“What about at work?” Roman says as he inches past my mess. He drapes his suit coat over the back of a chair and then heads to the fridge. “Be honest. You miss me at work, don’t you?”
“Not even a little bit,” I lie.
He grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge and then closes it, leaning back against the counter and looking at me. I flush as his eyes land on the blue cardigan I’m wearing once again, his lips twitching knowingly, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Is the new lady as pretty as I am?” he says instead.
“You’re not pretty.”
“You used the wordperfectwhen you were here before. You called my hair perfect.”
“I just wanted to make you feel better.” The words jump out of my mouth, and I don’t try to stop them—I don’t rescind them, either, even when Roman raises one brow at me.
He makes atsksound. “Didn’t I tell you you were a liar?” he says in a soft, silky voice, his lips still twitching at the corners. He takes a swig of water, but his eyes never leave mine. Then he drags one thumb over his lower lip, a strangely seductive move, and goes on. “You and I both know I’m the most handsome man you’ve ever met, Aurora.”
I swallow and tell my quickening pulse tocut that out. It’s just my nerves. My anxiety over the new housing situation—or maybe I’m coming down with whatever sickness he had.
That’s all.
“I’d have to consider that further before committing to an answer,” I say.
He laughs at this, and I’m grateful; I can handle laughing, teasing Roman. That version of him is fun to banter with, easy to be around.
It’s the other side of him that gets in my head—the side that’s much more confident, more intense, more self-assured aboutwhat he wants. He observes, takes his time, moves patiently, and seems amused by obstacles that try to impede him.
I don’t know how I can possibly know these things about him…and yet I do.
How does that work?
“Well, anyway,” I say, because I’m being ridiculous and I need to stop thinking like this. I turn my eyes to the empty shelves in front of me. “You won’t even recognize your pantry when I’m done with it.”
Roman hums, an amused sound. “I can’t wait to see.” He pauses. “You’ve moved pretty quickly through this place. I must say, I’m impressed. I know, I know,” he says loudly as I scoff. “Iknow. Who am I to have an opinion on how fast you can get through a house?”
When I glance at him, his eyes are dancing with the same laughter that’s in his voice.
“Regardless,” he goes on with a shrug. “I’m still impressed.” He takes a few more drinks of water and then pushes off the counter. “I’m going to go shower. No peeking, little vandal.” And with a ridiculous wink, he strides out of the room.
“I wouldnever,” I call after him, but the only response I get is a distant laugh.
The restof the pantry organization goes smoothly. I ignore the creaking, rushing sound of the shower running, followed by theclunkof it turning off again.
It’s none of my business, but I can’t help noticing that he took a short shower, not nearly as long as I’d expect—if I thought about that sort of thing.
It’s just that he took longer on Wednesday, although admittedly he was barely lucid at the time. But his hair is always shiny, and he’s always neatly dressed, and he always smells delicious. In my mind, someone like that takes long, indulgent showers, filled with multiple kinds of hair product and soap and who knows what else.
Then again, I also figured him for an instant ramen guy, a cold cereal guy, a no-cooking-ever guy who survived on pizza and takeout and beer.
“Stop it,” I snap at myself when I realize how much I’ve been considering things I have no business considering. “Just—stop it.”
He is immature and messy and young.I repeat this several times, and I think it might help some. Then I push the kitchen chair up to the table with too much force and hiss when my finger gets caught.
But the throbbing pain does what my mind alone couldn’t manage; it pulls my thoughts away from Roman—away, even, from my worries about our home being sold.
The respite doesn’t last very long, of course, but I appreciate it while it’s there. Once I shake my hand a few times and then run the finger under cold water, I head out of the kitchen to do a walkthrough of the living and dining rooms.
I have to admit, they look great. My style is more minimalist than Roman’s grandmother’s, but everything here is neatly in its place. The bookshelf is organized, everything is polished, and the air is no longer stale or musty. There’s an indescribable sense of satisfaction in running my hand over every surface I pass as I walk, knowing it’s been dusted and sanitized?—
“Oh,” I say in surprise when my fingers knock something to the floor. I glance to the floor to see what’s fallen from where it was propped on the mantle over the fireplace, and my eyes land on a small bundle of papers tied with twine.
The letters—the love letters Roman’s grandparents sent to each other before they were married. The little stack is similar in color to the wall it was leaned against, and I didn’t look closely enough.
