Page 78 of Unbound

It’s much harder to sneak him into her dorm, but the sight of my dog curled up on her bed with her as I bring in the food I’ve heated up in her poor excuse for a kitchen is worth it.

Seven always sits between us, or has some part of his body on her leg or arm—always putting his weight on her like he does for me when I’m anxious. But Paloma is smiling and happy, so I assume it’s because he likes her and not because there’s something there I’m not seeing.

It doesn’t stop another thread of worry and anxiety over her from taking root.

“This is so good.” She practically moans the words through bites of the chili I made the day before. I fed Rhys and Freddy but lied and said I hadn’t made enough for them to gorge themselves as usual. I was saving the rest for her.

“I’m glad you like it,” I say. She treats every dinner I feed her as if it’s a five-course meal at a Michelin star restaurant. Seeing her eat and enjoy my cooking fills me with warmth—and serves to chase away the concern that plagues me every time I open her barren fridge.

“I’m gonna leave the rest of the container, too.” I put my bowl onto the desk she uses as a bedside table. “It should be good ’til Tuesday, so if you don’t mind the same meal for a few days—”

“I don’t mind. If I don’t end up scarfing it all down by tomorrow.”

My stomach churns. “I can bring more—”

“I’m kidding,” she says, voice softer as she slowly places a firm hand on my thigh. “This would feed three of me for days.”

There’s a stretch of silence as Paloma finishes her bowl and sets it atop mine, before she looks up at me from beneath her lashes.

“You’re always feeding me.”

“I like feeding you.” It’s a better answer than I obsess over you being hungry. I think you were, at some point. I worry you still are. Sometimes I can’t sleep from worrying about it.

Instead, I smile at her, reaching my hand out to touch her hair gently, looping it around my finger and back behind her ear. It’s soft and silky, and my obsession with the strands only grows.

“Is this your natural hair color?”

Her cheeks darken, eyes darting away. I feel a little heat rush up my spine.

“Is that a bad question to ask? I’m sorry—”

“No, no. It’s fine,” she says, even if I’m almost certain it’s not fine. “It’s . . . close. I’m blond, this is just kinda darker.”

I nod. She seems surprised that there aren’t any follow-up questions.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

The question itself is surprising, because Paloma is intensely beautiful. At first, when I started to notice, it overwhelmed me.

I’d never really been attracted to anyone before. I could recognize objectively beautiful people based on typical standards and locker room talk.

I also understand that girls do find me somewhat attractive, because of my height or the fact that I’m on the hockey team. But I don’t have the same build as the other guys on the team and never have. I’ve always been broader and softer than them. It didn’t bother me.

But seeing the way that others often watch her, knowing how attractive and mesmerizing Paloma is to most everyone . . . it makes something like anxiety and fear churn in my gut, a sickening mixture. I can’t distinguish the jealousy from the protectiveness.

I know if she spent any real time with the team instead of doing their laundry in separate rooms and hauling supplies to storage areas, this would be different. Because Paloma is exactly the girl that, physically, most of the guys would be panting over.

I want to keep her as just mine. At least a little bit longer.

“I . . . I love it,” I say, feeling bolder. “I love your hair, Paloma.”

Can I wash it? Can I brush it? Can I braid it and care for it and never let anyone else touch it?

I don’t say any of the obsessive thoughts about her running through my head. I haven’t even been able to admit them to my therapist.

Paloma smiles and pushes up on my thighs to kiss my mouth gently.

She lets me play with her hair all night as she slowly falls asleep on my chest.