Roman Holiday - By Ashleyn Poston Page 0,9

that song, am I?" I mutter to my phone, and shove it into my back pocket. The only register open has four people in line already. I resign myself to the end, because it's not like I have anything better to do tonight than to wait in line to buy Roman Holiday underwear.

The guy in front of me has hair so bright it matches the soda cradled in his tattooed arm. The tattoo is pretty amazing, though, a phoenix and a tiger fighting tooth and claw, a spiral of oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and purples up his well-defined bicep. There is a Los Angeles tattoo laced across the top of his right arm, half-covered by the black V-neck that fits snuggly across his shoulders. He's not broad by any means, but tall and lanky like the skater boys back home. His black jeans are frayed over scuffed red Vans that match his suspenders. Maggie would take one look at him, flip back her dreads, and ask if he was doing anything later tonight. Sometimes, I wish I had her gumption.

But all I have is a secret relationship with the star player of the lacrosse team. Why am I so ungrateful?

An upbeat song rattles across the speakers mounted in the ceiling. I recognize it instantly. "Rattle You Like Thunder"...another one of Roman Holiday's hits. I groan aloud and mutter to myself, "What did you do to deserve this karma, Junebug?"

"I was wondering the same thing," the guy with the tattoos replies. Is that bitterness in his voice? A kin soul. "Every radio station. It's a plague."

"Instead of zombies, everyone's a Holidayer," I agree. "Instead of groaning and eating brains, they're spreading terrible music. I'd rather have the groaning. And killing them wouldn't be frowned upon."

He turns around, pushing a sweep of orange hair away from his face, and looks me square in the eyes. They are the most beautiful shade of green I have ever seen, like melted emeralds. They remind me of someone, but I can't quite put my finger on it. His emerald gaze drifts down to the pack of underwear in my hand. His grin reminds me of the cat from Alice in Wonderland—cheshire. "Big talk coming from a fan."

I. Am. Mortified.

"Are you kidding?" I gape, staring down at the underwear. "It was these or granny panties!"

"I'm sure." He sounds amused as he quirks a brown eyebrow. He obviously forgot to dye them with his hair. "No hard feelings, really."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever." I elbow past him to the cashier, quickly relinquishing my hold on the underwear. I hand her a five and dump the change in my bag.

"Hey, I didn't mean to offend," he snickers, because obviously he did. "I'm sure Roman Montgomery would be grateful to represent your...womanhood."

"That sounds like sexual harassment," I bite back.

"You're just embarrassed."

I set my jaw. "I'm leaving. Nice...meeting you. Whatever. Asshole." I turn to leave out the automatic doors when I collide into what feels like a brick wall. I stumble. "Shit, excuse me—"

The brick wall scowls and looks at his camera to make sure it isn't broken. He's tall, with tan skin and dark hair pinned back into a gray fedora. There is a white feather—eagle?—twined into his braid. He shoots a look into the store, and I follow his gaze, but the tattooed jerkface isn't there anymore.

Did I imagine him?

"Look where you're going, yeah?" he grumbles, annoyed.

"I'm sorry."

"Won't help me much, doll." He almost knocks me down as he shoves past me into the grocery store.

This is the worst week ever. And it only gets worse when I get back into the condo, and there's Chuck playing tonsil hockey with Mom on the living room couch. Where I will have to sleep.

Now I'm going to have nightmares.

Monday

Chapter Five

It's a dream.

Although, that doesn't seem to deter him. His hand slides up my arm, slowly, the calluses on his fingertips feeling like sandpaper against my skin, and sends gooseflesh rippling up my body. We're swaying on a dance floor. People shift around us, shadows, moving to a song that sounds so familiar. I can't remember the name of it, but he's humming along. I feel his throat vibrates with the notes as I press my face into the nook between his shoulder and neck. He smells like cinnamon and the sticky sweetness of wine.

I want to ask who he is—but then I stop myself. I already know.

He pulls me closer into him. His embrace is like iron, complete, solid. It's