boots me out the door with a twenty-dollar bill.
Seriously, karma hates me.
I've never bought condoms a day in my life. I've never even held one before—the night with Caspian notwithstanding. In the store, everyone keeps a wide girth from me, probably scared that my bad mood is catching.
I snag the brand Darla wants and situate it in the nook of my arm so it doesn't look too conspicuous. Who am I kidding? I look like I'm buying condoms. The box looks like condoms. It has latex written on the top for God's sake. The only thing I can do is make a quick getaway, but that plan is soon foiled when I get to the checkout and every single cashier is, in classic fashion, is a man. Wonderful.
Old guy with the off-centered bald spot it is.
I massage the bridge of my nose. The things I do for a twenty-dollar bill. Is this even worth a twenty-dollar bill? I mean, seriously. Can't Darla get her own condoms when she's feeling frisky? At the very thought of Darla and some schmuck doing the old hoedown, I want to shove the condoms into the magazine rack by the register and head for the door.
Behind me, a hand reaches over to pick up a Stars from the rack. "'Packed on the Pounds'? That's shitty Photoshop skills."
Goosebumps prickle up my arms. I know that voice. Maybe if I stay still, he won't recognize me. Junebug, you have pink hair. Like fuck he won't.
"Oh man, not as photoshopped as that meat-alicious burger. What is that, a Godzilla-Mac?" Another voice laughs. Great, he has a friend this time, who squats down beside me and snags a Cosmo. He has a ridiculous aquamarine mohawk and so many earrings it looks like he has ear armor—wait. Aquamarine...mohawk? "Ooh! This one's better. How to do a pedi at home. Man, pedis are the shit. I had one done in Santa Monica that one time and my feet felt like holy baptized shit for the rest of the week."
I tilt my head slightly to sneak a peek out of my curtain of hair. Aquamarine mohawk, earring affinity, kilt, combat boots—I might be a bad Roman Holiday fan, but I know Boaz Alexander when I see him. Beside him is my nightmare from last night—tattoos, soda-pop orange hair, emerald eyes.
And, if that's Boaz Alexander then...
Oh, shit.
"Did they scrub the fungus off too?" snickers the tattooed jerkface.
"Bro-ha, you suck." Boaz puts the magazine back. "Hey, I got a killer thought—let's booze ourselves up, drown our wimpy women sorrows, and go midnight-mini-ing? YOLO!"
"Say YOLO one more time and I'm leaving your ass here."
"Bro-ha, you gotta think buoyantly. Be lighter. You're way too doom-n-gloom."
"Maybe I like doom and gloom. Together. In a civil union."
"Right bro, and tonight we can snuggle up in bed with hot chocolate and swap manly stories!" Mohawk rolls his eyes and puts Cosmo back. "I'm going to go get a box of Twinkies. Don't scat on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
"Like last time, bra'?"
"Miss?" the old cashier calls. I whirl my head around, not having noticed that I'm the next in line. Orange-haired Jerkface looks at me then, emerald eyes meeting mine, and as the recognition dawns on his face, it dawns on mine too.
Shit.
His eyes drift down to the jumbo pack of condoms under my arm. A blush begins to creep up the back of my neck, and flood across my face. That sinful, aching grin from last night curls across his lips again. It's cheshire. It's trouble.
“I take mine ribbed, actually," Roman Montgomery says.
Chapter Six
Despite my best friend being a Roman Holiday aficionado, I only know three things about Roman Montgomery. One, he has dark brown hair he likes to style up in a wave. Two, he doesn't have visible tattoos—although there were rumors he had a song quote on his stomach. And three, Roman Montgomery would never, ever be seen in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.
Apparently, I don't know anything about Roman Montgomery after all.
The longer he holds my gaze, the more I can't write him off as a good look-alike—it's the angle of his nose, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way one eyebrow is always a little higher than the other. He's gained a little weight since his last interview in GQ, or maybe it's more muscle, I don't know, but it's definitely him.
Suddenly, I jerk my eyes away from his gaze. "Ribbed," I echo.
"Yeah, ribbed. And economy-size. Getting some action with my face on your crotch, aren't