Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
WILLOW
The next morning, I gather every scrap of courage I own and lean against the counter, casual—at least in theory.
“How’s the most gorgeous person on earth doing today?” I ask, flashing what I pray passes for a teasing smile.
Roman doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s pretending to read like it’s 1957. “I don’t know,” he says calmly, turning a page. “How are you today?”
For a full second, my brain short-circuits. Heat scorches my cheeks so fast I swear I’m about to ignite. I picture myself combusting, flames licking up the garland, the bookstore reduced to ashes, both of us dead in a tragic holiday flirtation accident.
“Fine,” I croak, voice strangled. “Totally fine.”
Roman hums, eyes still on the page, but the faint curve tugging at his mouth tells me he knows exactly what he just did.