entice him to kiss her. Her hands are everywhere as she tries to hold something solid before he disappears. But he slips from her fingers as he recoils.
She pauses, the hurt evident on her face. “Roman?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
Her chest rises and falls. “Can’t do what?”
“You know what. My feelings haven’t changed since the last time this happened.”
She turns her cheek, appearing as if he slapped her with the truth.
His knuckles are white as he grips the desk, waiting for her to speak. She does a moment later.
Pulling her shoulders back, she straightens out her clothes. “Okay, then. So…” She’s clearly upset but trying to act brave.
“So…” he repeats, running a hand through his hair. “I better get going.”
She sighs, her façade sullied by his obvious need to get away from her.
She yanks open the door, leaving dust in her wake. Roman sighs, lifting his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Once he switches off the light and closes the door, I exhale, my lungs thankful for the reprieve. I wait a few minutes before bravely cracking open the door and joining the land of the non-Peeping Toms. The desk lamp is the only light source, but it’s bright enough to highlight my exit.
Just as I creep toward the door, I remember what happened seconds before Tamara entered and played the aggressor. I should just leave and forget what I saw, but I can’t.
Tiptoeing to his desk, I open the drawer and reach for the lone medicine bottle, which is half full. Turning it in my fingers, I expect to see anything else than what I actually do. The pills rattle against the sides as my hand trembles in confusion.
The name on the label indicates these belong to Roman. But the question is…why is he on an antidepressant? And why did he need it moments before Tamara charged through his door?
There’s no denying I’m attracted to Roman, but after last night, that attraction has led to something…else.
That something else has me desperate to uncover what secrets lay hidden in his past. There is something more, deeper, and I find myself being attracted to every side he presents, which is dangerous. It’s also highly inappropriate for so many reasons.
I’m attempting to play football but failing miserably. “I’ll sit this one out.”
“Aw, Lola. We will go easy on you,” says Hayden, a blued-eyed little devil.
I laugh in response because they will do no such thing.
Standing on the sidelines is a far better option. That is until I hear a voice that sends goose bumps from head to toe. “Not a football fan?”
Shielding the sun from my eyes, I turn and see Roman standing to my left. “I’m not a fan of getting my ass whipped by eight-year-olds,” I reply with a nervous smile.
He chuckles lightly. “So, how’s this weather?”
“Really?” I can’t hide my sarcasm.
He smirks at my quip. “I’m just making conversation.”
“No offense, but the last time you ‘made conversation’”—I used air quotes—“you showed me what a downright asshole you can be.” I slap my hand over my mouth, mortified my mouth filter malfunctioned at the most inappropriate time ever.
He doesn’t hide his surprise, but instead of reminding me of my manners, he bursts into a husky fit of laughter. He does that a lot when I’m around. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.
“Roman, I am so sorry. That was highly—”
“Entertaining,” he interrupts, still laughing.
I scrunch up my brow. “I’m not sure if you heard me correctly, but I just insulted you. To your face,” I add, just in case he’s had a lapse in hearing.
His shoulders lift in a carefree shrug. “I’ve been called worse.”
We’re silent for a few minutes, both staring ahead but not really watching the game.
Although the lead-in was awfully rude, it was a lead-in nonetheless. “Why haven’t you mentioned what happened at the diner?”
He raises his shoulders in a carefree manner. “I didn’t think you wanted to discuss it.”
He’s right, I didn’t, but I do now. “That’s never stopped you in the past.”
“Touché.” A smirk tugs at his lips.
His coolness is infuriating. “Well, maybe I want to talk about it now.” Again, there is silence, indicating I have the floor. “I’ve been doing some research, and you’re right, the new trial drugs seem to have a better success rate than the previous ones I was on.” Getting those words out feels like gravel is caught in my throat.
He still doesn’t face me but instead watches the game. I know he’s