Rosalie blinks. I have practically given her permission to picture my husband nude. I might even be giving myself permission. And while I am pretty darn smitten with my husband, we aren’t there yet. I should not be picturing the man naked. It does things to my sanity.
I rush off to Roman’s room and shove my way inside. No knocking.
Roman’s sitting on his bed, legs stretched out, leaning against the wooden headboard, one hand beneath his head, the other hand holding a book.
And it’s possible my ovaries come to life. He should be sculpted. Someone should sketch him here and now, then sculpt his perfect form out of clay. Wait. I could do that. Literally. I have that ability. I mean, I’m much more skilled on the wheel than I am at sculpting, but I aced all of my ceramic classes in college.
My heart thumps and my ovaries sing, and I stand there just inside the door, staring.
At least he isn’t naked.
“Stell?” he says, looking up from his book. And then—that bent arm supporting his head and popping that perfect bicep comes down to his side, and the trance he’s put over me loosens its hold.
“Rosalie needs the bathroom.”
He straightens, planting his feet on the ground. “Okay. Sure. Just?—”
“Roman, she’ll walk through here. It’s obvious that I don’t live in this room.”
“Right. Do you want to lead her through your room?”
“You obviously don’t live in there.” Although, he does sleep there now. Every single night.
“Do you want to bring some of your things in here?”
I clamp my teeth onto my bottom lip. “Maybe just a few things?”
“Sure. It’s not like she’s going to inspect our bedroom.”
With full control of my body now, I race through the bathroom, into my room, and snatch up a pink comforter and a handful of my clothes. Racing back, I toss them into Roman’s room.
A small grunt tells me I have hit Roman. I don’t care though. Rosalie is waiting with a full Diet Coke bladder. I rush back for one more load. This time, I am strategic. I grab a bra, my purple water tumbler, and my one framed photo—my family, Brice’s senior year.
Back in Roman’s room, he’s laid out the floral comforter over his bed and tossed my clothes on the ground, next to a few of his. Roman has two nightstands, so I choose the least empty of the two, toss Roman my bra, and set my family photo and my tumbler on the stand I’ve chosen.
Straightening up, I peer at my husband. Go time!
But he’s holding up my lacy white bra as if on display. “What did you want me to do with this?”
“Oh.” I swallow. “The floor. With the others? Because apparently, we are slobs who don’t believe in hampers.”
“I have a hamper,” he says, and it’s true. He does, and most of his clothes are in it. He has one shirt and a pair of socks on the ground, where my clothes are now littering it.
“She won’t see my things if they’re in the hamper,” I say.
“Which is why we’re slobs.”
I reach over, snatch my undergarment from his grasp, and toss it. It hangs from the corner of the hamper—but in clear view.
“Hey,” he says, walking around the end of the bed to reach me. “This isn’t a big deal. We aren’t breaking any laws, and we’re two consenting adults. We can live however we want. Right?” Roman runs a hand down my back, but I’m not sure I’m convinced.
“I’ll grab Rosalie.”
Huffing, I hurry to the kitchen. This house is way too small for me to be breathing so hard. Then I open my mouth and say the only thing I can think of for taking so long: “Naked!” I lean my hands on my thighs and peer up at a gaping Rosalie and an intrigued Noreen. “So, so naked.” I swallow. “But he’s decent now. This way.”
“Okay.” She sounds like she’s questioning my sanity. With good reason.
“Roman’s in our room. Mine and his. Totally dressed. No stress,” I say, leading her to the door of Roman’s room.
