Chapter 3
Roman hadn’t gone to the bar with the intention of picking up a woman. In fact, he’d been on his way out, but decided to check
on the recent lobby renovations before heading back to Manhattan.
Then he’d seen Ava.
She’d caught his attention immediately. How could she not? Tall and beautiful, with soft hazel eyes, golden tan skin, spiraling
curls, and legs for days. He’d paused for a lingering glance, but definitely hadn’t planned on talking to her.
Until he’d seen her poorly disguised grimace when she sipped her drink. After that, nothing in his overpacked calendar could’ve
stopped him from approaching her.
The spontaneity felt good. Tomorrow he’d get back to his meticulously arranged schedule, but for tonight, he’d just enjoy
whatever was happening with Ava.
Shitty drink? Lonely night? Crowded restaurant? He could fix all that.
And if helping Ava took his mind off the supremely frustrating conversation he’d had with his mother that morning—well, that
was an added bonus.
Across the elevator from him, Ava toyed with her necklace, a thin gold chain with her name in script. Her eyes were glued to the red digital numbers counting their journey toward the top floor.
He got the feeling she was nervous, so he asked, “Hungry?”
Her rigid posture relaxed a fraction. “Starving.”
“Any allergies or preferences?”
She opened her mouth, then shut it and shook her head. “Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” She gave a decisive nod that didn’t fool him in the least.
“Seemed like you were about to say something.”
She shot him a glance. “Well... I don’t like olives.”
He raised his brows. “And you were afraid to tell me that because...?”
She blew out a breath. “My stepmother is Greek. I’m not allowed to dislike olives, so I don’t ever voice that opinion.”
And yet she’d told him. That meant something, but he didn’t know what.
“I promise not to tell her,” he said gravely, and she grinned.
Roman shot a quick text to the kitchen manager, asking them to send up the most popular items and a champagne bucket.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened directly into the most luxurious suite at the Dulce Playa. Taking her hand, Roman
led her into the space, watching for her reaction.
The rooms were decorated in the Dulce’s signature gold and blue color scheme, but with more emphasis on lighter earth tones than the New York City locations, which skewed more toward the deep, rich blue. To the left, a sectional sofa and matching pair of armchairs created a conversation center, while to the right, a glass-topped dining table boasted seating for eight.
Ava let out a low whistle.
“Do you like it?” He didn’t know why, but he cared what she thought.
She granted him a shy grin. “I have to admit, I thought it would be more ostentatious.”
That pulled a laugh out of him. “Yeah? Like with a glass bar and big silver unicorn statue?”
“Exactly.” She turned her head, taking it all in. “But I’m glad it’s not.”
It pleased him that she’d noticed. Décor in a lot of hotels went either too elaborate or too minimalist, in his opinion. When
someone stayed at a Dulce, he wanted them to feel like they were at home, but better. Beautiful and elegant, but not cluttered.
Clean and spacious, but not cold. “Comfortable luxury” was a surprisingly hard balance to strike, and he’d spent many hours
poring over furnishings and textile samples before settling on the perfect mix of sharp angles and plush fabrics. He was more
hands-on than some hoteliers he knew, but his attention to detail was what made the Dulce Hotel Group a success.
And if his legendary attention was feeling a little strained these days, well, that was the trade-off for the level of financial
security he desired.
Roman guided Ava to the glass doors that led out to the deck, which had a private pool and hot tub. Under an overhang, wooden
deck chairs with cushions in gold and blue surrounded a round patio table.
“Wow,” Ava breathed, as Roman opened the doors to reveal the last moments of a stellar sunset. She drifted over to the railing
as if pulled by the sun’s gravity. “Now that is a view.”
His phone buzzed before he could reply. It was his assistant, Camille Price, aka the Keeper of the Schedule, as his younger sister, Mikayla, called her. Camille was responding to the “cancel the car” text he’d sent from the bar.
Camille: What’s going on?
Roman: I’m sticking around the hotel a little longer. Having dinner.
Camille: Do you want me to reschedule the driver for a specific time?
Roman: No, I’ll do it when I’m ready to go.
Camille: You have an early meeting tomorrow with your editor.
Roman: As if you’d let me forget.
Camille: That’s what I’m here for.
Roman: Enjoy your night. I’ll check in tomorrow.
When Roman looked up from his phone, Ava was watching him. The sunset silhouetted her curves, gilding her with the sun’s final
rays. Her hazel eyes nearly glowed, and she was so beautiful, she made his breath catch.
No, he certainly hadn’t planned on her. But now that he’d found her, he wasn’t ready to say goodbye just yet.
“So you’re a teacher?” he asked, standing next to her again as the sun dipped below the horizon.
She nodded. “Sixth grade. I teach English and social studies.”
“Where?”
“Spanish Harlem.”
“You live in New York?”
“In the Bronx.”
Good to know. “Do you enjoy teaching?”
“Mostly, but...”
She trailed off, something he noticed she tended to do when she didn’t want to say what she was really thinking. He couldn’t
resist digging further. “But?”
She sighed and turned away from the sky, now painted a vivid orange, pink, and blue. “My students are great, but what I really
want to do is teach drama.”
“Why can’t you?”
“When I was hired, my school’s principal promised I could implement a theater program. It’s part of why I took the position—to
make theater more accessible for New York City kids. They grow up with Broadway in their backyard, but the high ticket prices
make my students feel like it’s not ‘for them.’ But it’s been five years now, and the principal keeps putting me off.”
He noted her passion and her frustration. It piqued his interest, and also made him think of his sister, who could spend hours
discussing the ins and outs of Broadway. It was as good a way as any of getting to know Ava better, and he found he wanted
that very much.
“Musicals or plays?” he asked, since it was a topic that never failed to get Mikayla going.
“I love musicals, but I’d teach plays too.”
“What’s your favorite musical?”
“Oh, that’s a tough one. It changes all the time, and for different reasons.”
“All right, if not your favorite, what was the first show you ever saw?”
“ The Phantom of the Opera ,” she replied. “It was a school trip. After that, I was obsessed.”
“With the Phantom?” It was a joke, but when she hid her face, he had to know more. “What, did I just guess your secret Broadway
crush?”
“Don’t laugh,” she warned.
He schooled his features. “I won’t.”
“Keep in mind that I was twelve ,” she said as a caveat. “I loved the show so much, I begged my dad to get me the CD so I could pretend to be Christine.”
“Is that...?”
“The female lead, a soprano. I used to belt the soundtrack when no one was home, and—oh god, this is too embarrassing.”
“Now you have to tell me.”
She put a hand over her eyes like she couldn’t look him in the face. “I also concocted elaborate fantasies about a teenage
Phantom who bore a striking resemblance to Anakin Skywalker.”
“Anakin—” He broke off and swallowed a chuckle. “As in, Darth Vader?”
She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “You said you wouldn’t laugh!”
“Apologies.” He fought valiantly to keep his expression blank and his tone even. “I swear I am taking your prepubescent crushes on the Phantom of the Opera and Darth Vader very seriously.”
She sighed. “In hindsight, it was probably the first indication that I have terrible taste in men.” She ticked them off on
her fingers. “Exhibit A: a man who terrorized an opera house. Exhibit B: the scourge of the galaxy. And Exhibit C: my ex-husband,
a mama’s boy who never learned how to use a washing machine or write a check.”
Roman felt it prudent to set himself apart from these less than sterling examples of heroism. “In case you were wondering,”
he said, “I don’t like opera, I’ve never built a Death Star, and I can use a washing machine and write a check.”
Ava’s tone was skeptical. “I feel like one of those things is a lie.”
“You’re right, my Death Star’s parked in the garage.”
She grinned. “I knew it.”
Since she’d brought up her ex, Roman couldn’t resist a follow-up question. “How long were you married?” he asked, then winced.
Damn his inner chismoso. “Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.”
She gave a little shrug. “It’s fine. We were married for three years, together for ten.”
“How did you meet?”
“In college. His mom and my great-aunt live on the same block and he didn’t have a car, so I gave him a ride home for Thanksgiving
one year.”
“Have you...” How the hell did he ask this without sounding insensitive? He cleared his throat. “Have you dated at all
since...”
“Since my ex and I separated a year and a half ago?” She shook her head and turned away, resting her elbows on the railing. “No. All I’ve been able to think about was getting the divorce completed. What about you?”
“Me?”
“Ever been married?”
He leaned on the railing, watching her while she watched the sunset. “No. No time.”
She sent him a curious look, her delicate brows drawing together.
“My whole life has been focused on work,” he admitted. “Relationships don’t usually last longer than whatever event we need
to be seen at.”
Her forehead crinkled. “What does that mean?”
He sighed. Why had he mentioned that? “My publicist arranges my dates. Like if I’m attending a premiere, or a gala, or whatever,
she pairs me with another one of her clients. And yes, I realize how it sounds.”
“Sounds like work,” she said lightly, and he nodded.
“It is.” He didn’t want to get into a discussion about his previous relationships, the ones who seemed to be less interested
in him as a person than in what he could buy them. Or how he hadn’t dated much since his mother and sister moved in with him
five years ago.
Yes, he’d had sex with some of the women his publicist had set him up with. Women who understood the “see and be seen” game
and were down for a little bedroom companionship, but who were ultimately just as focused on their own careers.
For Roman, work always came first.
Except for right now, apparently.
Right now, he was supposed to be on his way back to the city, not hanging out on a roof in New Jersey with a stunning and intriguing woman. But despite his responsibilities and the to-do list nagging at the back of his brain, he found he could ignore them more easily than usual.
Ava toyed with her necklace again. As if she could hear his thoughts, she said, “I’m probably keeping you from something important.
I can get myself food, if you need to—”
“No, it’s fine.” He spoke quickly, before she could talk herself out of eating with him. “I want to have dinner with you.”
She twisted her fingers together and looked down at his loafers. “Roman, I’m flattered. Truly. But I don’t understand why
someone like you is doing all this for...”
“For...?”
Tension coiled in his muscles as he guessed what she was trying to say. He should leave it alone, but the part of him that
wanted to fix things for people couldn’t let it pass.
Her throat rippled as she swallowed, and when her eyes met his, there was a wealth of pain in them. “For someone... like
me.”
“What do you mean by that?” When she raised her hands helplessly, he pressed. “Someone gorgeous? Someone kind? Someone who’d
rather be stuck with a godawful Jersey Shore drink than complain or inconvenience anyone? Why do you think you’re not worthy
of good things?”
Of being taken care of? he wanted to add, but he held back. No need to bring his own baggage into this.
“Roman, I am a newly divorced middle-school teacher, and you...” She waved a hand at him. “I mean, look at you. Look at
this .”
She gestured around them—at the sunset, the pool, the suite—and Roman stepped forward and caught her hands in his. When he spoke, his tone was low and earnest. “Ava, I am more than my bank account, and you’re more than your marital status. We are two people who deserve to have a nice, uncomplicated dinner together. That’s it.”
She surprised him by rolling her eyes. “Tell that to my family. My marital status is all they care about.”
Ah, now they were getting to the heart of it. He felt a little flicker of triumph at her admission. “Why? How did they react
to the divorce?”
She groaned and slipped her hands out of his to lean her elbows back on the railing. “Like it was the end of the fucking world.
You’d think somebody had died, the way they carried on.”
“That must have been overwhelming.”
“To put it mildly. My grandmother’s been pressuring me to ‘just get married again’ for more than a year.”
His brow creased. “Weren’t you still legally married until today?”
“Most of them think the divorce was over a while ago—it was easier that way. But it doesn’t matter how many times I tell her
that I don’t want to get married again. She either forgets or says I’m being ‘difficult.’” She made air quotes with her fingers.
“Something tells me you’ve never been difficult a day in your life.”
“All I’ve ever done is try to be perfect.” Her shoulders slumped. “For all the good it’s done me.”
“What would happen if you weren’t?” Roman asked softly. “What would you do if you didn’t have to be perfect?”
She huffed. “Why does it matter?”
Before he could answer, his watch buzzed. He squinted at the message. “The food is coming up.”
“Good. I built up an appetite bombarding you with my drama.”
“I asked,” he reminded her. “I wanted to know.”
“So you say.” She gave him a long, speculative look. “I just don’t understand why.”
He didn’t either. Thankfully, he was saved from having to think about it by the ding of the elevator inside the suite. A moment
later, one of the kitchen managers rolled in a tray laden with dishes.
“?Cómo estás, Jesús?” Roman eyed the man unloading food onto the patio table. Jesús wore a simple dark gray suit and fashionable
loafers, and it was absolutely not his job to deliver food.
“Jefe.” Jesús gave Roman a respectful nod before his gaze cut over to Ava.
Roman sighed. Jesús was here on a fact-finding mission. Within an hour, the entire Dulce Playa staff would know the boss had
brought a woman to the penthouse suite, which meant word would reach Camille—or worse, Roman’s mother —before too long.
Ava’s eyes went round as dishes covered the table. “Are we expecting more people?”
Roman laughed. “These are just to tide us over while we wait for the rest.”
“ The rest? ”
Once all the appetizers had been set out, Roman thanked Jesús and slipped him some cash, muttering in Spanish, “Don’t tell
anyone.”
Jesús mimed zipping his mouth shut. “My lips are sealed,” he whispered, which Roman didn’t believe for a second.
When Ava continued to stare at the spread of food, Roman moved closer. “You said downstairs that you don’t know what comes next. Start small. Decide what you want to eat and enjoy it. Don’t worry about what’s left behind, just focus on each bite.”
She blew out a breath. “I suppose I could try that.”
She surveyed the selections and made herself a plate, opting to sample a little of everything. There was salmon tartare with
avocado and nori, warm burrata with walnut pesto and roasted tomatoes, crab cakes topped with chipotle aioli, pulled pork
sliders with cilantro lime slaw and jalapeno cornbread, and—Roman’s favorite—crispy sesame calamari with Korean red pepper
dip. It had been one of his own additions to the menu, a reminder of the few times when, back in his childhood, he and his
mom had gone to a real restaurant for a special occasion and he’d been allowed to order an appetizer.
Once Ava sat down, Roman lifted a champagne bottle out of the ice bucket.
She let out a soft gasp when she saw the label. “But we already made a toast downstairs.”
“That was before I knew why you were at the bar,” he said. “Had I known, I would have dispensed with the theatrics and gone
straight to the champagne.”
“This feels too extravagant.”
“We don’t have to open it,” he said. “But I thought we should toast the next phase of your life.”
“The next phase,” she murmured, her voice hoarse with emotion. “You know, I used to be that person who always had a detailed
plan for the future. Now? I don’t even know how to dream anymore.”
Roman’s heart broke for her. “Shall I?”
Her eyes were a little misty, but she bit her lower lip and nodded.
Roman popped the bottle, then filled their champagne flutes. As the tiny bubbles fizzed merrily, he raised his glass and said,
“To you, Ava. To imperfection. To dreaming. To welcoming whatever comes next, with or without a plan.” He paused. “How was
that?”
She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”
They sat at the table by the pool sipping champagne and nibbling on appetizers while the sky darkened above them. When the
main courses arrived, Ava exclaimed over the selection, but took her time considering each dish and making herself a plate.
As they ate, Roman noted what she liked and what she felt lukewarm about. For later? He didn’t know if there’d be a later.
But just in case, he filed the information away.
They talked as they ate—about the food, about their jobs—and avoided heavier topics like family and relationships.
It was... easy. Unhurried. For someone who lived and died by his schedule, it was nice to take an evening off.
The air cooled, but it was still warm out. Ava gazed longingly at the pool.
“I wish I could go for a swim,” she murmured.
“What’s stopping you?”
She shot him a surprised look. “Well, my hair, for one thing.”
“What about it? It looks great.”
“Exactly. Do you know how long this takes to achieve?” She twirled a perfectly defined curl around her finger. “Too long.
Besides, I didn’t bring a bathing suit.”
Roman spread his hands and gestured around them. “I won’t tell anyone.”
She stared at him for a long time, a myriad of emotions crossing her face, too quick to decipher. Maybe he’d pushed her too hard. Maybe she was rethinking this whole evening. Just as he was about to apologize for teasing her, she spoke.
“You asked me earlier what I’d do if I didn’t have to worry about being perfect.”
“And what’s that?”
She got up and slipped off her shoes. “This.”
He blinked. “What are you doing?”
“Getting my hair wet.”
“You’re going in?” he asked, unable to suppress the note of incredulity in his voice.
She nodded but didn’t look at him as her hands went to the button at her waistband. “I love swimming. And I can’t pass up
a private rooftop pool.”
She slipped her pants down her legs, and Roman tried not to swallow his tongue.
Muttering something about New Ava, she straightened and pulled her blouse over her head, revealing a light pink bra that matched
her panties. She was tall and long-limbed, with generous hips his palms ached to touch.
She folded her clothes carefully and set them on her chair, then tucked her shoes underneath. When she turned to face the
pool and Roman got a look at her from behind, he bit back a groan. God, this woman was perfect.
Then, to his surprise, she unhooked her bra and tossed it onto the chair beside her.
He sucked in a breath.
Instead of going to the steps, she sat on the edge and dipped her legs in.
“It’s warm.” She sent him a delighted smile over her shoulder.
“Heated saltwater pool,” he mumbled, heart pounding as his eyes traveled down her back to the curve of her butt, barely covered by pink panties.
“Saltwater? Oh, this is totally worth having to do my hair again.” And then she pushed herself off the edge and into the water,
submerging herself completely.
Her flickering form moved gracefully beneath the waves. She came up on the other side of the pool with her hair slicked back,
looking for all the world like a siren ready to entice him to his doom.
At that moment, he’d gladly follow her into the mouth of a sea monster, all for one last glimpse of her.
She wiped the water from her eyes. When she saw him watching, she called out in a husky voice, “Aren’t you going to join me?”
Fuck yeah he was . Roman leaped to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. He fumbled to undo the buttons on his shirt.
Was it suddenly more humid out here, or was it just the way she was looking at him? Her lips parted, and her eyes were glued
to his hands as they revealed his chest. He slowed, giving her time to look her fill, when he really wanted to rip his clothes
off and leap into the water after her. He slipped the shirt off his shoulders, taking care to flex as he did, and it was quiet
enough that he heard her sharp intake of breath. Inside, he grinned like a fiend. Then he undid his pants and drew them down.
He wore dark gray briefs, which did little to hide his growing arousal.
Across the pool, Ava’s gaze flickered over his body, and Roman couldn’t stay away from her a second longer. He jumped in. Warm water engulfed him, and although the pool was only five feet at its deepest, he sliced through it in an easy breaststroke, keeping his eyes on her. He thought she’d swim away, maybe make it a game, but she just stood there, waiting for him.
When he reached her, she sent him a shy smile. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
He came to a stop in front of her. Water lapped around their bare shoulders as his feet touched down. “Like what?”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Skinny-dip with a man I just met?”
“I hope this is better than watching a movie in your hotel room.” Over dinner, she’d admitted that was her backup plan after
the cocktail failure.
Her eyes glowed. “Much.”
“I’m glad I could help.”
“Thank you. I... believe you.”
He drew closer to her in the water. “Tell me what you want.”
Her brows drew together as if troubled. “That’s the problem. I don’t know anymore.”
“Then tell me what you like,” he pressed. “Or what you used to like.”
Maybe it was weird to ask, but she said she hadn’t dated since the breakup. If there was something she wanted, he would give
it to her.
“I like...” Her eyes dropped to his mouth and darted away, like she was too scared to say it.
“Tell me,” he urged, his tone gentle. “I won’t judge you.”
Her gaze returned to his mouth and lingered.
“Kissing.” The admission came in a hushed whisper. “I used to love kissing.”
His pulse beat in his throat. “What did you love about it?”
“It used to be so exciting. But then, I don’t know why, we just... stopped.”
“You and your husband stopped kissing?” He kept his tone light. Inside, he wondered what kind of fucking idiot would ever
stop kissing this woman.
“It was a gradual thing. We stopped kissing hello and goodbye, good morning and goodnight.” She gave a little shrug. “Then
we stopped kissing during sex. Maybe we were too comfortable? Too busy? But it was something I really liked, and then we didn’t
do it anymore. I can’t... I can’t even remember the last time we kissed.”
That particular branch of memory lane seemed to be bringing her down. To distract her, he asked, “What kind of kissing do
you like?”
He didn’t think she’d answer, but then her tongue darted out to touch her lower lip, and he nearly groaned.
“Deep,” she whispered. “Slow, wet, consuming kisses, where the entire world falls away and you can’t think about anything
else but the other person’s lips and tongue.”
The heat in her eyes, the breathiness in her voice—and also the hesitation—added fuel to the firestorm raging inside him.
He shifted closer, and when he spoke, the question came out rough. “Do you want to kiss me, Ava?”
Her eyes had gone heavy-lidded and molten with desire. Her lips parted and the words escaped in a single breath. “More than
anything.”
He lowered his voice. “Then do it.”
As if she’d only been waiting for permission, she propelled herself forward, sliding her hands over his shoulders until the front of their bodies bumped together and her bare breasts pressed to his chest.
Those long legs of hers wrapped around his hips, bringing their pelvises into contact with only two thin layers of wet cotton
separating them. Roman clamped a hand on her ass to hold her to him and felt himself harden. Catching his jaw between her
wet hands, she tugged his face to her. His mouth landed on lips that were impossibly soft, impossibly full. The taste of her
went right to his head, faster and far more potent than the champagne. Remembering what she’d described, he poured himself
into the kiss, taking his time and exploring every part of her mouth with every part of his.
Deep. Slow. Wet.
She moaned in the back of her throat, and her hands fisted in his wet hair even as her tongue slid languidly against his.
The combination of hard and soft undid him, and he lost himself in her taste, in her touch, in her scent, like orange blossoms
floating on the sea.
Fuck, he’d never had a kiss quite like this.
“What else do you like, Ava?” He pressed her to the side of the pool, his hips surging forward to grind his aching cock on
her. “This?”
Her head fell back with a gasp. “Do that again.”
How could he deny her? Lining them up, he pushed his hardness against her through their underwear, and she whimpered, clutching
at his slick shoulders.
“You like that?” he asked, wanting her to say it, wanting her to voice her desires.
“Yes! Don’t stop,” she choked out.
As if he could. He paid close attention to the noises she made so he knew when he was rubbing the right spot. Then he ground them together, sliding his cock over her clit again and again.
Was it still called dry humping if you were in a swimming pool? Who even cared? Suddenly, nothing in Roman’s life mattered
more than bringing this woman to orgasm in exactly the way she wanted it.
She dropped her head onto his shoulder, moaning into his ear and pressing desperate kisses to the side of his neck. Her strong
legs kept them locked together, and he gripped the edge of the pool, trying not to come. When her cries reached a higher pitch,
he quickened his pace.
“Roman.” She gasped his name, her nails digging into his back. “Yes. Just like—”
Her voice broke on a hoarse moan, and her pelvis bucked. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to tear their underwear
aside and plunge into her. Imagining the wet heat of her surrounding his cock made him groan along with her, but he held back.
By the time she stilled, they were both breathing hard.
His heart pounded, and not just from the relentless arousal coursing through him. She was the one who’d come, yet he felt
an immense level of satisfaction that usually only occurred after successful power plays in the boardroom. Hearing her cries,
feeling her cling to him like he was her anchor in a storm, made him feel more powerful than all his many bank accounts.
“Oh my god,” Ava muttered, her arms limp around his neck. “That was... incredible.”
“ You’re incredible.” He kissed her deeply, wanting more, taking whatever she was willing to give. Her arms tightened, her fingers
sliding into his hair as her tongue tangled with his.
Desperation stole his breath, and he pulled back enough to look into her eyes. “What else do you want, sweetheart? Just tell me and it’s yours.”
“Everything.” She peppered his face with kisses like she couldn’t stop. “I want everything. One night. No overthinking. Give
me all of you, Roman.”
“I’m yours,” he said, and meant it. Bracing his feet, he lifted her out of the water. “Now get that beautiful ass inside.”