Sliding the supply of drink decor out of his reach, I rest my hand on top of his. My voice is a wavering whisper when I ask, “Are you mad atme?”
His head hangs for a moment before he wraps an arm around me. “No.” He kisses the top of my head, some of my curly hair getting entangled in the scruff of his beard, and whispers into my hair, “Just the situation. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
I wrap my arms around him. His muscles flex at my touch, and it takes everything in my power not to hyperfixate on the feel of him as I rub soothing circles on his back. But I can’t blame what my hands want to do when Malcolm’s muscles have their own magnetic force. The taut ridges on each side pull together, forming some kind of road map to a small divot above his waistband. My fingers tremble as he lets out a long, gravely sigh against me.
Focus, Kate.
Shaking myself out of the trance of his body is near impossible, but I overcome. Retreating my hands back to my sides, I weakly clear my throat. “I’ll be alright.”
Chapter seventeen
Malcolm
Ice-cold water.
It’s the only thing that can shock me out of this daydream. It stings my skin as it runs down my face and chest. I’m half tempted to splash soap in my eyes for the extra burn. It’s a punishment for being stupid, for getting too close. The freezing water jolts my system and sends painful goosebumps down my legs.
“Idiot,” I mumble as the water hits me. I really am the most pathetic man.
Since seeing her this morning, practically glowing in the sun, I was done. She was in her typical coaching outfit—black collared tank top, black shorts, and bright-red tennis shoes. It had only been an hour since I saw her, and I was going through withdrawals. I’ve known Kate for over five years. We’ve gone weeks without seeing each other. But all of a sudden, I’m some pitiful lost puppy when she isn’t around. So, the moment she was in arm’s reach, I couldn’tnottouch her. And now it’s all I want to do.
Even at ten o’clock at night, the Florida heat seeps through the crack of the bathroom door, warming me the moment I step out of the shower. The slicing pain of cold is just about gone. I splash one last bit of water on my face for good measure, though. I deserve it.
“What are those?” Kate’s eyes and smile are unnaturally wide as I walk out of the bathroom. She’s perched on the corner of the bed, wrapped in a hotel robe. Of course she is.
My gaze dips to the small divot of her collarbone and trails over the tiny, but extremely visible, part of her shoulder uncovered by the robe. Her creamy, olive skin torments me.
“Malcolm?” she asks again, and I blink back to her face, responding with a grunt. “What. Are. You. Wearing?” I picture her words like her texts, intentional punctuations for dramatic effect.
“Pajamas?” I deadpan.
“Yes, but…” She giggles at me when I cross my arms at her. “Why do they have little pigs on them?” She bites her lip, and it’s another nail in my coffin.
Raking my hands through my wet hair, I ignore her laughs. “These are very manly and very comfortable pajamas. And they were a gift, so hush.”
I’ve always been a man of discipline. I had to be. Being in the military forces you to build up a tank of perseverance, enduring whatever is thrown your way. But my reserve is depleting little by little every time Kate looks at me that way. Her brown eyes twinkle as she stares at my pants, gnawing at her lip. I imagine releasing it from her teeth with a gentle tug of my thumb, and it sends a twitch up my hand.
“Oh my gosh, are those the ones from Aunt Edna?” She cackles, answering her own question. Yes, my light-blue fleece pajama pants, with little piglets dancing in all directions, are from her aunt. They are obscene to look at but surprisinglycomfortable. And they were the first gift I had received from anyone after moving to Glendale. Something about the notion stuck with me, and I have yet to part with them.
“Don’t be jealous.” I pull the covers back and climb into bed. “You wish you had pig pajamas.”
“I do, actually.” She climbs out of bed, one eye still on the pants, as she gathers her bathroom items. Walking around the bed, she stops on my side, standing over me with her items clutched against her chest. She clumsily maneuvers them to one hand, taking her free hand to feel the fabric of my pants. The tension that started in my shoulders stretches down to my calf, where she has the hem of my pants between two fingers. “They do look comfy,” she says with a wink before sauntering into the bathroom.
I collapse further into the bed and listen as she turns on the water. The sounds of zipping, rustling, and clanking happen on the other side of the door. It should distract me. It should take away this rigid pull happening inside my body. But it doesn’t. Nothing does. I feel like a bungee strap being pulled to its max. One wrong move, and I’ll snap.
“So, I wanted to ask your opinion,” she yells from the other side of the door, as if the bathroom isn’t five feet from the bed.
“Oh yeah?” I yell just as loud. I decide to distract myself with a stretch, loosen up the tension from travel and from Kate. I swing my legs off the side of the bed, landing in a squat position, twisting and letting the motion pop my spine. “You can’t pull off piggie pajamas, so don’t even ask.”
Her laugh is whimsical, flowing through the door like it can’t be contained. I close my eyes and picture the smile that happens with that sound, the brightness of her eyes and the pinching of her cheeks as she laughs again. It has me so weak my knees wobble as I transition to a hamstring stretch, almost falling overwhen she lets out a musical sigh to tie the sounds together. God, I am a putz.
“You believe in fate, right?” she speaks through the door again, softer this time. I don’t hear any secondary noises, as if she’s standing still, waiting for my response.
“I guess so.” I shrug, not taking the question too much to heart. Kate has always been aif the fates aligntype of girl, and it’s always been over the simplest of things. If the moon is full, then we’re going to have a terrible night at the game. If we can’t find a front parking spot, then we’re meant to go somewhere else first. If she doesn’t get chosen to read some early edition of a book she’s been brainwashed over, then it’s not meant to be read. I tend to go with the flow and just listen to her work these things out verbally. That’s how she processes. But there are times where she really wants my input, and most of the time, it’s already hand in hand with the conclusion she’s come to. “Why? Are you doubting the power of the universe again?” I laugh and slide to stretch my other leg.
The bathroom door creaks open as she steps out wearing a matching red pajama set that I’m assuming is silk based on how it shimmers against her skin. Dancing flamingos are scattered all over the fabric. She twirls to show off another Aunt Edna purchase then curtsies.
I give her a single thumbs up, using my other hand to prop myself up for the stretch. “She has a certain taste, doesn’t she?”
