Chapter 8 - Kinsley
KINSLEY
The room is still dark when my eyelids flutter open, but I have a feeling that has more to do with the heavy curtains covering the windows than the actual time.
Royce sleeps soundly behind me on his back, his leg now draped over mine.
We’d cuddled on and off throughout the night, neither of us seeming to be away from the other for very long.
It was strange but nice, and I don’t know how I feel about that.
I’d fallen asleep curled up next to him as he’d pounded away on his laptop, the sound somehow soothing despite his obvious frustration with whatever he was looking at.
I’d spent the last two months alternating nights with Nessa and Remi, so part of me could rationalize needing to be with someone—needing the noise.
But the other part of me knew I couldn’t be alone after getting the messages.
Nessa’s absence makes me realize just how isolated we really are in Nashville, and while I love playing soccer, the ugly moments always make me question if it is worth it.
Does the good outweigh the bad?
Royce murmurs something unintelligible and rolls away from me, and I take the opportunity to slip out of bed. My feet are silent on the hardwood as I walk to the bathroom and close the door as quietly as I can.
The overhead light is surprisingly gentle, and I appreciate it after the darkness of his room. I freshen up with the things he’d given me last night, apologetic that he didn’t have anything fancier for me to wash my face with than a generic bar of soap.
My skin is no worse for wear, but I couldn’t make it a habit.
My skin care routine is probably weeping in my bathroom, and my social media followers would be appalled that anything other than the tears of a rare desert flower touched my face.
The thought makes me snort.
He’ll just have to stay over at my apartment next time.
My eyes widen and my lips part, my expression almost comical in the mirror. I don’t really do sleepovers, and I definitely don’t do sleepovers for the sake of cuddling.
Last night had been the exception, and I need to remember that.
Finishing up, I turn off the light before sneaking from his bedroom and into the hall. It’s much brighter out here, the sun streaming in through the frosted-glass windows, something I hadn’t noticed last night.
Three different coffee contraptions line the kitchen counter next to the sink, and it has my lips kicking up into a smile.
Promising to try the others next, I select a pod for the single-serve machine and grab a cup from the cabinet.
It’s black with Tetris pieces on it, like the game I used to play.
The design is faded, the mug obviously loved.
A favorite.
I place it under the drip and push start before rummaging through his cabinets and fridge. It takes a while, but I finally locate pancake mix, frozen blueberries, and sausage.
The pans are surprisingly harder to locate, his kitchen arranged without any real direction or correlation to the appliances.
Nessa would have had a fit by now, and the idea of her destroying the kitchen in search of a mixing bowl has me smiling again.
The coffee machine sputters to a stop, and I wait just a second before bringing the mug to my nose and inhaling the rich, delicious aroma. Forgoing cream or sugar, I take a tentative sip and stifle a moan as the hot liquid slides down my throat.
It’s life-giving.
Thank God.
Moderately more awake, I grab my phone, ignoring the time, and pull up my party girl playlist. “Ain’t it Fun” by Paramore fills the room, and I turn it to low before placing the pans on the stove and getting to work.
ROYCE
Kinsley Dane cooking me breakfast, in my apartment, while wearing my clothes was not on my bingo card for December.
But hell if I don’t love it.
“Mornin’,” I say, my voice deeper and scratchier than I anticipated, the lack of sleep the last few nights clearly not helping.
Kinsley whirls around, spatula in hand, and grins.
“Mornin’, Roy. You’re looking deliciously rumpled this morning.”
My brain works through her words like I’m crawling through molasses. They sound like a compliment, and the smirk she’s giving me is probably a good indicator—but I need coffee.
Like every ounce in my apartment.
“Here, until you’re more awake.”
She hands me a half-empty cup of black coffee, making me scrunch up my nose in horror.
“What is this?”
“Coffee,” she deadpans, popping her hip and waving the spatula around, “obviously.”
“But like, where’s the stuff that makes it not taste like gasoline?”
“That’s awfully dramatic.”
I don’t dignify that with a response, reaching around her to grab my own mug, using more force than necessary to get the pod set and the coffee brewing.
Kinsley’s shoulders shake with silent laughter, and I roll my eyes, patting her ass to move her out of the way so I can grab the sugar bowl above the stove.
It’s a solid three seconds after the pat, while reaching for the sugar, that it registers what I’ve done.
She’s amused—not offended—as I set the ceramic bowl on the counter and blink at her.
“Do you often go around patting the asses of the women making you breakfast, Roy?”
“You’d be the first.”
“Lucky me.” She winks and I can feel my cheeks heat.
I should say something—anything—but I just stare at her, taking in how stunning she looks with her hair in a messy bun, flipping pancakes just because she can.
Eyes full of mischief, her hand grips my shirt as she pops up onto her toes and kisses me. “Next time just own it.”
“Sure,” I mutter as she releases me and I hurry to make my coffee. I need caffeine before I drop to my knees and tell her I want to eat her for breakfast.
“I’m going to the gym after breakfast. Do you want to come with me?” she asks, and I’m so startled, I slosh coffee over the lip and onto my hand.
The burn barely registers as I stare at her. “Seriously,” I start, “a root canal, reorganizing my sock drawer, or recounting the horrors of my teen years all sound like more fun than going to the gym. I’d watch every identical rom-com ever made to not go.”
“They are not identical,” she hisses as she turns all the knobs on the stove to off.
“Yes, they are. We went through forty-seven options of rich city girl inherits her dead relative’s inn and must find the magic of Christmas to save it.” She huffs and I smirk. “But we can argue about that later.”
“Sounds hot. Plus, you can’t forget about the hunky, hometown lumberjack that helps her fall in love again,” she teases and I glare at her. “Oh, come on, working out together will be fun!”
“No, plus you don’t get this body by running,” I say, waving my hand from my chest to my legs like a game show host. “This body is made from Mountain Dew and Doritos.”
“I happen to like your body.”
“How would you know?” I ask, mirroring her pose with my hands on my hips. We’re facing off, and I can tell that she likes getting me all riled up. The problem is I have no idea why I’m even letting her. “You’ve never seen me in anything but this.”
“Do I need to see you naked to know I like the way you feel pressed against me? That our bodies seem to fit together?”
“That is really unfair.” Kinsley’s arms wrap around my neck before she presses her body flush against mine, my hands dropping to her waist like it’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done. “So is this.”
“It helps with stamina,” she murmurs, her eyes dropping to my lips. “And I’ll be really pissed if you’re not strong enough to hold me up against the wall.”
Well, shit.
“I’ll buy some sneakers.”
“You do that.”
Guess I’m going to the gym.