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“Of course.”
I pick up the receiver and dial the number I still know by heart, and as the person on the other end picks up, my eyes catch and hold Roman’s.
“I’d like to order a large pizza, please. Pepperoni with chili.”
He quirks a brow.
Doing a terrible job of hiding my smile, I add, “Make that extra chili.”
His expression grows intense, making my heart take off. It’s as if the two of us are participating in some unspoken dare. AndI suppose we are. The only time we break eye contact is when I have to look down to read his card number for payment.
After I hang up, I take a step forward and hold the AmEx out to him. His fingers drift over mine as he takes it, sending a spark sizzling up my arm.
In a flash his eyes are on mine, like maybe he felt the shot of electricity too.
Clearing his throat, he tosses his card back on his desk. “Give me the address and I’ll get Phillip to pick it up.”
Once he’s sent the message and slipped his phone back into his pocket, I ask, “Shall we do some more work while we wait?”
When he nods, I shuffle to my chair again, but before I can sit, he grips my wrist, stopping me. My pulse kicks into high gear as I stare down at his long, tan fingers pressed against my skin. Wetting my lips, I meet his gaze.
“Not that one.” A little smirk toys with the corner of his mouth. “I’ve heard it’s uncomfortable.” He tips his chin over at the couches on the other side of his office. “Over there will be better.”
I swallow. “Okay.” My voice comes out a little shakier than I intend.
Roman’s grip tightens for an instant before he loosens it enough for my hand to slip from his.
Willing my pulse to slow, I pick up my tablet and make my way to the couches. Roman follows, taking the seat opposite and setting the files on the wood and glass coffee table.
With a deep breath in, I force my mind back to work and tap at the screen of my tablet.
“How long has it been since you’ve had New York’s best pizza?”
Surprised by the question, I look up. “Sorry?”
“You said this place is near where you used to live. How long since you’ve had it?”
“About two years.”
He leans back, resting his arm along the back of the couch. “Why did you move?”
Lips pressed together, I hesitate, considering how best to answer. “We needed to downsize.”
“Webeing you and your dad?”
I sigh, my shoulders sinking. I refuse to be ashamed of my situation. “Yes. We couldn’t make the rent anymore.”
He nods slowly, completely focused on me.
Unreasonably nervous under his scrutiny and unsure of what’s going on in his head, I tuck my hair behind my ears.
“So, you’re supporting him?” he asks.
Surprised he’d immediately make that leap, I square my shoulders. “Just until he gets back on his feet and can paint again.”
His brows rise. “He’s an artist?”
I nod.