Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
WILLOW
Easy enough, I thought. Roman is one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met. He gives more of himself than he needs to, and he does so without ever asking for recognition. The problem isn’t finding something to compliment—it’s surviving the way his eyes look at me after I say it.
“You’re very . . . steadfast,” I manage the following afternoon.
Roman doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.
“Fancy word there, Princess,” he says, voice warm, distracted, like the wires matter more than me unraveling beside him. “Care to elaborate?”
“You’re . . . you know. Loyal. Reliable. A good friend.”
The words taste wrong in my mouth. Too small, too clumsy. They don’t cover half of what I mean, and he deserves more than this fumbling wreck of a sentence. My throat is burning like I’m choking on spit, and I actually wish the ceiling would cave in and rescue me.
“Aw, Wills.” He finally glances at me, grin tilting just enough to gut me. “What’s next? You gonna get down on one knee and propose?”
My pulse stumbles. Rule number one with Roman Tate: deny, deny, deny. Compliments bounce off him like rubber bullets.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, moment ruined, cheeks hot enough to toast chestnuts on.
I try again a few hours later, this time more . . . poetic.
“I love how unapologetically you move through life,” I blurt while he’s bent over the bottom shelf of the romance section. “It’s really inspiring.”
He freezes mid-reach, fingers brushing a spine. Doesn’t say anything for a moment. My chest thrums, waiting. Then he glances over his shoulder, brows raised.
“Are you calling me brave for acting like an asshole all the time?”
“No.” My protest is too loud, desperate. “Of course not. I just mean—your general demeanor—”
“Of being a gigantic dick.”
“Of being authentically yourself,” I correct, flailing. “I just . . . wish I had that kind of confidence. That kind of zest for life.”
Roman straightens, books forgotten, and his eyes lock on mine. There’s something unreadable in them, something that makes my stomach dip. Then he smirks, ruining me in one swoop.
“Maybe you should lay off the Lemon Drops if you’re thirsting after my zest.”
I groan into my hands because, of course, the man who once turned Winnie the Pooh into a sex joke in the middle of sophomore English cannot handle sincerity without twisting it sideways.
The next day, I (over)correct. Go for specific. Tangible. Something he can’t joke his way out of.
“I really appreciate how you always refill the sugar cubes even though you hate sugar in your coffee and think it’s an affront to nature,” I blurt. “And I’m really proud of the person you’ve grown into.”
It all comes out in one breath, consonants tumbling into each other, less a compliment and more a verbal car crash. I don’t even wait to see his reaction—I just pivot and bolt toward the storeroom.
Behind me, his voice follows, half amused, half confused: “You’re . . . welcome? I think?”
I duck behind the Christmas shipment of classics, heart hammering like I’ve just sprinted a mile.
Maybe I’ll just hide here until the New Year. Or until I learn how to compliment Roman without sounding like a lunatic in love.