I sit back, studying the piece.
“It’s beautiful.” Roman’s low, husky voice sounds from the doorway, and with the pause between songs, I hear him, loud and clear.
With the music in my ears, I didn’t hear him enter. But I hear him now. With clay-covered fingers, I tap my phone, pausing the music altogether. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“I know.” My tall, dark, and very much legal spouse gives a guilty crooked grin. “Sorry about that. I didn’t want to interrupt. And once I started watching you, I couldn’t stop.”
I swallow, unsure what to say. I clear my tight throat, dropping my gaze to the pot I just threw. “It’s nothing special.” It’s not like I spent hours and hours on the thing—not like I did my Spiral Song piece.
He smirks. “Stell, you just took a lump of nothing and turned it into something beautiful. Itisspecial.” His eyes drag up from my pot to my face. “You’re special.”
My pulse thrums in my neck, and a small explosion of fluttering erupts in my belly. “Then you can have it.” I press my lips together and stare up at him.
“My own Stella Graves original. Perfect.”
Adrenaline courses through my body.Stella Graves.
Barefoot, he pads over to where I sit at my wheel. Hepeers down at the large bowl still sitting there. “I love it.” Leaning down, Roman nuzzles a gentle kiss to my temple. The bristles of his beard tickle my cheek, while his woodsy scent fills my nostrils. “You should probably get ready,” he whispers, his lips at my ear. “I’m taking you out on a proper date.”
Thirty-Nine
A proper date.What does that mean to Roman Graves? I mean, I remember as a kid watching Brice and Roman get ready for their junior prom. Brice thought he was hilarious wearing a baby-blue tux he found at Goodwill. While Roman wore black. All black—and man, he looked good. Mom made their double dates dinner, and then they went to the dance. I have no idea what happened after that.
I don’t need a prom dress for this outing, do I?
I charge through the bathroom, showered and wearing my new favorite outfit, Roman’s jersey and my own sweats. I tap on his door. Not waiting for an answer, I yell through the closed entrance, “What should I wear?”
The door separating us swings open, and I stumble an inch forward—almost into my Roman. “Wear?”
“Yeah. Like, do I need a dress for this outing? Or will pants suffice?” I ask, examining Roman up and down. Gosh, he’s nice to look at.
“I want you to be comfortable. Wear whatever you want.”
“That’s so unhelpful,” I say. But he’s in a gray sweater and jeans—I can easily match that energy.
“Ah—” he starts, but I turn around, walking back to my room.
“I’ve got it,” I call.
I opt for wide-leg jeans, my red sweater, and brown boots. Unless we’re swimming or headed to prom, I should be good to go. I dry my hair and let it fall in waves around my shoulders. I am trying my best to ignore the nerves in my gut and the flutter of my heart.
I can hear Roman in his room as I twist the top off my mascara. Then, his Jack and Jill door opens a crack. “Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, gulping on the word.
His musky cologne follows him inside, swallowing me whole—in the best of ways. He looks ready to go—and an hour earlier than he planned, just as I requested.
The thrumming in my heart has become a jackhammer as I finish applying my mascara. Roman snags his electric toothbrush from the counter and squeezes toothpaste onto his brush.
I lick my lips, watching him from the corner of my eye as he brushes his teeth for a solid dentist-recommended two minutes.
Breathing out a long, slow, quiet bout of air, I attempt—and fail—to smell my own breath. Because Roman’s is going to be minty-fresh. Are we officially the kind of married people that properly kiss after a date? Or are we playing with first-date rules?
Is there an Option C for a situation like ours?
Following my husband’s example, and forgetting thatI’ve already glossed my lips, I decide to brush my teeth. Again.
Roman washes his hands, adjusts the crew neck of his knit sweater, and rakes a comb through his short, already styled hair.
