It had been hot before I’d fallen for him. Imagining myself under him as their porncast next door played out. But now? Well, fuck. If there’s something that might drive me to racking up cold bodies, that might be it.
His shower comes on just after seven. Every morning. The pipes groan, then there’s the rush of water. I close my eyes and imagine him under the flow. His dark hair dripping. Those eyes watching me. Water clinging to him like a thousand minuscule koala bears. The way the water splashes changes as he moves.
I shouldn’t be doing it, but I’m still obsessed with him.
I shouldn’t be lying here, duvet pulled up to my chin and clutching the key I have to his apartment. He never asked for it back. So I’ve kept it under my pillow. If I knew any witchcraft, maybe I’d use it for some kind of love spell that makes him recant all his stupid beliefs to come worship the cult of my pussy.
It’s idiotic, I know.
I spend hours replaying the feel of his hands. The warmth of his body on top of mine. The way he’d looked at me that last night. I realise now that it was just his adrenaline spiking and his head seeking out comfort. But at the time, he’d burned with desire. Those eyes filled with dark and delicious intent.
No one else has ever looked at me like that.
My fingers curl into the sheet as the memory flashes behind my eyelids. The filthy way he’d groaned. The intense stretch as he filled me. The way he kissed me like he was starved.
And then the reality crashes back in, with a cold crash.
It wasn’t a romance.
Roman was just trying to survive.
He’d done what he had to do to get through it. My shattered heart is collateral damage of my own making.
I’ve considered knocking on his door more times than I can count. Or giving in to the desire to be near him at the expense of my morals.
It’s not like they’ve served me well anyway.
I roll onto my side and pull the duvet over my head like a child.
God, I’m an idiot.
So I lay there and listen.
And I bedrot.
My phone buzzes at some point, right as I’m considering whether I can really live off another dinner of Wotsits and slightly hard cheddar.
Hope flurries, but it’s not Roman coming to beg for my hand, or at least my mouth. No, it’s Eliza.
Eddie’s family don’t suspect us,the message reads.He was meant to take a job in Wales the day after the wedding. That’s where they’re looking for him. They think he went rogue.
I let out a long, shaky breath. That brings a small amount of relief, at least. Not enough to make me cook a real meal, but enough to reach over and grab a packet of Jaffa Cakes.
Another message comes through.
You can’t hide out forever. Dad still wants you home.
The words blur as tears spill. They’ve been threatening to come since I shut my door in Roman’s face.
On the other side of the wall, the shower turns off.
Life continues.
And I lie here, missing someone I have no right to miss while mourning a romance that was only true in my head.
THIRTY-SIX
ROMAN
