Page 6

Gabby

F or the last hour, the romantic comedy we were supposed to be watching has been completely ignored as we reminisce.

Cackling like two hyenas hopped up on energy drinks—or in my case, wine.

Roman and I sit across from one another in the plush chairs and share stories about the good old days. Which really, weren’t that long ago.

I swear to God, I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard or for so long. Both my cheeks and my stomach hurt, but this…us…what he’s doing here for me, is seriously the best medicine.

“What about that time,” Roman starts, but immediately collapses into a fit of laughter so intense he starts flopping around like a fish out of water.

I start laughing too, even though I have no idea what I’m laughing about, and let’s face it, that bottle of wine is almost empty, so it could be that.

“What?” I wheeze, sliding lower in my chair, my hands clutching my stomach. “Tell me,” I practically shriek.

Roman leaps from the chair, and flings himself onto the sofa, laughing so hard he’s practically moving it across the floor, but then he gets the hiccups.

“Oh my God, Roman. Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself.” I push to my feet and grab a bottle of water from the fridge. I shove my suitcase to the floor and drop down onto the coffee table next to him. “Drink this before you explode.”

He rolls over to face me, his hands gripping his stomach. “But…but…” He gasps between hiccups, his face bright red from laughter as he desperately tries to get the story out. “That time.” Hiccup. “Those two girls from wrestling club got into a fight in the lunchroom.”

“Ohmigod, the lunch hour Ball Brawl.”

“Ball brawl.” He shrieks with laughter. “I forget we all called it that.”

“Because of Mr. Myers’ balls ,” I burst out, tears rolling down my face.

“Right, he tried to break the fight and one of them punched him right in the family jewels. He hit the ground fast, and the other girl jumped onto a chair and elbow-dropped him. He mimics the move and then coups his crotch in mock agony. “Dude was finished.”

“That’s so not funny.” I wheeze with laughter, completely contradicting myself. “But yeah, finished having kids, I think. Good thing he had three already.” That’s when karma strikes. I get the hiccups too.

Roman freezes for a split second, the ungodly sound stunning him and then starts laughing all over again.

He wipes his tear-streaked face, his hiccups now dueling mine. “God, I miss those days.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice laced with a nostalgic sigh.

A lot has changed since those days. Honestly, a lot has changed tonight.

After what I witnessed, I never thought I’d be sitting here drinking wine and laughing so hard my stomach is staging a full-scale revolt—with Roman Marinelli of all people.

Who knew a posh Vegas wedding would turn my life into a circus?

“You know, those girls were fighting over you.”

He blinks. “What? No they weren’t.”

I take a drink from the bottle and hand it over. For some reason, the way he drinks right after me feels weirdly intimate. And distracting.

“Yeah, they were. All the girls wanted to be with you.”

“Did you?” he fires back smoothly, and my brain promptly short-circuits.

I stall for a second. “No,” I finally respond, even though my teenage self would beg to differ. “You weren’t my type.” Right! He was every woman’s type and I wasn’t above wondering what it would have been like to kiss Roman Marinelli under the bleachers.

He tilts his head. “What was your type, Gabs? Actually, I don’t remember you dating in high school.” He holds up a finger. “Wait. Never mind. I do know your type. You liked pretty boys. Not guys with missing teeth and battle scars.”

He grins and points to the tiny scar near his ear.

One, that frankly, only adds to his whole ruggedly handsome charm.

Then as if realizing what he just said, and how it might remind me of my too-pretty-for-his-own-good ex-fiancé, Roman smoothly changes course.

“You spent most of your time in the studio, hanging out with mannequins.” His lips twitch as he leans toward me.

“I always wondered if they were anatomically correct.”

I raise an eyebrow. “No, they’re not. I believe you might be confusing mannequins with your blow-up dolls.”

He dramatically clutches his chest. “Ooh, someone call the burn unit.” We both dissolve into laughter again. Then suddenly, he quiets. His expression shifts, softens. Under his breath, almost like he doesn’t mean to say it, he murmurs, “I remember that pink dress you made and wore to prom.”

I freeze.

He remembers my dress?

I glance at the empty glass on the table. Okay. Either I’ve stumbled into an alternate universe, or I’ve had way too much wine, because now I’m hearing things.

“Speaking of pink,” Roman begins, apparently unfazed, as he hands the bottle back to me. Just as I take a big mouthful, completely deadpan he continues, “Remember how Mr. Pink, our old social studies teacher used to lift his junk and rest it on the corners of our desks.”

I go still for a split second, my eyes burning as my cheeks puff out, desperate to fight the urge to laugh, but it’s too late.

My body betrays me and with the force of a garden hose on full blast water bursts from my mouth, straight into Roman’s face.

He stares for a beat and then we both start laughing.

When we stop, he wipes his face with his hand. “That was refreshing.”

“You did say you wanted a cold shower,” I remind him, tilting my chin up smugly. I glance around, and search for a napkin or something.

His grin is downright adorable as he shakes his head. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He sputters a bit. Oh God, I got it in his mouth. “But I’m not sure this is what I meant.”

He’s not angry, in fact there’s a playfulness about him when I bite my lip, pouting in mock guilt. “I’m sorry. I’ll grab you a towel.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Before I can move, he reaches out, and with the lightest, ever so soft touch, his thumb brushes a stray droplet off my cheek.

Our eyes meet.

Lock.

And then…then…

Hiccups.

He grimaces and puts his fist to the center of his chest. “Shit, that one hurt, and don’t be sorry.” I hand him the water bottle, and just like that, the thick charged air between us dissipated. Thank God. I think. Probably. Maybe.

Bottle halfway to his mouth, he pauses and cocks his head. “You’re not going to make me laugh, are you?”

“Payback is a bitch,” I joke. “But no. I’ve already had a hot bath and I’m not interested in getting wet again.”

The second the words leave my mouth, his expression shifts. His jaw clenches like he’s in pain, his gaze flickering away as his entire body tenses like he just took a slap shot to the chest.

And that’s when it hits me.

Oh. My God.

That sounded…sexual.

What is wrong with me?

I snort out a laugh, because there’s not enough time to get into it, and yeah, let’s just add that sexually sounding mishap to the growing list of things wrong with me tonight.

“I didn’t mean,” I begin to backpedal, flailing through my own embarrassment. “I mean…” I point downward. “You know, not that.”

Way to make it worse, girl.

He groans. “No, I get it.”

Deciding it’s best to remove myself from this situation before I make it worse, I push to my feet. Except my legs are about as stable as a newborn deer. Roman stands at the same time, steadying me with his hands on my waist, and whoa. Suddenly, I’m very aware of how close we are.

His head dips, his eyes scanning my face. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I manage. “It’s late. I should probably…” I gesture toward the sofa. “Sleep.”

“Okay. You take the bathroom first. I’m going to shower after you’re done, and you’re not sleeping on the sofa. Take the bed.”

I shake my head. “Roman, you’ve done so much for me tonight. I can’t kick you out of your own bed.”

He’s already yanking the cushions off the sofa. “This pulls out, Gabs. It’s probably softer than the bed.”

“And lumpier,” I add.

He winks. “Soft and lumpy, what’s not to love?”

Oh, God. Are we still talking about the mattress? Judging by the playful gleam in his eyes, I think not.

“I…uh…”

He points to the bathroom. “Go, get ready for bed.”

With a sigh, I drop to my knees, bending forward to rummage through my suitcase for my cosmetic kit. I’m fully focused on this task, until I hear a choking sound.

I freeze.

Then slowly turn my head to find Roman staring.

His throat makes a sound.

Like he’s in pain—again.

Maybe he’s holding his breath to get rid of his hiccups, or…wait.

Realization slams into me.

I’m down on the floor, on all fours.

His T-shirt barely covering my backside.

Oh.

“Uh, Gabs,” His voice comes out strangled. “Why don’t I carry that suitcase to your room for you.”

I shoot upright so fast I nearly black out. “Thanks.” I grab my kit, power walk to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Then I lean against it for a solid five seconds, staring at the ceiling.

Once again, I wonder what is happening in my life?

Shaking it off, I get to work, brushing my teeth, moisturizing and finishing with my trusty, cotton candy flavored lip mask. After all, hydrated plump lips are important. Not that I’ll be using them anytime soon.

My kissing days are over.

Forever.

Okay, maybe not forever, but at least until I figure out where I’m going to live, how I’m going to salvage my career, and, oh yeah, find a man I can actually trust.

Let’s be real. Those last two things. Probably never going to happen.

I put my things away and quietly open the door to near darkness.

The soft glow from the bedroom light spills across the room, catching on the broad line of Roman’s back as he makes up the pullout bed.

My heart gives a dangerous squeeze. I always knew he was funny and playful and sweet, but this…

this goes beyond friendship. This is more. Honestly, it’s messing with my head.

He glances over his shoulder, and the smile that curls at his lips hits me right between the legs. God, maybe I did drink too much. Except, as I stare at the ridiculously hot man standing a few feet away, I feel alarmingly sober.

“All done,” I say. “Do you need help?”

He fluffs the pillow with one hand. “Nope, all good,” he says, voice low and quiet. “Go get some sleep.”

Following the channel of light from the bedroom, he walks to his dresser and pulls out some clothes.

I head toward the bedroom, and as he slides past me, his scent—a sinful mix of soap and something so uniquely Roman—wraps around me and lingers long after he closes the bathroom door.

My heart’s doing something weird in my chest. Like, really weird.

I wander over to the sofa bed and sit down, running my hands over the surface.

Hard. Lumpy.

Damn .

I could protest again, but we both know it’d fall on deaf ears.

Stifling a yawn, I head into the bedroom and find my luggage neatly placed on the wooden stand, zipped tight.

The clothes I’d packed for my wedding night are out of sight.

Out of mind. Hopefully. Idostill have the scissors, but Roman’s right.

Big decisions shouldn’t be made when your heart is in a blender.

The carpet’s scratchy beneath my feet as I cross to the bed. My phone and a bottle of water—the last one from the fridge—sit on the nightstand. The covers are even pulled down.Jeez, Roman really thought of everything.

Body tired, mind scrambled, I flop down onto the bed and resist the urge to check my phone. Cass doesn’t deserve to hear from me tonight. Not after cheating and then threatening me. My finger hovers over the screen as it lights up, but I ignore it and pinch my eyes shut.

The only thing I want to think about right now is Roman… in the shower.

What?

Wait, no. That’s not what I meant. I do not want to think about Roman…in the shower.

Sure, girlfriend. Keep telling yourself that.

Oh, shut up.

Right, because I have no business feeling anything. He’s my friend. Except friends don’t make you feel like your skin is on fire from nothing more than a glance. It’s the wine. It has to be.

Or maybe…

Yeah, I know. I can’t remember the last time Cass touched me.

I turn over again, my eyes flicking open just as the room lights up from my phone.

A few minutes later, the bathroom door opens, and I hear Roman’s footsteps crossing the floor.

He’s trying to be quiet, but it’s hard to be subtle when you’re six feet of pure muscle.

“Fuck,” I hear him mutter, followed by a string of colorful curses.

“Are you okay?”

A beat of silence. Then, “Yeah, sorry. My baby toe thought it would be fun to tango with the coffee table.”

I work to stifle a laugh. “You can turn the light on.”

“Are you laughing?”

“No. Well, yes, but the tango part got me. Sorry.”

“Jesus,” he groans. “If this swells, I’ll never get my skate on. I thought I’d be taken out by Calgary’s wicked defense, not IKEA.”

Then… hiccup.

“Your night is just getting worse, Roman.”

I hear the fridge open, followed by another curse, and another hiccup.

“Come get a drink,” I say, sitting up and flicking on my lamp. I uncap the bottle of water, and a moment later, he’s at my door.

“Here.”

I hold the bottle out, but he just stands there, chest rising and falling, his big frame practically swallowing up the doorway.

“Roman?”

He exhales sharply. “I think they’re gone.”

I cock my head in confusion, and that’s when I realize he’s only wearing boxers.

Low, form-fitting boxers that cling to every cut muscle and leave verylittle to the imagination.

My gaze slides down, counting his hard abs like it’s my job, and when I finally make it lower, my imagination goes absolutely off the rails.

Oh boy.

Roman swallows hard. “Um,” he begins, his voice low and rough.

His gaze darkens as his eyes rake over me, and I swear the room temperature spikes ten degrees.

As my body heats up, I kick the blankets off and his eyes move to my thighs.

Everything about the way he looks at me makes me feel wanted, needed, desirable.

I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen a man look at me with such hunger.

With his focus still on my legs, he continues with, “How… how’s the bed? ”

My pulse jumps. Breathing suddenly feels impossible.

I run my hands over the mattress. “Soft and lumpy. Just the way you like it,” I manage to say, even though my brain is short-circuiting.

And while I have no idea what tomorrow brings, tonight, there’s one thing I do know.

Maybe I can make his night—and mine—a little better.

“Want to feel?” I ask.

His eyes darken, and his breath comes fast and shallow.

“Fuck me.”

“Or better yet…how about me,” I whisper, biting down on my lower lip.