back, glaring up at him, only to come up short. The look in his eyes tears down my walls and strips me of any barriers. His gaze is filled with heat—not the angry kind but one filled with arousal. One that promises very, very bad things.
Moisture floods my panties.
I startle at the knocking on my bedroom door. The moment suspended between us suddenly vanishes. Whirling around, I find my dad standing there in the doorway to my bedroom, wearing a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Just wanted to tell you we’re going to start cleaning up. Any longer out there and your mother will find a way to bust out your childhood photos. Don’t underestimate her.”
“I don’t even have childhood photos here, Dad.”
“I know you don’t, but your mother brought them with her,” he deadpans.
Oh, Christ.
I force a laugh, but it comes out oddly, revealing just how nervous and off-kilter I’m feeling. My dad’s gaze darts back and forth between the two of us, before he nods, coming to some kind of conclusion in his head, then raps his knuckles on the door and leaves.
I linger here with Rome for a beat, both of us staring at each other again. There’s so much I want to say to him, so many questions I want to ask, but I don’t do any of that. Instead, I plaster on a smile and point over my shoulder.
“I’m gonna go out there and help clean up before my mother embarrasses me some more. Feel free to stay and hang out with my dad.”
Rome rubs the back of his neck. “I should probably get going anyway. But…thank you.”
My eyes widen, and he seems to pick up on my reaction, because he rolls his eyes. “Don’t look so shocked.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Thank you?” He scoffs. “I’m sure there’s been something else nice in there.”
I watch him disappear, and as much as I tell myself I shouldn’t, I walk to the window, my gaze following him, as he heads inside his house, hating the way my heart and stomach are reacting. I’ve felt this way a few times in my life, and each one has ended with a broken heart or in disaster.
I can’t afford either.
“Don’t You Know”—Jaymes Young
They say you should never fall for the enemy. Well, I feel like I am doing exactly that. All that animosity and hate I felt toward Roman is slowly dissipating, slipping through my fingers like fine grains of sand. A sharp, burning tightness spreads across my chest, in a flash of horrible intensity. It’s the realization that I dislike my neighbor as much as I like him. That isn’t even the most unsettling part. It’s how extreme each feeling is. I’ve never felt the level of rage that I feel around Roman. I’ve never felt so incredibly out of touch and out of control with my emotions. And with these new feelings I have for Rome comes a sudden surge of anger. I can’t even explain why. Maybe it’s when he brings women home. I imagine he’s fucking them, and I have no business getting angry that my neighbor may or may not be sleeping with other women. That doesn’t change the tightness that ebbs and flows through my chest, though.
I wish it was me he was touching. Me he was loving. I want to feel the strong sinews of his body beneath my fingertips. I want to trace the black ink of his tattoos scripted along his golden skin. I want him. And that is precisely the problem.
I know it was wrong to watch, and honestly, I’ve already given up on the whole reprimanding myself over it, because I obviously have no self-control where he is concerned. And my logic is, what’s the harm? I mean, a part of me is starting to feel like he is doing it on purpose now. He knows where our windows are. How hard would it really be to shut his curtains before getting down and dirty? Not very hard. I’ve done it. All it cost me was a few seconds of my life.
It’s frustrating.
He’s frustrating.
I think a part of me hopes something will flourish between us, but it never does. Rome seems content to keep his distance—or rather, keep me at a distance. After he finishes the job in my house, he seems over my presence, and I’m not sure what hurts more. I can’t shake the stabbing sensation in my chest, the