Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
A proper date. What does that mean to Roman Graves?
I mean, I remember as a kid watching Brice and Roman get ready for their junior prom.
Brice thought he was hilarious wearing a baby-blue tux he found at Goodwill.
While Roman wore black. All black—and man, he looked good.
Mom made their double dates dinner, and then they went to the dance.
I have no idea what happened after that.
I don’t need a prom dress for this outing, do I?
I charge through the bathroom, showered and wearing my new favorite outfit, Roman’s jersey and my own sweats. I tap on his door. Not waiting for an answer, I yell through the closed entrance, “What should I wear?”
The door separating us swings open, and I stumble an inch forward—almost into my Roman. “Wear?”
“Yeah. Like, do I need a dress for this outing? Or will pants suffice?” I ask, examining Roman up and down. Gosh, he’s nice to look at.
“I want you to be comfortable. Wear whatever you want.”
“That’s so unhelpful,” I say. But he’s in a gray sweater and jeans—I can easily match that energy.
“Ah—” he starts, but I turn around, walking back to my room.
“I’ve got it,” I call.
I opt for wide-leg jeans, my red sweater, and brown boots. Unless we’re swimming or headed to prom, I should be good to go. I dry my hair and let it fall in waves around my shoulders. I am trying my best to ignore the nerves in my gut and the flutter of my heart.
I can hear Roman in his room as I twist the top off my mascara. Then, his Jack and Jill door opens a crack. “Can I come in?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, gulping on the word.
His musky cologne follows him inside, swallowing me whole—in the best of ways. He looks ready to go—and an hour earlier than he planned, just as I requested.
The thrumming in my heart has become a jackhammer as I finish applying my mascara. Roman snags his electric toothbrush from the counter and squeezes toothpaste onto his brush.
I lick my lips, watching him from the corner of my eye as he brushes his teeth for a solid dentist-recommended two minutes.
Breathing out a long, slow, quiet bout of air, I attempt—and fail—to smell my own breath. Because Roman’s is going to be minty-fresh. Are we officially the kind of married people that properly kiss after a date? Or are we playing with first-date rules?
Is there an Option C for a situation like ours?
Following my husband’s example, and forgetting that I’ve already glossed my lips, I decide to brush my teeth. Again.
Roman washes his hands, adjusts the crew neck of his knit sweater, and rakes a comb through his short, already styled hair.
But then, he’s going to think I ate a mountain of garlic for lunch for as long as I’ve been brushing. Or maybe that I’m hinting around for some make-out time. Neither is true. Okay, maybe one of those things is a little true.
When Roman sets his comb down, I impatiently blurt, “Ready?”
“Go grab your coat and gloves. I’ll meet you by the door.”
My nerves race. I hurry back to my room, throw my coat over my arm, and walk out into the living room. Fireplace, couch, monster-sized Christmas tree, but no Roman.
I press my newly glossed lips together and bounce on the heel of my right foot. A small tap on the front door steals my attention, and I peer back toward the hall, toward our bedrooms. Roman won’t be thrilled with more company.
But the small window on the wooden door reveals that it’s Roman waiting outside. I wrinkle my nose and smirk. “What is he—” My words trail off as I open the door. “Roman?”
“Hi,” he says, a smile on his face.
“Um, hi.”
“Oh, I brought you something.” He bends, picking up a box on the ground next to him. It’s a simple white shoebox tied with a black ribbon. “Open it,” he says, holding it out toward me. “You’ll need these. After shopping.” He winks and holds the box out to me.
“What are you—”
“I’m picking you up properly for our date. And while I didn’t have time to buy flowers, I ordered these a week ago.”
I smother a laugh while untying the black bow tied around this box. I lift the lid to—skates. Brown leather ice skates.
“Size seven, right?”
I blink up at him. “You know my shoe size?” I peer back down at the box.
“I hope I do. Are they correct?”
I swallow. “Perfect,” I say.
Slipping his gloved hand into mine, he grins. “Great. Let’s go.”