Page 53 of Unhitched

Chapter thirty-four

Mya

“Here you go,” Kace says, holding out a bowl of pasta when he joins me in the living room. I press send on my text to my sister, asking if I can come home, then take the food from him.

“Thank you.” I settle the dish on my blanket-covered lap and pick up the fork.

It looks like fancy mac and cheese with miniature tube noodles in an orange creamy sauce–although there are tiny red specks that make me think it’ll be spicy.

It’s garnished with parsley, and my mouth waters.

I haven’t eaten since breakfast. “This looks good.”

He sits beside me on the couch. “Comfort ditalini is what my mom calls it.”

I grin. “I love that. My mom makes us popcorn salad.”

He scoops pasta onto his fork. “What’s that?”

“We’d go to Blockbuster on Friday nights when I was a kid. And then mom would make it as our movie treat. Popcorn with our favorite mix-ins. M&Ms. Mini marshmallows. Pretzels. Nerds. Milk duds. Red Hots.

“So… trail mix?”

“No!” I laugh .

“A stomach ache then?”

“Definitely that but somehow in a way that makes me crave them.”

He gives me a half-smile. “I get it. Some of my favorite beers aren’t my favorite , but I consider them so because I drank them with my dad.”

“Just like that,” I say, hating and loving when he understands me.

This week has been emotional, to say the least. I feel torn enough breaking up a relationship, even when logic tells me it is the right decision.

Kace and I argued. Then he took me on the perfect date that absolutely was not a date and twisted my insides all over again.

Then I went down a celebrity social media rabbit hole, and it was like the trigger to the meltdown about my life that has been on a countdown timer for months.

Now I’m spiraling like a penny in a wishing well. “Do you see your parents often?”

“Not since I moved here.”

“Were they upset that you came out here?”

He shrugs. “At first they thought I was moving to Canada.”

“I swear most of the country confuses Vancouver, Washington with Canada even though this one was founded first.” I chuckle. “They don’t want to come visit?”

“Maybe when…”

Stirring my pasta with my fork, a burst of steam releases. “When what?”

“Nothing.” He takes a bite of his dinner.

I set my bowl on the coffee table without trying it first and turn toward him. “Maybe when what? When I move out?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that.”

“I know I’ve been here longer than you planned. Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Mya, stop. I want you here. Just eat your dinner, okay? I found us a show to watch.”

“You did?” My brows pinch as I reach for my pasta and settle back into the couch.

“Yeah. I know how much you love Hilary Duff.”

A grin splits my face for the first time tonight. “What can I say? That girl can do no wrong.”

He gives me a side glance that looks more like an eye roll as he reaches for the remote. “Anyway. They came out with a How I Met Your Father . And Hilary plays the girl version of Ted.”

“Sounds great.” It's not as great as him saying, “The perfect thing for us to do tonight is consummate a relationship,” but here we are… having a roommate date night that I’ll forever wish is more . I wonder how long I’ll last before I can’t handle it any longer.

I take a bite of my pasta, flavor exploding on my taste buds. It’s the perfect blend of creamy and spicy. “Wow. This is ‘I hope there are leftovers’ good.”

He chuckles. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Thank you.” I allow myself only a quick glance in his direction before focusing back on the show's opening credits.

“It’s the least I can do.”

What does that even mean? I assume he feels guilty for not wanting to be with me, so he’s trying to make up for it in other ways.

The next ten minutes pass with only a few chuckles between us.

I already love this show, and maybe Kace is right.

I don’t have to fix everything tonight. I don’t have to determine the path for my future.

I don’t have to accept Kace doesn’t want to be with me.

I definitely don’t have to figure out my business taxes. I can do all of that tomorrow.

“You good?” Kace’s voice overlaps Francia Raisa’s. That woman is a saint, donating a kidney to Selena Gomez. I’ve loved her ever since The Secret Life of the American Teenager.

“Yeah, why?”

“You won’t stop fidgeting.”

“Oh.” I retrace the last few minutes in my mind, realizing I’ve been shifting and adjusting my legs trying to get comfortable. “Yeah. I’m just usually a legs-on-the-couch person. Sorry. ”

He hesitates and then says, “It’s fine. You can stretch out.

” I open my mouth to speak but immediately close it.

The man leans back and offers me his lap, and I’m more shocked than when Duke realized Viola was a girl.

Because… His lap. For my legs to sprawl across.

What in the fresh hell temptation is this?

“I’m not going to bite you,” he adds, looking at me like I’m the crazy one.

“Alright.” Leaning against the arm of the couch, I swing my bare legs over Kace’s lap.

When we came inside from the rain, we both changed–me into my pajama shorts and an oversized T-shirt and Kace into black sweatpants that hang perfectly on his hips, swapping his Virginia Tech hoodie for a plain gray tee.

I wiggle around until I’m comfortable. The couch isn’t that long, so when I scoot down to lean against the armrest, my knees bend over Kace’s lap.

Feeling exposed, I pull the blanket I made for Kace from the back of the couch and settle it over my legs.

I cuddle my arms under the chunky knitting, my fingers fidgeting with the string of my pajama shorts as he helps me adjust the blanket over my feet.

Once I’m settled, he rests one forearm across my shins and his other hand over the blanket on my thigh. “You good?”

No, I’m not good. The man I’m in very strong like with has his hand on my thigh, and all I can think about is the last time he sent pleasure surging through my body.

My heart is beating a billion times a second, and I might pass out from my nearness to the man I’ve been daydreaming about for far longer than just that mountain trip.

But yeah. “I’m good,” I whisper, forcing my focus on the TV.

With the blackout shades, it’s so dark in here that the only light coming from the TV is hardly enough to see anything in the room.

It’s making me even more tuned in to every little movement from Kace’s side of the couch.

I don’t even know what’s happening in the show anymore.

Did we finish the first episode? Are we onto the next one ?

Kace adjusts himself, slouching as he leans back against the cushion. In the next moment, he slips his hands under the blanket and repositions them to exactly where they were topside.

One arm is draped over my shins, but now his hand grips my calf. The other hand rests mid-thigh. I subtly swipe my tongue over my lips to counteract how dry they’ve become.

His thumb brushes across my calf as one scene on the TV transitions into another, and my stomach flips.

His hand smooths across my thigh as characters have indiscernible conversation, and I fight the urge to squeeze my legs together.

I chew the inside of my lip, giving a silent pep talk to the butterflies in my stomach about getting excited over nothing.

But then his hand slides the smallest bit closer to my core. Each centimeter of movement turns me on more. His hand freezes, and so does my breath. His hold on my thigh tightens, and I feel the pad of each finger where it presses into my skin.

His hand slides further until his pinky swipes under the hem of my shorts.

God, I want him. His fingers inside me. And exploring every inch of my skin.

But then they pull away. His hand slides toward my knee where he grips like it’ll hold him in place. No. I internally groan. Come back.

I scoot down, my head falling to the armrest and my ass scooting closer to him. His hand grips my skin, but when I let my leg fall away from him, it naturally slides down my inner thigh. Even in the dark, I can see Kace’s gaze snap to me.

He holds his stare, then wets his lips. “Mya,” he whispers, and the way he says my name feels like another rejection.

I run my tongue along the roof of my mouth, wetting it enough that I’ll be able to speak. “Yeah? ”

Groaning, he lets his head fall back against the couch. Giving me a sideways glance, his lips barely part like he’s going to speak, but then he seals them shut again.

I hold his gaze, waiting.

“You’re turning me on,” he says begrudgingly.

My hands tense where my fingers play with the hem of my sleep shorts, my heart rate skyrocketing at the admittance. “And you don’t want a repeat of the night at the mountain,” I assume.

“Of course I want that,” he confesses like it’s a secret he’s been holding onto. “I want to make you fall apart on my couch.”

“So, what’s the problem?” I ask in a tone that’s split between snapping and frustration.

He sighs. “I think we need to talk first.”

I don’t want to talk about us again. I know how the story goes. Right now, I want to feel better, not worse, so I stuff the negative thoughts into a box with all the ones from earlier. “You said I don’t have to fix anything tonight. I don’t want to talk. I want to feel good.”

The TV characters continue on with their lives in front of us while we’re stuck in a long moment, frozen like a website trying so hard to load behind the scenes. Attempting to speed the connection, I link my pinky with his and give the slightest tug.

“Mya,” he repeats, this time in a warning tone and with a battle simmering in his eyes.

“Kace,” I echo. I want to be inside his mind, know every thought running around even though I’m scared of the enemy in his head. “We’ve already slept together.”