Mila Wilson is quiet, anxious and a little bit of a mess. Panic attacks have ruled her life for as long as she can remember - but starting college is her chance to take control. Love? Not something she believes she's built for.
Then she meets Jace E...
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I'm still beaming the entire car ride home, sleeves rolled up to admire the new work of art on my arm.
"It's still going to be there tomorrow, you know?" Jace laughs, glancing over at me.
"I know, I know," I say, finally rolling my sleeves back down, though I already miss looking at it.
Jace looks as happy as I feel—almost proud. Proud of his girl. Not that I am his girl. We're nowhere near that conversation, and knowing Jace, he doesn't seem like the relationship type anyway. I decide to give myself a break from overthinking.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, resting his hand gently on my upper thigh.
"Nothing," I lie, smiling. "I'm just happy."
"Good," he replies, his hand staying exactly where it is—as if it's always belonged there. Everything with him just feels... right.
Ten minutes later, we pull into the grocery store parking lot. No surprise we're stopping here, judging by the barren wasteland that was Jace's fridge yesterday.
"So, what are you making?" I ask as he grabs a shopping basket.
"I make a mean lasagna. Vegetarian, of course," he grins. "That okay with you?"
"Of course," I nod, and we walk through the aisles, grabbing everything he needs.
"Want anything else? A drink? Snack?" he asks, and the sincerity in his voice warms me from the inside out.
I can't imagine him doing this with just anyone. I bet he never brought the other girls to grocery shop.
"I'm good," I say, smiling.
He pays before I even get the chance to protest. In the car, his hand finds its place on my thigh again, like it's part of our routine now. Another ten minutes and we're back at his place, unpacking groceries. I grab the tomato sauce and stand by his side, waiting for instructions.
Jace eyes me and shakes his head. "Fuck no. You're banned from the kitchen. Sit down."
I laugh, but follow orders anyway. "Are you sure?" I ask, out of habit.
"Yes, I'm sure," he says, his back to me now. "You think I can't cook?"
"I'll let you know soon enough," I tease.
I watch him as he works. He's got a towel slung over his shoulder like a pro, muscles flexing with every motion. I love his wild side, no doubt—but this domestic version of him? It suits him just as well. Once the lasagna's in the oven, he sits down across from me.
"Thank you again. For today," I say quietly.
"I told you, you don't have to thank me," he replies, taking a sip of water.
"No, really. You don't know how much it meant."
He just smiles. A long pause follows, until he speaks again. "There's one thing I can't stop thinking about," Jace says.
