Page 32 of Reluctantly You

“It’s only shit because you’ve made it that way. You chose it, Mitchell.”

“My name’s Mitch,” he grumbles. I, of course, ignore it.

“If you want to be better, do better.”

His knuckles crack, and he glances away. “I did my best for years.” It’s a whisper, an admission. “I did so much, for so long. And it was all for nothing. All of it’s been for nothing.”

His shoulders slump and he runs a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters.”

The way his countenance suddenly changes makes me take another step forward and another until I’m chest to chest with him and I can smell the soap on his skin.

“No, that’s not true. Everything matters. You can do better, Mitchell. I know because I’ve brought myself up from nothing and you can do the same.”

He blinks at me, his eyes growing watery.

“I’m not strong enough,” he whispers, and I crack, pushing into him entirely and cradling the back of his neck. He leans into it, his forehead against mine, and whispers, “I’m not—I’m not gay.”

I stare at him, almost disbelieving that this is where his mind has gone, but then again, I met his dad. I know exactly who raised him and why he’d think that a simple touch like this would mean more than it does.

And yet still, my fingers slide into his hair, caressing his scalp, and he leans into my touch even more, his eyelids fluttering shut.

My own gaze tracks across his face to his lips, parted and panting, and for an insane moment, I can envision myself kissing him. But before I can do something stupid, the doorbell rings and he jolts away from me, nearly knocking into the wall as he leaps back.

I let out a tense breath and move away from him, answering the door and grabbing the bag from the delivery guy with a muttered thanks. My heart is thumping loudly in my chest and I can hear it ringing in my ears. I need to calm the fuck down. I need to not do something stupid, like think about kissing Mitchell Morris on the lips.

Setting the food on the kitchen table, I glance over and see that he’s still standing against the wall, his hand running back and forth across the back of his neck.

“Come over here and eat. When we’re done, we’re going for a walk.”

I need to get out of the house, to not be in such close quarters with him.

He huffs and then grumbles under his breath, something I don’t understand, but he takes a seat next to me and pulls open some food containers, looking at what I’ve ordered. I half-expect him to complain, but he doesn’t. He just grabs some chopsticks and gets to work, eating slower than I imagine he normally does, but still eating nonetheless. I wonder, before I made him that sandwich, when the last time he ate was.

I don’t care enough to ask, though.

When we’re done, we both change into something comfortable to walk around in and head out of the house. As we leave, the cat screams at us in derision.

“What’s the cat’s name?” I ask, and Mitchell shrugs, closing the front door and locking it.

“Dunno. I just call it Little Shit.”

That makes the corners of my mouth quirk up. Of course he hasn’t named it. I’d expect nothing less.

“Where did you get it?”

“It just came in my house the other day,” he grunts and then takes a step away from me, making sure we aren’t even close to touching. Fine by me. “Let’s go this way. There’s a park with a lake,” Mitchell says, and I follow him as he heads off to the right. Once more we walk in silence, the sun setting slowly behind the hills. It’s warm out, a perfect summer evening, and I let the heat seep into my skin.

My eyes wander around the neighborhood, taking in the neatly cared for houses and the eclectic lawn art, before settlingback on Mitchell. He’s not my type at all, too big, too muscular, too brash. I like thin and petite, a little bratty and sassy, but ultimately a simp for me.

And yet, for some reason, despite the dislike I hold for this man, I can’t quite tear my eyes away. It’s making my insides squirm.

I clear my throat and try and distract myself from pondering that feeling a little too much.

“So I saw some guys in a picture on the fridge. Who are they?”

Those dark eyes peer over at me. “My brothers, well, two of them. The third…” His voice trails off, and he runs a hand down his face.

Suddenly, I wonder if that other brother died, if something traumatic happened and Mitchell doesn’t want to talk about it. Perhaps Mitchell and I aren’t so different after all.

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