Page 3 of Unhitched

Needing to get some work done, I set down my food, wipe my hands on a napkin and focus my attention on my laptop.

Lunch hour is the time I use to check in with my cybersecurity “friends” who work for other companies.

All of us are white hat hackers, assigned to intentionally break into sites and programs to find holes so they can be patched and sealed.

We give insight to companies that have been hacked by either us or someone else so they can learn from their mistakes and work more efficiently.

In today’s world, identifying threats is a job that constantly changes, and while I’m more of a keep to myself kind of guy, the only way to stay on top of it is through collaboration.

“Kace?”

My attention snaps to the voice at the other end of the bar.

Mya.

The guilt comes back, burning in my chest. Not my girl. Not my problem.

I minimize my chat screen, having a feeling she’ll be standing in front of me within seconds. Not that I have any evidence to back my theory, but she seems like the nosy type.

Sure enough, she’s once again too close for comfort.

Her straight, wet hair smells sweet like candy.

Or maybe it’s the Blow Pop she pulls to her lips, sucking the green sugar into her mouth.

In a split-second pep talk, I convince myself that it’s not sexy at all.

Whether the scent is coming from her hair or the candy her lips are wrapped around, it clashes hard with the Mexican food aroma and ruins my routine.

I drag my eyes away from her lips as she pops the sucker from her mouth and scan the rest of her body.

She’s wearing the same black leggings she had on earlier with a light purple cropped hoodie revealing a sliver of midriff.

And fuck, is that a belly ring? I stare long enough to confirm it’s a small, dangling pink heart.

I didn’t think I was a fan, but the uptick in my pulse would suggest otherwise.

I rest my hand on my ankle, still crossed over my knee, and clear my throat, buying time to figure out how to get rid of her again. I already feel bad enough for wreaking havoc on her life completely unprovoked, and seeing her in front of me isn’t helping.

“Oh.” She smiles nervously, and I hate the way her green eyes dim. “Did I get your name wrong? I’m sorry. You are the same guy, right? From Valentine’s Day?” She sticks the Blow Pop back in her mouth as she waits for my answer.

I should get back to my sandwich, but I find myself drawn to this interaction. “Yeah. Same guy.”

She pulls the sucker away again. “Good.” Her smile shifts into a real, full-fledged one. I swear her eyes brighten on the spot, and it makes my stomach flip. Or maybe I’m just hungry. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Uh. Yeah.” I pause. “You?” I hear myself say and groan inwardly. At the very least, maybe this conversation will ease my guilt.

She shakes her head. “First time. Nothing like a first time, you know? There’s so much excitement because you have all these ideas in your head based on other people, but then you get to experience it for yourself and make up your own mind.

It’s my favorite.” Damn, this girl can talk.

“I hate missing out. My ex hated Mexican food, but now that I’m not with him, I couldn’t go another day without trying this place.

” She seems genuinely happy, and it’s confusing as hell.

“Are you living in your car?” I blurt, immediately flooded with a wave of regret and embarrassment for how I acquired that information.

Her face scrunches in confusion but quickly morphs into shame. She looks up at the shelf lined with plants above the door, then to the row of tequila behind the bar next to us .

My heart sinks. Fuck. I usually love being right, but in this case… “Mya.”

Her eyes snap back to me, a hint of a smile making an appearance. “You remember my name?”

“Don’t change the subject.”

She takes a breath. “Yeah. It’s temporary. It’s fine. I survived Y2K and the Jonas Brothers breaking up. I can do anything.”

“Did that asshole kick you out of your home?” I scowl.

Her eyes flicker with amusement, and I shove the unintentional possessiveness down.

“It is his house.” She shrugs. “But I don’t mind. It’s an adventure.”

“You can’t live in a car. It’s not safe.”

She twirls the sucker stick between her thumb and pointer finger. “Safe is a relative term.”

I stare blankly at her. This girl is insane. Yet, she still made sure I didn’t get arrested the other night. My rage could have cost me my job–the only good thing I have going for me. I tug on the back of my neck. “I can’t let you be homeless.”

She laughs, her smile widening as her free hand lands on my bicep.

“It’s not your job to let me be anything.

” Her grip is firm enough that I know she can feel the muscle I’ve worked hard to build, and for some ungodly reason, I like her touching me.

I glance at where our bodies connect, and she jumps back like she just noticed we were touching.

“Sorry. I don’t have a personal bubble.” She pulls her hands to her chest with a nervous smile.

“I’ve noticed.”

“Well, anyway. I’m fine. Promise,” she says with false bravado.

“Your ex wouldn’t let you stay with him until you found someplace else?”

She hums. “Maybe. Probably. But there’s no sense in hanging around in a life not meant for me.”

I arch a brow. “But there is sense in living in your car?”

She shrugs. “It seemed like a perfectly fine temporary solution until you started crapping on it.”

“You really don’t have anywhere else to go?” Please for the love of tacos, let someone be available to help her.

“Not really. My sister, Ella… I could stay with her. But you see, she and her husband, Mack, just had a baby. Well, he’s more of a toddler now.

I love him dearly, but I’ve already seen Frozen 872 times, and I might die if I have to sit through it again.

Plus, they live in Eugene, and that’s too far away from my life. ”

The rambling continues, and she has no sense of security at all . The personal information she’s spitting out for free could give someone what they need to easily figure out a password faster than they could hack it. It’s terrifying.

“You don’t have any friends who have room for you?” She’s friendly as fuck. Surely she has a hundred friends.

Her eyes drift to the ceiling like she’s mentally flicking through a list of people she knows before focusing back on me and shaking her head. “I don’t think so.”

My grip on my ankle tightens. “A coworker with a couch?”

She chuckles. “I think most people have a couch. But I don’t have a coworker.”

She doesn’t have a coworker she could stay with? Or she doesn’t have a coworker in the first place? The temptation to know wins. “Do you have a job?”

“Yes…”

“But no coworkers?”

She nods. “Correct.” A smile lights her face, and for some fucked up reason, it’s my tipping point.

I close my eyes, pleading with myself not to utter the words on the tip of my tongue.

Despite my poor decisions on Valentine’s Day, at my core, I’m more inclined to help than hurt, and this girl is in need–thanks to me.

Inhaling a deep breath to contain the immediate regret I know I’ll have the second the words leave my mouth, I let them tumble from my lips anyway. “You can stay with me.”

A disbelieving laugh leaves her perfectly pink lips, sugary from her sucker, and I’m struck again with how beautiful she is.

She must be using the gym for the showers because I’ve hardly been here long enough for her to finish a workout.

Her face is bare from makeup, making the tiny freckles sprinkled across her nose more prominent.

The daylight–and my lessened hostility–is giving me the ability to take in every detail.

“I think I misheard you.” Her voice snaps my attention to her lips again.

“I only have a couch to offer.” I rub the back of my neck, my eyes dropping to my sandwich. “But it’s better than the backseat of your car.”

“I told you everyone has a couch!” Shifting gears, she chews on her lip. “There’s no way I could impose though.”

“I feel obligated. I’m the reason you’re choosing to live in a moving piece of metal over a stable home.”

“People live in motorhomes and sprinter vans all the time.” She grins, pleased with her comeback.

Jesus Christ, this idea is feeling worse by the second. “That’s not the same thing, and you know it. Please indulge me.” At this point, I’m committed. “Stay at my place until you find your own.”

“You’re coming off a little bit like a psycho, especially with the way you stormed into the restaurant the other night. What was that about anyway?” I think she’s teasing, but my stomach twists at the thought of her being put off by me.

“That was… It was nothing.” I run my fingers through my hair in an attempt to quell my anxiety. “That wasn’t me. I mean, it was. But I’ve never done anything like that before.”

“It’s okay.” She places a hand on my shoulder, and my stare follows the movement. “Even Troy Bolton made mistakes and acted out of character, and he’s still loveable. So I haven’t lost complete faith in you yet.”

What the fuck is she talking about? The V between my brows deepens .

“Never mind.” She shakes her head in amusement, her touch falling away from me. “But still, how do I know you won’t chop me into pieces and throw me over the edge of your boat in a garbage bag?”

I can’t help the snort that escapes. “Well, for starters, I don’t have a boat. I’m more of a mechanic.” I hold her stare to see if she catches my reference.

It’s only a moment before a spark flickers in her eyes with recognition.

“No one is Authur Bishop–or Jason Statham in general–but if you’re anything close to him or Dexter Morgan, I suppose it doesn’t matter if I stay or go.

” She shrugs, and I can’t tell if the nonchalance is comfort or a defense mechanism.

“If you want me dead, there’s no avoiding it. ”

The thought of seeing her dead ticks my anxiety up a notch. Do I look like a killer? Note to self: Google Ted Bundy. “I think I’ll stick to killing dates instead of women,” I retort, convincing myself I’m funny and don’t regret my actions the other night.

“You are good at that.” She smirks.

Guilt consumes me, and it’s my own damn fault. “I’m sorry,” I mutter before a sigh slips out. “Will you accept my offer or not?”

“If only to save you from the hassle of having to track me along my wayward path…” Reckless abandon seems more accurate. Both of her hands land on my shoulder this time. “Yes, Kace, I would love to live with you.”

I glance at her right hand, making sure the sticky sucker pinched between her fingers isn’t too close to my hair. “Temporarily.”

“Yes.” She nods, her hands forming a prayer under her chin. It’s fucking adorable.

“Just until you get back on your feet,” I reiterate.

I don’t even know what job she has or if it’s reliable.

Looks like I’m about to make a second mistake where this woman is concerned, and the unknown timeframe for our new living arrangement has me wanting to crawl into the fallout shelter with Brendan Fraser and not come out until I know it’s over.