Chapter 42
Forty-Two
“I don’t need you to carry me. I’m fine,” I say. I made it to the car just fine. I was fine at the local In-N-Out, and I rode back to the cabin just fine.
But now, Roman is blocking my exit from this car, insisting he manhandle me.
“Your butt is bruised. One hundred percent. I should have caught you on the ice. I should have forced you to let me carry you off—”
“Stop,” I groan, though I am far from upset.
It really did take all of my strength to not let Roman carry me off that ice.
I didn’t need even more eyes on me. But here, in the woods, in front of our house, we are completely alone.
Just us and the skunks. “Fine, pick me up.” I hold up my arms like a toddler and waggle my fingers at him.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Hurry it up, Mister.”
Happy as a clam, that man scoops me from my seat. I don’t hate it. Roman is strong and able and holding me close. Plus, he smells like Christmas. Which I never realized until this minute was such a turn on. But it is.
“I mean, I never got to carry you over the threshold. So, this is a good excuse. Don’t you think?”
“You were far too busy figuring out how to keep away from me to carry me anywhere.”
“Hey,” he says, but his tone is light. “I was trying to be a gentleman.” Crouching just a bit at the house, he says, “Can you unlock the door? My hands are full.”
“I don’t have a key on me.” I lift my brows, enjoying watching him work this one out.
“Huh. Okay.”
“You could put me down,” I say.
“Not an option.”
“Let me just adjust, just a little—” And without warning, I am tossed over Roman’s shoulder, as if he were a fireman and I were a dying woman in a house full of smoke.
A squawk escapes my lips as I am now looking at my husband’s backside. Not a bad view. Still, I frown—it’s wasted, as he can’t see me, but it helps me get into character. It helps me call up my grouchy voice and say, “Roman. What exactly do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m unlocking the door, sweetheart.”
I clear my throat and tilt my head a little to the right, giving myself a new angle to admire Roman’s bum. “Sweetheart?”
“You don’t like it? I thought I’d try out some pet names.
” There’s rustling at the door, and soon the warmth and peace of our home washes over me.
I smell the tree filling up our living room and see Roman’s shoes on the mat.
There’s a slight creak in the floor telling me Roman just passed the fireplace.
I love this little cabin, this home.
My head bobs as we walk, and then I’m upright, face to face with Roman, and being lowered to the couch. “I don’t like it,” I whisper, referring to his pet name.
“I’ll keep trying, then,” he says as my butt hits the sofa.
Leaning farther down, he presses a soft peck to my lips, and I melt.
Right here. Right now. Right on this couch.
Yep—Roman Graves can call me whatever he wants to.
“One second,” he says, taking off for the front door.
He’s back and headed to the kitchen in less than a minute.
I stop myself from whining. I wasn’t finished kissing.
Warm and a little delirious, I tuck my legs into a cross. I peer at our Christmas tree twinkling in the small cozy space of our living room. Yep, I never need to leave this place. And the tree stays. Forever.
My heart pumps happily to the tune of “I Saw Mamma Kissing Santa Claus” and then, as if to join in, my stomach grumbles.
Just in time for Roman to return from the kitchen with a plate in each hand and a blue pad beneath his arm. It’s as if my stomach has summoned him. He sets a plate of greasy fast food on the coffee table in front of me and one right next to it. Then he pulls the pad from beneath his arm.
“Lift a cheek,” he says, waving toward my bottom.
“Lift a what?”
“A cheek. You know, one side of your behind? Lift it.” He holds up the pad again—a heating pad.
“Oh—kay.” So, I lift one cheek as my sort-of-boyfriend-slash-one-hundred-percent-legal-husband positions a very toasty heating pad beneath.
I study Roman’s Adam’s apple; it bobs with the small effort this job is taking him.
Has there ever been a sexier Adam’s apple in all the universe?
Is that even a thing? I mean, clearly it is, because Roman has it.
Once he’s satisfied with my “cheeks,” and they are thoroughly toasty, he walks over to the fireplace, kneeling there, messing with wood and newspaper for only a minute before there’s a small fire blazing in the hearth.
And then—finally—the man comes back to the couch and sits next to me.
“All good?” he asks.
“Are you done bustling?”
“I was bustling?” he asks.
“You were. And I appreciate it. You’re cute.”
“I was bustling and I’m cute?” Roman lifts one brow.
“Very.” I pinch the front of his shirt. “But really, all the bustling just made me realize that I never told you something.”
“Never told me what?”
“I know this is new.” I swallow, and the pulse in my neck thrums. “And I know we’ve gone years without knowing each other,” I say, repeating his facts from earlier.
“But I meant it when I said I liked you too. And I think you have a point.” I lift one shoulder in half a shrug.
“We’re already married.” My heart patters a hundred beats for each of my words. “Why not try?”
“Yeah?” He smiles at me, and I am toasty from my bum to my toes.
“Yes.” I reach up, cupping his cheek and forgetting my growling tummy. “I think I’m very much at risk of falling in love with you, Roman Graves.”
Roman’s sweet grin twitches, and he leans in until his mouth is a mere centimeter away.
“For the record,” I whisper, the breath between us warm and electric, “I didn’t say that I am in love with you. I said I’m at risk.” I gulp. It’s like Roman opened the floodgates, and I have no other choice but to confess all my secrets to him.
“Noted,” he says, his grin widening. “Can I kiss you now?”
“Yes, please.”
A low rumbling laugh filters through Roman’s lips just before they press to mine.