9. Roman
ROMAN
S hock doesn’t begin to describe what it feels like to see my little rose, looking hot as fuck, standing on my front step like some sort of fever dream.
“What a coincidence,” I murmur, leaning casually against the doorframe. “I was just thinking about you.”
Her lips are parted, like she’s surprised I answered the door, and when I speak, she snaps them closed and clears her throat. “You were?”
“I was.” I cross my arms slowly. “Are you stalking me?”
She licks her bottom lip, her gaze lifting to mine from beneath those long, dark lashes, and my stomach tightens like a vise.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she replies.
Something uneasy curls in my chest, because she’s being oddly nice. But I’ll take it, because if she leaves, then I’m left alone to face my problems—my family’s problems—and she’s a hell of a nice reprieve.
The perfect distraction.
Especially since my mom was a no-show.
Tilting my head, I let my eyes roam, dragging slowly down her frame before crawling back up again. When our gazes meet, she’s blushing—because of course she is—flushed all the way to her ears.
It’s the exact shade of pink I’ve been chasing in that damn drawing.
“Not that I’m complaining, but how do you know where I live?” I ask.
“I saw you at the coffee shop,” she admits. “And…followed you.”
A slow grin spreads across my face. “So, you are stalking me.”
“I am not stalking you.”
“It’s okay, Princess. Really, I like it.”
She squints. “You’d like to have a stalker?”
“Depends.” I lean in, placing my arm above her head on the top of the doorframe, just close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. “Does the stalker look like you?”
She scoffs. “So, it’s only creepy if they’re ugly? That’s fucked up.”
“I prefer the term selectively unbothered .”
She groans, dragging a hand over her face. “Oh my God , why did I think coming here would be a good idea?”
“Anything involving you and me is a good idea.”
Now she laughs, and it shoots straight through my chest.
“I like that,” I blurt like an idiot.
She quiets, sending me a questioning look. “You like what?”
“Your laugh.”
The air between us shifts, feeling thicker somehow. Charged. Like if I moved even half an inch closer, something would combust.
“I’m not stalking you,” she says again. “I wanted to apologize, actually.”
“Should I be worried? You’re kind of giving… What did you call it? Serial killer vibes .”
Her blush expands, coloring down her neck. My fingers twitch with the urge to trace it. Or sketch it. Or lick it.
“Please, we are not the same,” she protests.
“Oh, I agree.” I smirk, letting my gaze drop to her mouth. “But you know what they say. Opposites attract.”
She cracks a small grin. “Are you gonna invite me in so I can say I’m sorry or what?”
I gesture toward the open doorway, giving her space to step inside. But she doesn’t move. She just looks at me, and fuck , she’s so goddamn pretty it hurts.
Leaning in, I bring my mouth a hairsbreadth away from her ear, close enough to feel her breath stutter.
“That,” I murmur, “was me inviting you in.”
She smells like cinnamon and vanilla and something else. Something heady and warm and a little sultry. My mouth waters, wondering if that taste is artificial or if it’s something I could have on my tongue if I buried my head between her thighs.
“Oh, right,” she says. “Thanks.”
I move to the side to give her room to pass, and she slips through, the front of her body squeezing by mine.
My breath hitches now, and a slow burn sparks in the pit of my stomach, unfurling through me like a flame licking up my veins.
I follow her in silence as she makes her way through the small, narrow kitchen off the front door, past the tiny bathroom to the right, and into the main area of my studio apartment.
There’s a TV mounted a little crooked on the wall, a rectangular coffee table I found on the curb last year, and a small blue couch that probably predates both of us. Next to all of that is my bed in the corner, although really, it’s just a mattress with a simple bedframe.
She stops in the middle of the room, taking everything in with a tilt of her head.
Like she’s sizing it up.
And for some reason, that makes my stomach tangle and my chest squeeze.
If she really is Juliette Calloway, this apartment must look like a shoebox to her. The feeling of not being enough chokes me by the neck.
“It’s not much,” I mutter.
She turns, and then she smiles. Really smiles. The sight of it steals the breath straight from my lungs.
“It’s perfect,” she says.
“Okay, what’s up with you?”
Her brows furrow. “What do you mean?”
“You’re being weirdly nice.” I squint. “Is this a setup? Are you here to kill me? Be honest. I deserve the chance to defend myself.”
“I’m not, I swear.” She chuckles. “This place just feels so you , it’s painful.”
“Coming from a girl who insists we don’t know each other, that’s either very creepy or very flattering.”
She shrugs, smirking. “It feels, I don’t know, homey. Like Sleepytime tea or something.”
I stare at her.
“Did you just compare me to a drink that puts people to sleep? Are you calling me boring?” I look around the space, attempting to see it from her eyes. “Am I boring?”
Her lips twitch. “I meant it as a compliment.”
I take a slow step toward her, and then another. “Okay. But if you think I’m boring, I’m more than happy to prove you wrong.”
Her smile fades, and the lightheartedness of our conversation evaporates like water, something heady taking its place.
“What are you doing here, Little Rose?” I ask, my voice a low murmur.
“I don’t…I don’t know,” she stutters. And then, “What did you call me?”
Tilting my head, I lift my hand until the back of it ghosts across her jaw and then down the sleek line of her neck. Not touching…but almost .
“You don’t like it? I can go back to Princess if you want.”
She raises a brow. “I get to choose?”
“Always.”
Her face changes then, heaviness flickering in her eyes. “I’ve had a really shitty day, and when I saw you at the coffee shop…”
She trails off.
I take another step in, until we’re so close the air vibrates between us. I give into the urge, my hand dropping to the juncture between her neck and shoulder, my stomach flipping at the contact. “You what ?”
Her tongue peeks out, wetting her lips. “I realized that every time we’ve talked, I’ve been mean to you. Even when you didn’t deserve it.”
I skim my fingers across her flesh until they rest lightly at the base of her throat. “I can handle you.”
She sucks in a shaky breath, her eyes dropping to my mouth. “I don’t need to be handled .”
I slide my palm up until it’s wrapped around the dip beneath her jaw. “Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t like to be.”
Her breathing stutters, but then she snaps out of it and takes a step back. “You’re awfully bold for someone who won’t tell me his name.”
I grin and cross my arms. She’s flustered. Her chest is rising and falling rapidly, and a dusting of that perfect rose sweeps across her face. I bet if I pressed my fingers against her neck, I’d feel her pulse beating wildly.
Goddamn, she’s sexy. I need to get her out of here, or else I need to think about something entirely un -sexy, like the Pythagorean Theorem or my eighty-year-old nurse from elementary school named Mrs. Tucker who hated me because I got the entire fifth grade to call her Mrs. Fucker instead.
Oh. Yep. There it is. Boner averted.
“I accept your apology,” I say, raking a hand through my hair. “Is that all?”
She shifts, biting her lower lip. “I thought maybe I’d take you up on your offer.”
My brows shoot up. “I’ve made several offers when it comes to you, so you’ll need to be more specific.”
“To draw me,” she clarifies, her hands wringing together.
I won’t lie and say I’m not interested in doing it. I originally offered that as a way to get under her skin because she’s cute when she’s feisty, but now that she’s put it on the table, I want it. Badly.
But maybe that’s exactly why I shouldn’t. I’m having a hard enough time keeping her out of my head as it is. No need to willingly make it worse.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I admit reluctantly.
She blanches and then looks down at the ground like she’s searching for her dignity, her toe rubbing a nervous half circle into the hardwood. “You’re right. That was a stupid thing. Of course you weren’t serious… I just thought it might be a good distraction, and I need a distraction right now.”
Funny. I thought the same thing about her.
And to be honest, I don’t like the way she suddenly looks so sad, like she’s desperate for someone to see her and to make the bad go away. It tugs on that piece of me deep inside that I keep locked up tight, where I beg for the same thing.
“Lie down.”
Her head jerks up. “Excuse me?”
I smirk. “I’m not asking you to get naked, Princess. I just want you to be comfortable when you pose. So, lie down.”
She nods, her gaze flicking from the couch to the bed and then to me before doing it over again. She’s nervous, and I tamp down the smile that wants to break free.
“The couch is fine.”
“I prefer the other one, by the way, if you insist on calling me by a ridiculous nickname,” she says as she moves to the sofa and positions herself against the cushions.
Heat shoots through me like a flare gun as I watch her get cozy on my furniture. She’s on her back, fingers wringing together on her torso. Her hands fold, then unfold. Her legs shift. Once. Twice.
I walk over, lean down, and gently take her wrist. Her eyes fly to mine, and my heart thumps.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“Yeah—yes.”
She watches my face closely as I move her arm above her head, like I’m an equation she’s trying to solve.
“I don’t normally do this, you know?” she says.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Good. I’m territorial.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re mine .”
Her lips part.
“To draw,” I add, trying to save us both from wading into territory we aren’t prepared for.
I tear my gaze from hers and focus on positioning her body the way I want it. I try like hell not to react to how good she feels under my hands. How I want to grip her tighter and position her in other ways.
Bent over the arm of the couch. On her back in my bed. Up against the wall with her legs wrapped around my waist.
I shift, willing my dick to behave.
“Do you want to know my name?” she breathes.
Fuck.
Yes. No. I don’t know.
“It doesn’t matter what your name is,” I finally reply. “Fate seems to love putting you in my hands, regardless.”
Reaching out, I smooth my palm along her jaw until I’m brushing behind her ear. My fingers twist in the silky strands of hair at her nape, pulling lightly until she angles herself appropriately.
“Perfect,” I murmur.
She exhales, and I grit my teeth to keep myself from acting on this insane lust I feel for her. I’ve had plenty of one-night stands before and never has someone made me feel like this.
I clear my throat instead and move to the other side of the room, grabbing my desk chair and positioning it a safe distance away. I pick up my sketchbook and pencils from the bed and then sit down across from her.
“Let me know if you get uncomfortable,” I say.
“You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
My chest warms. “That’s good. But I meant the pose.”
“Oh. Right.” She licks her lips and then stares up at the ceiling, studiously avoiding my gaze like it might light her on fire.
Probably smart.
“Try not to move.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
For a moment, I just look at her, my heart beating out a stilted rhythm as I soak in the curves and angles of her body. Every soft line, every tiny flicker of vulnerability she’s pretending not to feel.
She’s chaos and comfort. A contradiction I want to memorialize as the perfect piece of art.
I pick up my pencil, open to a blank page, and start to draw.