaching for the remote, I try to distance myself. “Get some sleep. Try not to throw up in my bed.”

Glancing at her over my shoulder, I can’t decide if she looks afraid of my fake threat, or thankful for my gesture. Either way, she whispers a “thank you,” and with her pillow clinging to her chest disappears into my room.