Page 11 of Unhitched

Chapter six

Mya

A screech worse than dial-up internet jolts me awake. God, make it stop. Yanking my pillow from under me, I crush it over my head to drown out the sound. The smooth sheets under my cheek cause me to raise my head from the mattress. What the–

The room is almost completely dark from the blackout shades, but I know where I am, even if I’ve only caught a glimpse of this space once before. I’m in Kace’s room. How did I get here? I sit up, rubbing my temples and glance down at my body while I put the pieces together. My clothes are still on.

The party.

Shots. A lot of them.

My new friend and me planning a music video for my favorite song of all time.

Kace showing up.

Kace.

Oh my god. I sat on his lap. I touched his hair.

It all floods back in pieces between each pound of my head .

His hand on my thigh.

Him making us cereal.

Then giving me his bed.

I groan, mortified. How am I supposed to face him? My second night as his roommate and he already had to play babysitter. He probably regrets his decision so much that he’s out there planning how to get rid of me.

Despite not having the mental capacity for it right now, I decide to get it over with–even if only because in the dim lighting of the room, I can tell my phone is not in here, and I have no idea what time it is.

When I slide my feet onto the floor, I stumble over my shoes. Well, at least I had the sense to take them off before I climbed into Kace’s bed. Thank god for that.

I attempt to open the door in stealth mode, but the damn thing betrays me, squeaking enough that as soon as I peek my head out, Kace’s gaze snaps to me.

He freezes, then rakes his eyes over my body.

I glance down at myself to once again make sure I’m wearing clothes. Sure enough, I’ve got on the same thing I was wearing at the party. Maybe he’s just surprised I’m still alive after how drunk I was last night.

“Morning,” I whisper, breaking the silence. I slide onto the stool at the breakfast bar, actually thankful for the blackout shades in the living room and that only one of the lights in the kitchen is lighting the space. My head rests on my palm as I lean over the counter with another groan.

“Morning.” Nothing in Kace’s voice gives away his emotions. I hold his stare for a moment before glancing at the culprit of the deafening noise from a few minutes ago. He reaches for the blender, takes the top off and sets it in the sink before pulling two glasses from the cupboard.

“I should have had a V8,” I mutter to myself as I let my palms slip so they dig into my eyes.

He chuckles. “How about a smoothie? ”

“Yes please.” I pause, glancing at him and trying to gauge the state of my internal organs. “Maybe.” I think he smirks, but I don’t have time to tell if it's a figment of my hungover imagination before he turns around to pour the berry-pink cocktail.

He places the glass in front of me, then turns to the stove where he picks up a spatula and loads three pancakes onto a plate.

Were those cooking when I sat down? I shake the confusion from my head when the clinking of the plate against the marble sends a shooting pain through my head.

I groan. I look up in time to catch Kace’s expression–or lack thereof.

He stares at me, and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed, frustrated or wishes he could laugh at me for my stupidity.

I’m a grown-ass adult. I should know by now how many drinks put me at my limit.

But he also made me pancakes and let me sleep in his bed.

I feel weird and foggy like I’m living someone else’s life that I know nothing about.

I wonder if this is how Rob Schneider felt waking up trapped in Rachel McAdams’s body.

Not wanting to dissect his thoughts while my brain feels like mush, I focus all my attention on getting carbs into my stomach to soak up whatever alcohol is left.

I take a hesitant first bite, wanting to make sure that once I swallow, my breakfast will stay where it’s meant to.

When the fluffy goodness hits my taste buds, I can’t stop.

It’s so fluffy and sweet and somehow perfect even though there’s no syrup or butter. I wonder what his secret is.

I don’t take time to ask, partly because the sound of my voice might be too much for my hangover before these pancakes hopefully work some magic. Before starting my next one, I spare a glance at Kace, to see if he’s eating too.

He’s staring at me. A tingle runs across my skin at how unnerving it is.

“Was the pancake good?” He gives me a pointed look.

I nod. “Yes.”

“Did you chew it?”

I grin. “ Mostly.”

He just stares, and for the first time this morning, I have the brain power to take him in.

He’s wearing jeans that hang perfectly on his hips, his chest unfortunately covered by a gray T-shirt that at least highlights his muscle tone.

I vaguely recall it being the outfit he showed up to the party in, which makes sense since I was kind of holding his room hostage.

I glance over the edge of the counter to his bare feet, and it’s even sexier to me.

I think I need some water. And more pancakes.

Something to clear away any thoughts that don’t belong.

Until then, I blame the hangover for being this attracted to my strictly platonic roommate.

And that his hair looks that good. Dark, sexy and just long enough to run my fingers through.

It takes everything in my power to stop staring and stab at my pancake again.

“I’ve got to work,” he tells me, and I risk another glance up. He takes a moment to stare before grabbing his plate of pancakes and disappearing into his room without waiting for me to say a single word.

I finish the rest of my breakfast, thankful it all stays down. Finding my phone on the coffee table, I unlock it and check the post I made yesterday with all my bookmarks on my business account: All That and a Bag of Crafts.

I’m so thankful I have space to work at Kace’s.

I’ve worked outside of a house before, but I was a little concerned about keeping my business running successfully from my car.

It would be a lot of work to dig through all my art boxes and stay organized from my trunk.

Crafting may be a flexible hobby, but it usually requires space to spread out the chaos.

Dragging everything to the library is something I’ve done before, and I don’t particularly want to revert to that option again.

I would have done it though. I’ve created and sold a different project consistently once a week for years, and I’d hate to break that streak.

Taking a quick glance through the comments, it looks like almost all of them have been claimed, so I hop in the shower to wash off the previous night and focus on my plan to get orders processed and mailed out today and tomorrow.

I opt for my oversized “Perkis Power” shirt–because nothing beats Ben Stiller acting like a total psychopath–and a pair of spandex shorts.

If I get all of my work done, I should have time to work out later.

Pulling my hair half up with a flower clip–thankful it’s still long enough to do so–I put on my One Direction playlist and get to work sending invoices and addressing envelopes for my bookmarks.

I wish all my deliveries could be local so I could thank everyone in person for loving my creations and helping me live my best serial entrepreneur life–but if I’m thankful for one thing in this decade, it’s social media and a speedy postal service helping my dreams become reality.

Surprisingly, I’m done working by noon. It leaves me plenty of time to scroll social media; I love that my algorithm has been perfectly curated to help me come up with new craft ideas.

A notification pings my phone that another payment has come through.

I calculate how many days until the end of the month. Still over a week.

I pause, my finger frozen on the screen.

I’m no longer responsible for paying utilities and groceries like I did when I was with Matt.

I hum to myself, mulling over the changes in my life.

I have to help Kace out somehow. I know he said this would only be temporary, so maybe he doesn’t expect rent, but I’m not a freeloader.

And while he might take cereal as a form of payment, I wouldn’t be okay with that.

Standing from where I’ve made a workstation on the living room floor again, I walk to Kace’s door and press my ear against it. I still don’t know exactly what he does, but it doesn’t sound like he’s on a call or anything, so I knock lightly.

There’s a quiet moment, and a few clicks of a computer mouse, then a “come in.”

Turning the knob, I peek my head inside his room, surprised the blackout shades are up and letting in a warm natural light. He’s sitting at his desk, all three computer screens turned on, but with nothing pulled up. It’s just one continuous snowy mountain scene across all three monitors.

He watches me as I step inside his room, his eyes appraising my outfit for a flash of a moment before settling on my face.

“Hey, sorry if I’m bothering you,” I say, awkwardly linking my fingers in front of myself.

“You’re not.” He leans back in his chair and reaches for two Chinese stress balls sitting in a red velvet box. They clink together as he rotates them in his palms, and I’m mesmerized by the motion. “Can I help you with something?”

My gaze snaps to his. “Yes. Well, actually, I was hoping to help you.”

He arches a brow.

“I was wondering about rent. I’m guessing it’s due soon?”

He stays locked in thought for a moment. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Kace. No.”

“Mya. Yes. It’s not a big deal. I said I’d help you out until you got back on your feet.”

“I didn’t fall over. I’m fine. I made almost three hundred dollars today. I can help.”

His brows furrow like he’s confused about how I did that, but he doesn’t pry. “You can help with groceries,” he concedes.

“No,” I say firmly.