Page 9 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

The bakery logo I was working on looked like an angry toddler had taken out their feelings on the computer screen. I’d spent two hours tweaking typography and debating between peach and mauve, all while sipping a lukewarm oat milk latte and reminding myself this was the life I’d chosen.

Freelance freedom. Designer dreams. Branding artisanal sourdough empires from the comfort of my laptop. Woo.

I was scrolling through a folder of croissant illustrations when Roman burst into the room. “Let’s go be disgustingly domestic in public.”

“I have work.”

“You also have one outfit that screams take me to a farmers market,” he said, flopping down on the end of my bed like gravity didn’t apply to him. “I saw it when you were unpacking. The overall skirt get-up. Put it on.”

“I have deadlines.”

“Breakfast tacos,” he sang. “And focaccia. Fresh, flaky. Slightly erotic.”

He was already halfway to the door before I sighed and shut my laptop. “This better be the best goddamn focaccia I’ve ever had.”

The aroma of cinnamon bread and sun-warmed tomatoes wafted toward me.

Somewhere nearby, a street performer’s saxophone drifted over the murmur of the crowd.

The lazy jazz felt like summer. I tucked my sunglasses higher on my nose and stared down a bunch of heirloom carrots priced the same as heirloom jewelry.

A cable car bell clanged faintly in the distance, and the salty hint of the Bay mixed with all the other market smells.

Roman leaned into my space, close enough that I could feel the stupid warmth radiating off him.

“So, what’s my little sunshine bean in the mood for? Jam? Pickles? Eternal torment?”

I didn’t even look at him. “I swear, if you call me ‘sunshine bean’ again, I will end you.”

“Oh, peach fuzz.” He sighed dramatically, as if I’d just whispered a love confession instead of a threat. “Don’t tease me.”

I picked up a blood orange and seriously considered hurling it at him. But then he gave me that look—that infuriating, self-satisfied smirk that made something in my chest flutter, which I absolutely didn’t have time for.

God help me, I smiled.

The next stall we came to sold handmade pottery.

A gust of wind carried the scent of roasting coffee from a cart set up near the edge of the market, blending with the tang of sea air that always seemed to hang over this part of the city.

I was eyeing a collection of blue urns with delicate floral designs, each one a different shade of twilight, when Roman snorted behind me.

“What would you even put in those?”

“The ashes of my enemies,” I said flatly. “Or I might just leave them empty. I like the symbolism.”

He laughed, an honest, full sound that made me smile even harder. I turned over one of the urns and spotted the price tag.

“Okay, never mind,” I muttered, gently placing it back on the table. “My enemies are safe for now.” But I still made a point to compliment the woman behind the table. “Your work is gorgeous.”

Her eyes lit up. People didn’t say what they liked aloud enough. I made a mental note to do it more often. We drifted toward a stall overflowing with fresh bread and jars of wildflower honey. Roman snagged a sample cube of something flaky and perfect, then dropped it into my hand with a flourish.

“For the queen of sarcasm. Your crown awaits.”

“You’re such a menace,” I muttered, but my voice came out soft. Too soft. Too fond.

He shrugged and brushed imaginary dust off his shirt like a humble martyr. “It’s a gift.”

We wandered from booth to booth. A seagull squawked overhead, hopeful for crumbs.

Roman joked with vendors, and with nothing but a crooked grin and a well-placed compliment, he convinced the honey guy to give us an extra free sample.

A fog bank lingered just beyond the market, that soft, gray wall that always threatened but never quite ruined the day.

“We’ve just pulled off a heist,” he whispered. “Act casual.”

I actually laughed, and not the polite kind. The real kind, the kind that cracked something open in my ribs and made room. For once, I wasn’t thinking about how I looked or whether I was being too much. I was just… there. With him. Comfortable.

As we passed a pie stand, Roman bumped my shoulder and pointed at a gooseberry pie. “You think Doris would explode if I bought a gooseberry plant to put by the entrance?”

“She’d call the fire department.”

“What if we bribed her with a gooseberry tart? You think she has tart trauma?”

“She probably has a spreadsheet of forbidden fruit trees,” I deadpanned. “Right under her eviction clauses and maintenance schedule.”

“She definitely has a specific time of night when she shimmies up the drainpipe to spy on tenants.”

I snorted. “I’d watch that documentary.”

We reached for a tiny jar of jam at the same time, and our fingers brushed. I froze. Roman’s hand just… stayed there, like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

He was doing this on purpose. Every look. Every pet name. Every hand graze. It was all part of his mission to ruin my life one goddamn flirt at a time.

And yet, my pulse remained steady. I didn’t feel like I was about to implode or apologize for existing. I felt fine. Better than fine.

I felt like me.

We kept walking. My shoulder bumped Roman’s again, and this time, I didn’t move away.

When we reached the tomato stand, I grabbed one and inspected it closely.

Across the street, a trolley rumbled past, packed with tourists taking photos of everything, even this market, as if they could capture what it felt like to actually live here.

And then I saw Eric, holding hands with a woman who looked like she brewed herbal tinctures naked in the moonlight and made eye contact with her sourdough starter...

His yoga instructor.

Of course.

“Maggie?”

Roman went still beside me, his whole posture shifting from lazy ease to subtle tension. I didn’t move. He stepped forward, cool as ever. “Hey, man. I’m Roman, Mags’s boyfriend. We’re trying this local organic cooking thing. Very primal. Lots of meat.”

My mouth opened to explain, but before I could speak, Eric extended his hand. “I’m Eric. Maggie and I, uh, used to live together.”

Roman raised an eyebrow and looked at me.

I nodded, my palm sweat sticking to the tomato. “Eric’s my ex.”

Eric motioned to the woman beside him. “This is Bianca.”

She barely glanced up. “Pleased to meet ya,” she said, chomping her gum obscenely.

Frowning, Eric looked between us. “You sure moved on quickly.”

I smiled sweetly. “I was about to say the same.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry. You’re actually dating him?”

Roman slid his arm around my waist and yanked me in with a confidence I hadn’t emotionally consented to.

“Can’t believe you let this one get away, Eric,” Roman said. “She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Guess she just needed a real man by her side.”

And then, God help me, he kissed me.

It wasn’t fast. It definitely wasn’t innocent.

It was thorough. His hands stayed on my waist, fingers flexing like he meant it.

His mouth was warm and confident and terrifyingly good at this fake boyfriend thing.

My knees actually buckled. The tomato slipped from my hand and rolled across the ground like it, too, had given up.

Just before I closed my eyes and gave in to the moment—you know, for science—I saw Eric’s mouth open and close.

Roman finally pulled away, completely unfazed. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “We have to go marinate things.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me with him like we were going to go have aggressive farmer’s market sex.

We didn’t stop until we’d turned a corner and left the scene of emotional arson behind.

Down the road, a street performer strummed a guitar, singing a folksy version of “Landslide” that somehow made everything feel all the more unreal.

Half a block passed in silence, and the heat of that kiss still clung to my skin like static.

Finally, Roman said, “You okay? You’re not mad over the kiss, are you? I just assumed you’d want to make Eric insanely jealous, but I might’ve judged incorrectly.”

I didn’t look at him. My cheeks were still on fire. My brain? Gone. Dignity? Still rolling around somewhere by the tomato stand.

“Umm…” That was all I had. Just umm.

Roman tried not to smile. Failed. Then that infuriating, smug little smirk.

I hated him. (Probably.)

“No,” I finally muttered. “I’m not mad.”

“Good,” he said.

And that was that. We kept walking, hands still clasped.

I didn’t let go, and neither did he.

The second we stepped inside the apartment, I made a beeline for the fridge and flung the door open.

Cool air rushed over my face as I leaned into the shelves, practically shoving my entire head inside.

The blast of cold numbed the heat in my cheeks, though it didn’t touch the fire still simmering inside me.

I braced my hands on the sides and stayed there.

This was fine. Everything was fine. I just needed to chill. Literally. Emotionally. Existentially.

I stared at the oat milk as if it held answers.

I kept thinking about the look on Eric’s face when he saw Roman: the tight little twitch of his jaw, the way his hand flexed around Bianca’s like he was holding onto a life raft.

He hadn’t expected me to have moved on. Not with someone like Roman.

Not with someone who smiled like he knew what he wanted and kissed like he already had it.

I should’ve felt triumphant. Giddy. Vengeful.

Instead, all I could think about was Roman’s lips on mine. So steady and deliberate, like he’d meant it. Like he wanted more.

And then—

“Your lips are really soft,” Roman murmured as he brushed past me. His voice was low and husky, so close I felt the words against my neck more than I heard them.