You weren’t saying that while we were fantasising about bouncing on him like a pogo stick while grinding the pillow last night.
When he disappears into his bedroom, glugging his water while looking like the Diet Coke guy, I inwardly turn into a nuclear explosion.
I need to get out of here.
A knocking startles me a few minutes later, and I jump to my feet. Roman pulls on a T-shirt, giving me another sordid peek at his glorious stomach before opening the door.
Tim, the building manager, stands there, a face like I’d kicked him in the shins.
‘Come on then, let’s get your door open,’ he grumbles.
‘Thanks,’ I say to Roman as I pass him. ‘I’m getting some takeout later, let me grab you something to say thank you?’
‘I like Thai,’ he answers, much to my surprise. And delight. Because I haven’t forgotten that I still need that selfie for my sister…
EIGHT
MAGGIE
Chewing my lower lip,I watch Roman via the hidden cameras. The tensing of his forearm muscles is distracting as he tips the rice container onto a plate, a cloud of steam momentarily fogging my view.
It’s rather idiotic to eat food gifted to you by a weird neighbour, really. He clearly lacked any wider sense of danger.
Silly little Maggie, just the nerd next door.
Well. He’ll soon see.
He piles a staggering amount of food onto his fork and groans as he practically inhales it. I’d spared no expense. If you’re going to drug a guy, the least you can do is get him the good takeout.
The sleeping pills crushed into the food are strong, and from experience watching Eliza drug people for information, would render him in an almost drunkenstate, still awake but in a dreamlike zone where he’d either forget me being there or consider it a dream.
I hope they work. The last thing I need is for him to get suspicious before it’s go time on the wedding journey up to Scotland.
The rice dish disappears in an astonishingly short amount of time, and I pick at the edge of my nails, hoping to god I’ve got the dosage right. Too little and he’ll wonder why he’s feeling off. Too much and I could do him some actual damage.
When he gets a glass of water, I flick to another view to keep a close eye on him.
Not that I can drag my eyes away. I hate to admit it, but the more time I spend focusing on the dishy man next door, the more I imagine the what ifs that can’t possibly be.
What if he looks at me the way he looked at the other women?
What if he knew I fantasise about being one of those women?
What if he scoops me up and pins me to the wall and?—
Nope. Stop it.
He’ll never see me like that. Not after I kidnap his muscly ass and drag him to the other end of the British Isles.
I’m aiming to get through the wedding undiscovered and, with both of us surviving—me emotionally, him in the more literal sense—to make it back to London in one piece.
Ten minutes on, Roman begins to falter. His hip catches the countertop as he passes it. Water sloshes onto his top as he tries to take a drink. His arms tangle in the material when he tries to remove the wet clothing, giving me a mouth-watering view of his rippling abs.
I follow him through the home, flicking from camera to camera to watch his slow descent into oblivion. After thirty minutes of stumbling and bumping and muttering, he comes to a stop, flopping on the sofa, shirtless.
The tiniest morsel of guilt attacks me, just a bubble really, and I remind myself that he’s not as innocent and sweet as he pretends to be. If he weren’t such a hypocrite, I wouldn’t be able to blackmail him, and none of us would be in this mess.
And I really, really don’t want to marry Eddie-fucking-Stewart. Needs must. Hopefully, he’ll understand.
