That part surprised me. Rome looked like the kind of man who took what he wanted. But he hadn’t, he’d waited. Given me room to back away, and for some reason that mattered.
A lot.
I slid under the blankets and turned off the lamp.
After Bruce, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be stupid again and ignore red flags or make excuses. I wouldn’t lose myself trying to fit into someone else’s life.
Rome wasn’t asking me to. Hell, Rome hadn’t asked for anything. That should make this easier.
Instead, it made me nervous, because there was no pressure. No games. No pretending. Just Rome crossing Main Street every day. Eating ice cream. Bringing burgers. Holding my wrist like it was something precious.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
Rome was just the tattoo artist across the street who happened to be attractive. And kind. And kissed me in a way I couldn’t stop thinking about.
I groaned into my pillow. “This is going to be a disaster.”
The pillow offered no advice. I rolled onto my side and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
Tomorrow would be normal. I’d make sure of it. I would act like nothing had changed, because nothing had changed.
That was the story I told myself.
It was the story I held onto as my eyes drifted shut. And it was the story I repeated one last time before sleep finally claimed me.
The kiss meant nothing.
Which was why I thought about it forty-seven times before bed.
Chapter Ten
Rome
I bought the house when I was twenty-four. Everybody told me not to.
The roof leaked in two places, the kitchen looked like it hadn’t been updated since the eighties, and half the wallpaper had been stripped off by someone who apparently got bored halfway through the job. The realtor had called it a fixer-upper.
I called it cheap. That had been five years ago.
Now, sitting in my kitchen with a mug of coffee in one hand and the morning sun streaming through the windows, I thought it had turned out pretty damn good.
The house was an old Victorian on the edge of town with a wraparound porch, dark green shutters, and more character than common sense. The hardwood floors creaked if you stepped in the wrong spots. The staircase curved toward the second floor like something out of an old movie, and the stained-glass window above the landing cast colored light across the foyer every afternoon.
Most people expected me to live in some industrial loft.
Black walls. Metal furniture. A motorcycle parked in the living room.
I didn’t.
The outside of the house looked like it belonged to an elderly woman who baked pies and kept bird feeders.
The inside looked more like me.
Dark leather couch. Wood shelves. Framed tattoo designs. Black kitchen cabinets I’d installed myself after ripping out the old oak ones.
The place wasn’t fancy, but it was mine.
I took another drink of coffee and stared out the kitchen window at the backyard.
