“Huh. Okay.”
“You could put me down,” I say.
“Not an option.”
“Let me just adjust, just a little—” And without warning, I am tossed over Roman’s shoulder, as if he were a fireman and I were a dying woman in a house full of smoke.
A squawk escapes my lips as I am now looking at my husband’s backside. Not a bad view. Still, I frown—it’s wasted, as he can’t see me, but it helps me get into character. It helps me call up my grouchy voice and say, “Roman. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m unlocking the door,sweetheart.”
I clear my throat and tilt my head a little to the right, giving myself a new angle to admire Roman’s bum. “Sweetheart?”
“You don’t like it? I thought I’d try out some pet names.” There’s rustling at the door, and soon the warmth and peace of our home washes over me. I smell the tree filling up our living room and see Roman’s shoes on the mat. There’s a slight creak in the floor telling me Roman just passed the fireplace.
I love this little cabin, this home.
My head bobs as we walk, and then I’m upright, face to face with Roman, and being lowered to the couch. “I don’t like it,” I whisper, referring to his pet name.
“I’ll keep trying, then,” he says as my butt hits the sofa. Leaning farther down, he presses a soft peck to my lips, and I melt. Right here. Right now. Right on this couch. Yep—Roman Graves can call me whatever he wants to. “One second,” he says, taking off for the front door. He’s back and headed to the kitchen in less than a minute.
I stop myself from whining. I wasn’t finished kissing.
Warm and a little delirious, I tuck my legs into a cross. I peer at our Christmas tree twinkling in the small cozy space of our living room. Yep, I never need to leave this place. And the tree stays. Forever.
My heart pumps happily to the tune of “I Saw Mamma Kissing Santa Claus” and then, as if to join in, my stomach grumbles.
Just in time for Roman to return from the kitchen with a plate in each hand and a blue pad beneath his arm. It’s as if my stomach has summoned him. He sets a plate of greasy fast food on the coffee table in front of me and one right next to it. Then he pulls the pad from beneath his arm.
“Lift a cheek,” he says, waving toward my bottom.
“Lift a what?”
“A cheek. You know, one side of your behind? Lift it.” He holds up the pad again—a heating pad.
“Oh—kay.” So, I lift one cheek as my sort-of-boyfriend-slash-one-hundred-percent-legal-husband positions a very toasty heating pad beneath. I study Roman’s Adam’s apple; it bobs with the small effort this job is taking him. Has there ever been a sexier Adam’s apple in all the universe? Isthat even a thing? I mean, clearly it is, because Roman has it.
Once he’s satisfied with my “cheeks,” and they are thoroughly toasty, he walks over to the fireplace, kneeling there, messing with wood and newspaper for only a minute before there’s a small fire blazing in the hearth.
And then—finally—the man comes back to the couch and sits next to me.
“All good?” he asks.
“Are you done bustling?”
“I was bustling?” he asks.
“You were. And I appreciate it. You’re cute.”
“I was bustlingandI’m cute?” Roman lifts one brow.
“Very.” I pinch the front of his shirt. “But really, all thebustlingjust made me realize that I never told you something.”
“Never told me what?”
“I know this is new.” I swallow, and the pulse in my neck thrums. “And I know we’ve gone years without knowing each other,” I say, repeating his facts from earlier. “But I meant it when I said I liked you too. And I think you have a point.” I lift one shoulder in half a shrug. “We’re already married.” My heart patters a hundred beats for each of my words. “Why not try?”
“Yeah?” He smiles at me, and I am toasty from my bum to my toes.
