“Wait an hour and I’ll show you the rest.” I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, and I can’t tell if I want him to be or not. I give him a glare that hopefully masks that fact. “It’s made up of a bunch of different things. Inspired by places I’ve been, people I’ve met, or songs that’ve made me feel something,” he says.
I think back to the car and the music he played on the drive. “What kind of music makes you feel something?”
“You might’ve missed your true calling in journalism.” Roman sips the wine.
“That’ll be Plan B.”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it’s the harmonies, the way they ebb and flow and build somethingtogether. I like music that tells a story.” His fingers lightly drag along the edge of the table, and finally I put it together.
A thought strikes me. “Roman, do you play an instrument?”
His lips twist into a devastatingly handsome smile. “If I did, which one do you think it’d be?”
“Don’t all slightly douchey men play the guitar?”
He barks out a laugh. “I’m flattered that you think I’m only slightly douchey.”
“Okay, so definitely the guitar.”
“I play a few,” is all he says before handing me the bread basket in the middle of the table. “You haven’t eaten any, and we’re drinking too much not to have something else in our systems.”
I look down at the heavenly-looking bread rolls inside, and panic surges through my veins. Christ, why is my fight or flight being activated by the prospect of eating a piece of bread? I’m already drinking more calories than I should be. The only reason I felt it was okay to proceed with the drinking was because I’d limited my intake yesterday and earlier today and made myself compromise that in order to drink I wouldn’t eat much. Hesitating to grab the roll, Roman shakes the basket.
“Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not, I just don’t like–”
“Don’t you dare lie to me and say you don’t like bread. Who the fuck dislikes bread aside from celiacs?”
“I don’t need the bread.” What Roman doesn’t know is that there’s so much meaning laced into that sentence.
“It’s okay to just want something too.”
“No, I don’t think it is,” I mutter into my wineglass.
“What’s going on with you and your eating?” he asks.
My heart stops, and I want to be swallowed up by the ground. No one has ever called me out on it so plainly. “It’s none of your business.”
“Fine,” he lifts his hands in supplication, “You can make your own choices. But for the sake of not being hungover pieces of shit tomorrow, consider having a bite or two.”
It’s stupid, but the fact that he doesn’t force me means more than I’ll ever admit. And begrudgingly, I have to admit that he makes a good point about not being hungover.
I dig into one roll before savoring a sip of the best wine I’ll ever drink with the co-star that I’m beginning to hate a little bit less.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
CLOVER
The smell of Roman’s cologne wraps around me in the tight confines of the elevator on our way up to the room. Why does it have to smell so damn good?
When the doors open, I rush ahead, trying to put a little space between us. I don’t know why I’m bothering when I’m going to be sleeping next to him all night long.
I hope the pillow wall offers the strength to keep me from crawling over and trying to climb Roman like a tree. Stupid Roman for suggesting we ever have sex. That thought has been plaguing me ever since he mentioned it, and now that we’re about to be alone together in the same room, it’s like my body is primed to shoot her shot.Down girl,I mentally whisper to myself.
I can do this.
I can be in the same room as Roman.
