“Sorry. I was fine, though.”
“I didn’t know that at first. Watching you fall…” he stops for a few breaths. “I can’t have anything happen to you.”
Of course he couldn’t, it’d be a disaster for the film. “I know, it’d be too hard to recast at this point and–”
“No,” he bites out. “I can’t have anything happen to you because I care about you. I need you to be okay.” His words stop me in my tracks and effectively turn my brain into mush.
“You do?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Somewhere along the line, this turned real for me,” he admits.
My brain can’t compute. “But… that’s because I’m the only option right now, we can’t be seen with other people, we–”
“You’re the only option because you’re the only one I want.” His words seep into me, and my heart thunders, because I’m realizing that I’m falling for him.
“Roman?”
“Clover?”
I scoot up a little higher, placing my hand on his cheek. “I don’t want this to be fake anymore.”
“Thank fuck,” he says before bending down and pressing his lips to mine.
Chapter Fifty-Three
CLOVER
I’m not sure what’s stronger this morning. The headache, or the feeling of shock over waking up in Roman Everett’s bed.
I suppose I deserve a bit of a headache for the one I inflicted on theDarkness Risingteam yesterday. When I slowly open my eyes, it takes me a minute to adjust to the warm sunlight streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows lining the room. I look over to the bedside table, where a glass of water and some ibuprofen are waiting for me.
I gulp them down like they’re life-sustaining, because frankly they are.
Scanning the room, I can see Roman in a large armchair near the bed. He’s leaning back as best he can, eyes closed after finally succumbing to exhaustion. I make my way over to him and stand before him for a minute, quietly observing.
He looks so peaceful, and I’m relieved that he’s finally resting after how stressful the last day has been. Guilt sits heavy in my chest.
I can’t believe I fucked the stunt up. I don’t even want to look at my phone, I know Anita will have some choice wordsabout that. I’m sure everyone will. The last thing the film studio wants is a delay, and I just handed them one on a crash mat. Swiping a tear before it has a chance to fall onto my face, I focus my attention back on Roman.
Stupid, beautiful Roman. With his perfectly mussed hair, dark lashes that make me envious, and a chin with a tiny dimple that’s so perfect I want to stare at it.
With the softest touch I can manage, I trace my fingertip down his tattooed forearm, following the lines in the ink and dancing across the chorded muscle and on to the back of his hand. While gently running my fingertip there, I recall something I hadn’t had time to process until now.
This hand. This hand reached out for me mid-stunt when Roman adjusted to try to catch me. My throat tightens. I’m sure Tanya will rake him over the coals for trying to adjust, saying he could’ve hurt himself too. And that’s what makes it hard for me to swallow right now. The knowledge that Roman put himself in danger to try to help me. He tried so hard to grab me. When it was clear I was going to fall, he tried to stop it, even if that meant putting himself at risk.
“Idiot,” I mouth with a smile as I pull my hand back to stop another tear from getting out. Feeling the urge to sniffle, I head toward the ensuite.
When I come back out, the large piano catches my attention, and I make my way over to it. I let my hand trail along the cool ivory keys without pressing down, feeling the smoothness of their surface, and wondering how often Roman plays. I knew he had some instruments, but for some reason I hadn’t pegged him as a piano player.
I remember years ago my parents had signed me up for piano lessons, which lasted all of about a few months before I switched over into theater classes. I wish I could play– there’s something so beautiful about the piano.
Taking a seat at the bench, I move my hands over the keys in position for TwinkleTwinkle Little Star. Careful not to press down and make noise to wake Roman, I lose myself in the imagined sound, trying carefully to map out the various notes of the song.
Large hands cover mine atop the keys, and I gasp. I try to move my hands off the piano but Roman gently holds them in place.
“Close,” he murmurs before moving my left hand over by one key and pressing down. The notes ring out with a clarity I’ve never heard before. No doubt a result of how expensive this piano must be. I slightly lift my hands, and we move into the next chord, Roman pressing into my fingers so that I press the keys. Playing together.
“I knew you played an instrument,” I mumble as the song plays.
