Her lips turn up at whatever she’s watching, and the deep glow from the Edison bulbs above her seems to sharpen her. Put her in this golden spotlight that’s hard to look away from.
Or is it him?
He strides forward until he’s next to her because she’s in his goddamn kitchen and isn’t paying him any attention. He leans against the counter opposite from her.
Look at me. Pay attention.
“How was she?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble.
She finally turns to face him, her lips parting as her eyes wash over him. She shakes her head, looking back down at her phone.
“Yeah. I kind of love her. Sorry again for not putting her in the crib—she kept crying, and I sort of panicked.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. Do you want a drink?” he asks, moving to grab glasses from the cabinet.
“No, thanks,” she says, still very much engrossed in whatever is on her phone. He pours himself one, bringing it to his mouth.
“How was work?” She asks.
He almost chokes on the dark liquid as he swallows, before setting the glass down.
Her back is to him, and he braces his hands on the counter to steady himself because it’s all so domestic.
Her in his house. In his kitchen. Asking about his day.
She turns to look over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping a hand down his shirt. “Sorry,” he adds, scratching behind his ear. “I guess I’m just not used to anyone asking about my day.”
And this seems to catch her attention, because her lips part ever so slightly, and she turns fully, mirroring his stance against the island.
“Oh. Well then, let me be the first to break the cycle,” she says, a twitch on her lips. “How was your day?”
Roman swallows. “It was good … great. Nothing too crazy happened,” he says, clearing his throat, hating how nervous he sounds, and he wonders if she knows how much power she has over him.
He closes the distance, sliding up to her, so that his left arm is brushing ever so slightly against her right.
“What are you watching?” he asks as he tilts his head in the direction of her phone.
“It’s a pimple-popping video,” she murmurs, turning back around to face it.
“A what?” he says, his mouth twisting as he peers at her phone.
She turns to face him, seemingly in a daze because she repeats it, more hesitantly. “A … pimple-popping video?”
“What the hell is that?”
She clears her throat, seemingly embarrassed. “It’s where a dermatologist pops people’s pimples. They’re actually really satisfying to watch,” she says, almost shyly, turning back, and pressing the play button.
Stepping forward, he places a hand next to her arm on the countertop, partially bracing himself behind her. His chest flutters as his eyes bounce between the screen and the expanse of her cheek. The screen and the curve of her lip. The hair in her eyebrows, the arch of her neck.
For the next eight minutes, they stand side by side in his kitchen watching the video. She’s quick to answer any questions he has, and he watches her intently. Anytime she shifts, whatever perfume she has on overwhelms him. It’s sweet.
Distracting.
“See? It’s interesting, right?” She turns to look up at him, smiling brightly.
He gives her a closed-mouth smile, stepping back to the opposite side.
