Another grunt. I think the new and not-so-improved Roman is rubbing off on me. “Okay. Next.” I lean against the kitchen counter and ignore the fact that he’s pouring jarred spaghetti sauce right over the uncooked pasta. Who is this monster? “Have you taken any trips together?”
“You probably would have come with me on an away game,” Roman says. “Fran comes with Callum often. And I think Devon’s wife would if they didn’t have a kid. Or two.”
“Or two? You don’t know.”
He shrugs. This Roman doesn’t know.MyRoman would know how many kids Devon had. He’d know their names too. He might even be their favorite Red Tail. Somewhere deep inside of him is the same Roman I’ve always known. I know it.
I sigh, long and dramatic, like we have a major problem, Houston. “And yet, twenty soccer players, including the training staff and coaches, would know that I’ve never been on a trip with you.”
“Oh. Right. Immigration may talk to the team, and we need a plausible reason we never told them about us.”
“Is it plausible that Roman Graves, akaThe Graveyard, doesn’t share?”
“Well—yeah,” he says in all seriousness. I’ve got invisible ants crawling all over my skin, hating every second of this conversation, and Roman is completely serious. “We’ll probably have to go with long distance, online, and private.”
“Roman,” I scoff. “Online? I’ve known you since I was nine. We haven’t had an online relationship.”
He gives his pasta another stir and pours half a jar ofwater into the pot. “Okay. So long distance and private, then.”
“Sure, let’s go with that instead of non-existent, untrue, and a complete lie.”
“Stella,” he says, dropping his wooden spoon into the pot. “What’s with you?”
“Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.” I flap my arms, smacking them to my sides. For a girl who married her long-lost crush five days ago, I am kind of in the depths of despair.
“Take a breath,” he says, moving in front of me. I do—and then I’m breathing him in. The man smells like the woods. He’s like breathing in pine and cedar and the great outdoors. It makes me dizzy—probably a side effect of the grumpiness. “It’s going to be okay. This is stressful. We just need to be on the same page for these questions.”
My eyes flutter closed, and then the pine and woods are gone. The warmth of his body and the scent of his soap have disappeared. It’s merely a lingering memory.
Winking one eye open, I watch him, across the room now, as he opens the fridge, taking out a bag of premade salad.
“What’s next?” he asks, motioning to the paper.
“Ugh.” I scan down and read, but my throat is tight, and my stomach hurts. I ignore it all and go on—for Roman. “Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”
“I sleep in the middle,” he says.
“Nope. Not with me in the bed.” I give him a cheesy, mocking grin—it’s better than crying. “Wrong. You go to jail.”
“Not funny,” he says. “Which side do you sleep on?”
“Before I came here, I was sleeping on a couch. Before that, my bed was a twin. Two nights ago, I tried the left side,and last night I chose the right.” I shrug. “The jury is still out.”
“Okay, let’s just pick one, then.” He shrugs, focused on his lettuce, dumping the bag of salad into a bowl. “I’ll take the right.”
“Whoa. I kind of like the right.” I tap my fingers in a nervous drumming to the countertop.
“Fine,” Roman says. “Then I’ll take the left.”
“But I haven’t completely ruled the left out.” With his silly questionnaire squeezed between my fingers, I press both fists to my hips.
“Stella,” he growls. “How can you take this so nonchalantly? This is serious.” And to him, it is. But I’m tired. Tired and grumpy and guilt-ridden. Apparently, the combination makes me sassy.
“Do we have to do this?” I ask. “I’m starving and your questions are only giving me hunger pains.”
“Hunger—” He groans and rakes a hand through his hair. “Fine.” His jaw clenches in that new way that it does—like whenever he talks to a teammate or possibly any living, breathing human. Except for me.Normally. “I’ll call you when it’s time for dinner.”
I escape to my room, avoidance tactic number four under my belt.
