Page 33 of Teasing a King

"Or I can cook," I say quickly.

I have no idea what I would cook. I probably need to go grocery shopping. I'd planned to do that tomorrow. Mya doesn't answer. I wait, hoping for something, but there's only silence. Then I hear it again. Louder than before. A long, wet sniffle. She's definitely crying. The surge of protectiveness and helplessness surprises me as it hits me. Mya is crying. And she clearly doesn't want me to know about it. Followed on the heels of that thought is surprise. Mya Holmes is crying. She's not a crier. She’s strong and fierce and doesn’t let anything stand in her way. Whatever happened to cause her tears must be major.

"Mya, what's wrong?" I hear the urgency in my voice as I speak.

"Nothing."

She's clearly lying. "It's not nothing. You're crying. Tell me why."

"Just go away," she says, her voice cracking on the words. "It's nothing you can fix."

For just a second, I consider leaving her alone, giving her the privacy I'd promised her when she’d moved in. But I can hear the hurt in her voice. My own heart aches for her. I can't leave her alone right now.

Reaching for the doorknob, I say, "Mya, I'm coming in."

"No! Don't!" she says, her voice much louder now.

But I've made up my mind. "I have to see for myself that you're okay," I say, turning the knob slowly. "Then I promise I'll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

I give her a moment to object, but when she doesn't say anything more, I open the door. The room is brightly lit, so I can easily see the clothes strewn about. They litter the bed and floor. I hadn’t thought of Mya as a slob, but I’m beginning to reconsider my opinion, if this is any indication. I almost make a joke to that effect, but then I see her.

She’s standing with her back to me in front of the full-length mirror in the corner, staring at her reflection. Her dark hair falls down her back in soft waves. She's wearing a flowy cream-colored shirt that leaves her arms bare and a pair of jeans that hug the curves of her ass and hips. My eyes follow the line of her body, taking in every inch of her. She looks amazing. As I step closer, I notice the slumped line of her shoulders. Her gaze is downcast, toward the floor.

I say her name softly, hoping she'll turn and look at me. After a few seconds, she raises her gaze to meet mine in the mirror. Her brown eyes are full of tears and her lashes are spiked with them. The sight sends a sharp stab of pain through me. She drops her hands from where they'd rested at her waist.

"Nothing fits me anymore," she says in a small, tear-filled voice.

It takes me a moment to realize that her hands had been covering the place where her pants remain unzipped. I can see a scrap of black lace in the mirror where the vee of her pants remains open. The slight rounding of her belly is preventing the pants from fully zipping. I quickly pull my gaze back to her face, ignoring the way that tiny glimpse of her panties sends a dozen delicious dirty thoughts through my mind. Now is not the time for my dick to take control. This is about Mya, and she's clearly upset.

Mya makes no move to cover herself. She just sighs in defeat and slumps her shoulders further.

"Nothing fits me," she says again. "I'm too fat for my fat pants."

Fat pants? Is that a thing? I want to ask, but I can tell that she's close to tears again. Is this why she hasn't come out of her room all day?

"I'm gross," Mya says. Her voice wobbles and cracks on the words, stabbing my heart again. "I can't fit into anything except leggings and pajamas."

Gross?Is that what she thinks? I cross the room in two quick strides and stand between her and the mirror.

"Mya, look at me," I say. She reluctantly brings her gaze up to meet mine. "You are not fat,” I say, emphatically. “And you are anything but gross. How can you say that?"

She rolls her eyes, and I can see her bottom lip wobble as if she's close to tears. "I feel gross," she says pitifully.

"Mya, you're beautiful," I say. "No matter what you're wearing."

She scoffs, but doesn't say anything, keeping her gaze on the floor. I rub my hands lightly up and down her arms, trying to comfort her. I think quickly. How can I diffuse the situation? How can I bring a smile back to Mya’s face? I have an idea.

"Wait here," I say, directing her over to a chair. "I'll be right back."

She sniffs loudly and nods, her gaze back on the floor. I hurry to my room at the end of the hall and rifle through my dresser until I find what I'm looking for. I quickly strip out of my dress shirt and slacks and pull on a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. I carry the rest back down the hall to Mya's room. She's still sitting in the chair where I left her, still looking forlorn.

"Here," I say, thrusting the items toward her.

Startled, she looks from the clothes in my hand back to me. Her eyes widen when she sees what I'm wearing. I see her lips twitch and she looks up at me in confusion.

"Why did you change clothes?" she asks, voice husky from crying.

I shrug. "So we can match. If you're wearing pajamas to dinner, so am I."

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