Page 7 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

I hadn’t seen Roman since yesterday.

Not in the hallway, not in the kitchen, not even a flash of those brooding eyes from behind a closed door.

Part of me wondered if he was avoiding me after the whole debacle with the plate and window treatments.

I knew I needed to be more mindful of his rules and quirks, but I had been deep in my head about the design I was stuck on, and it had been a lapse. But I was working on it.

I’d keep working on it.

Still, I figured he was just busy. Pack business, as he called it. Whatever that meant. Mafia? Werewolf HOA? High-stakes event planning?

I didn’t ask. Not my circus, not my moon-blessed wolf cult.

When my stomach demanded lunch, I wandered into the kitchen with the kind of zombie-like energy that came from staring at Illustrator files for three hours straight.

I moved through the motions of making a sandwich—bread, cheese, turkey, pickle—my body on autopilot, my brain still tangled in the jagged aftertaste of last night’s dream.

A dream where Eric had showed up at the apartment, said he’d made a mistake, pulled me into his arms, and whispered that I was enough. I woke up crying.

I hated how much I missed him. Not the real him, but the idea of him.

The comfort of having someone, even if it was someone who didn’t see me.

At least then I could pretend that I mattered, that I was wanted.

That I didn’t have to change myself into a smaller, softer, more palatable version just to be chosen.

Was there a version of me that could ever actually be wanted?

Putting the sandwich on a plate—I made sure not to take the blue one—I walked into the living room.

And froze.

The curtains on the balcony doors were open, and Roman was outside.

Shirtless.

Doing burpees.

The sunlight hit him just so, highlighting every cut of muscle like the universe was playing a cruel joke on me.

His back arched with each movement, and sweat shone on his skin.

Roman’s hair was mussed in a way that I wanted to hate but couldn’t because he looked like the poster child for the Emotionally Available Lumberjack aesthetic.

I sat down and did my best not to gawk.

It didn’t work.

I knew ogling my roommate like a creeper was terribly wrong, but in my defense, he looked like he’d been sculpted from marble as the perfect example of the male body.

Roman was the ultimate thirst trap. Some kind of ancient Greek god whose apartment listing I’d stumbled upon.

His body moved like it was built to tempt and ruin.

I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed without tasting it, because of course he had to be stupid hot. The universe loved giving me things I couldn’t have.

He switched to push-ups, and good lord, I nearly drooled.

The veins in his arms flexed, muscles coiling and shifting with an elegance that had no business being legal. Heat coiled low in my belly before I could stop it. The involuntary, traitorous throb of attraction made me drop my sandwich back on the plate.

I shouldn’t have been thinking about him like this. I’d just gotten out of a relationship. A messy one, at that. I was still licking my wounds, still doubting everything about myself—my worth, my desirability, whether I’d ever be enough for someone without reshaping myself entirely.

But none of that stopped the very vivid, very unwholesome thought that drifted into my head, which involved him, the balcony railing, and fewer clothes.

The door slid open, and there he was, wiping his hands on a towel, breathing steadily like he hadn’t just made my ovaries riot. I tried to look away—I swear I did—but my gaze locked on him like it had a mind of its own. I swallowed. Hard.

There might have been drool.

He caught my eyes and—God help me—grinned.

Subtle, slow, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Like he could smell the heat in my face.

Which, unfortunately, he probably could.

My cheeks flamed. I straightened and bit into my sandwich to pretend I was chill.

So chill. The chillest. A glacier of non-horniness.

He yanked the curtains shut, then walked past me, casual as ever.

“Making a smoothie,” he said. “Protein. Want one?”

His voice was rougher than usual, a little deeper from exertion. It rolled over me like warm honey and made my brain glitch.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I coughed once, cleared my throat, and tried again.

“No, thanks,” I managed, my voice a shade too high.

He nodded and turned to the blender.

I sat there, red-faced and flustered, wondering how I’d gone from emotionally unavailable trainwreck to horny roommate disaster in under ninety seconds.

After another hour of work, a loud knock at the front door startled me. Firm and fast, like the person on the other side had expectations.

I wiped my hands on my leggings and opened the door.

“You must be Maggie,” the woman said with a perfect, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She brushed past me like I was a decorative inconvenience.

She was stunning. She possessed the kind of beauty that made you feel like you had something stuck in your teeth: long, champagne-blonde hair that moved as if it had its own wind system, full lips glossed within an inch of their lives, an outfit that was somewhere between elegant brunch and mildly threatening boardroom energy.

Her perfume hit me like a spell. Moonstone oil and vanilla. Expensive.

She paused in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, and scanned the space with clinical precision.

“These weren’t here before,” she said, gesturing toward my stacks of books on the windowsill. “And that?” Her manicured finger jabbed toward my abstract painting above the couch. “That’s new.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s mine. I live here.”

Seraphina turned on me like I’d insulted her lineage. “How dare Roman move another woman into this apartment when he still loves me?”

I blinked.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but you won’t be here long. Mark my words.”

I stared at her. I had literally no thoughts. Blank screen. Just the sound of my internal modem rebooting. Real people actually behaved this way?

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked.

Before she could launch into another monologue, Roman walked into the living room, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. Upon seeing her, he stopped in his tracks, his eyes going comically wide.

“Seraphina?” His voice cracked.

She lit up like a chandelier and sauntered over to him, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his chest. “I came to check on you,” she said sweetly, eyelashes batting like they had a quota to meet. “After that intense meeting yesterday, I figured you might need some comfort.”

Roman’s face went pale. Like, hospital-sheet pale. He shot a panicked glance at me, then quickly looked back at her. His mouth opened and closed twice before he settled on, “The… Uhm. Yeah. The weather’s been weird, huh?”

My eyebrows shot halfway up my forehead. Roman never stammered. He was usually controlled, calm, and sarcastic. Watching him scramble was like watching a cat trying to swim.

Seraphina’s eyes narrowed slightly. She took a slow step back, still watching him. “What does Maggie think about all of this?”

“All of what?” I asked. Apparently, I was the only one who had no clue what the hell was going on. Roman looked like he wanted to crawl into the couch cushions and die. Part of me wanted to grab popcorn. The other part felt weirdly protective.

Roman finally exhaled and crossed his arms tightly across his chest. “Seraphina, this isn’t your business. We’re not together. You don’t get to show up unannounced and interrogate me.”

She laughed—laughed—like she thought his boundaries were quaint. “I’m just saying, it’s cute that you think this is over. You’ll come crawling back to me as soon as you realize it will never work out with a human.”

She turned toward the door with a flounce that was probably choreographed. But before she walked out, she glanced at me over her shoulder, a wicked grin on her face as she looked me up and down.

“Oh, and I guess I’ll get to know you better at the next pack meeting, Maggie. Seeing as how you and Roman are betrothed.”

She was gone before I could process what she’d said. I stood in the middle of the room, mouth hanging open, as the door slammed behind her. Roman hadn’t moved. His hands were now covering his mouth, and his eyes were wide with horror.

“Roman?” I said slowly, because I had a million questions and also exactly one that mattered most. “Who the hell was that woman, and what the actual fuck was she talking about?”

I needed to sit.

I didn’t sit.

Roman’s jaw was locked, fists clenching and unclenching like he was trying to keep his skin on. The energy radiating off him was straight-up nuclear. He looked seconds away from bolting, and that made me feel seconds away from vomiting.

“Sit,” he finally said.

It wasn’t a command, but it landed like one. My knees bent before I could argue, and I dropped onto the couch.

Roman started pacing. He didn’t look at me, just stared down at the floor like he was hoping it would swallow him whole. The silence stretched. My brain spun every worst-case scenario it could conjure: secret wedding, magical debt, surprise murder charge. Maybe he was dying. Maybe I was dying.

Maybe I’d had a psychotic break. Maybe I was actually still asleep in Eric’s bed, drooling on his pillow and dreaming about wolf shifters and emotional support cuddles.

“I assume you have something to say?” I snapped, unable to take the tension another second.

Roman stopped pacing. His hands dropped to his sides, still twitching, like they didn’t know how to be still.

“The pack meeting yesterday was… a little unexpected,” he said in a low voice. “My cousin Lucien, the alpha… he made an announcement.”

I stood up and planted myself in front of him.

“Roman.” My heart thudded so hard I could hear it in my ears. “Just tell me. What did Seraphina mean when she said we were betrothed?”

His eyes flicked to mine for a fraction of a second before he looked away again. His shoulders slumped, and he turned his back like the area behind the couch might offer him an escape plan.

“I panicked, okay? Okay? I didn’t know what to say, and I definitely didn’t want to be paired up with fucking Seraphina. So I told them you and I were together. That I’d be mating with you.”

My stomach dropped so fast it felt like an elevator cable snapped. “Mating with me? The fuck does that mean?”

I didn’t yell. Not exactly. But the words came out so sharp and loud that Roman flinched before turning to face me. He took a couple steps back, hands raised slightly like he expected me to throw something. Maybe I should have.

“Let me back up. Due to some magical shit that’s gone haywire within my pack, Lucien has initiated a mating mandate.

All eligible wolves over the age of twenty-one have to find and bond with a mate.

Supposedly, that will help stabilize the pack’s magic.

I freaked out and said you and I were a couple.

You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said quickly, “but you’d sure as hell be helping me out if you’d act like we’re together until I can figure out what the fuck to do. ”

I crossed my arms. “And what does act mean?”

He sighed and dragged a hand through his messy hair, making it worse and somehow hotter.

“I really haven’t had time to think this through.

Nothing changes here. The apartment’s still neutral territory.

But outside? At events, pack meetings, public spaces, we’d have to look like a…

couple. Hold hands. Smile. Maybe… you know. Some light couple-y stuff.”

“Like what, Roman?” I snapped. “Because I don’t know the first thing about shifters, and now you want me to hang out with a whole fucking pack? I don’t know how to act around shifters.”

His brows lifted.

“You know what I mean.”

He let out a nervous laugh. “You don’t need to act. Just be yourself. Except, uh… pretend you like me.”

Of all the things I thought would happen when I moved into this apartment, fake mating with my wolf shifter roommate wasn’t even on the list.

But as the words settled, another thought crept in.

If I was “with” someone—someone confident and attractive—maybe that voice in my head that kept telling me I wasn’t enough for Eric would finally shut up. Maybe when he inevitably cyber-stalked me again, he’d see a version of me he wouldn’t recognize. Someone confident. Someone wanted. Chosen.

I could pretend. I’d done it before.

Plus, it might be kind of convenient. No random guys trying to hit on me when I went out.

No more questions about whether I was okay post-breakup.

And Roman? He was hot. Inconveniently hot.

If I had to fake-date someone, at least it was someone with excellent arms and a body that looked like it could bench-press my trauma.

I inhaled slowly. “Okay.”

Roman blinked. “Okay?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll pretend. But I want a clause.”

“Fuck yes. I love clauses. Shoot.”

“I can opt out at any time. If I change my mind or get uncomfortable or this whole thing gets weird, I can walk away. No questions. No guilt.”

Roman’s eyes softened for the first time since Seraphina walked in. “Deal.”

He stepped closer and held out his hand.

I took it. It was big. Warm. Solid. I tried really hard not to think about the other parts of him that I know are also big and warm and—

Nope. Not going there.

We shook.

“Thank you. You’re really saving my ass here, Mags.”

I nodded once, but my mind was still reeling. Betrothed. Pack meetings. Public affection.

Roman fucking Velasquez.

What the hell had I just agreed to?