Chapter Four
If you want a character arc, the character has to be a little frustrating at the beginning of the book.
Roman
I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing kitchen tile when the front door to Sweet & Salty Uptown creaks open. Elodie’s keys jangle where they hang from her ginormous bag as the door clangs shut behind her and she comes down the hall toward me.
I sit back on my heels, wiping sweat from my forehead as I watch the kitchen door swing open and her worn-out face fills my vision, blue eyes wandering before they lock on me, expressionless.
I frown.
She peers at me on the floor, face blank, then shrugs, lugs her bag to a pristine countertop and drops it there before hopping up beside it.
She leans to the side, closing her eyes and falling until her head hits her bag, a lumpy pillow.
“Wake me up when you’re ready to leave,” she mutters.
“My bike’s in front of the shop. I know you said to bring it in, but I saw you’d already mopped and didn’t want to mess it up. ”
My frown deepens, and I glance at the clock above the door. Nearly nine o’clock.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, resting my gaze on her prone form.
Her only reply is the movement of one shoulder, barely visible through a riot of curly, golden hair, which I take to be a big, fat, No, Roman, please feed me.
I rise, toss my soapy scrub brush into a bucket of equally soapy water, and dry my hands on my apron. Approaching the industrial fridge, I shoot a look at Elodie, who appears to be nearly snoring on the counter.
Oof.
I grab her a muffaletta on ciabatta and a bottle of water, close the fridge, and bring them over to her.
“Sit up, Sweet,” I murmur. “You gotta eat something.”
She groans, turning her head further into her bag.
“I’m sleeping. Go away.”
I snort, set her food beside her, then slip my hand into the soft strands falling over her face. Careful not to let my fingers get caught in the tangle of her curls, I sweep the locks over her shoulders, admiring the way the blonde splays against the stainless steel countertop. So pretty. So sweet.
I love Elodie’s hair. It’s representative of her—wild, soft, and absolutely gorgeous.
Unwilling to be tamed. The only difference between her and her hair, really, is that she cares for her hair significantly better than she does the rest of her person.
We share a bathroom. I’ve seen her literal bucket of hair care supplies.
Her collection of conditioners alone could last me five years.
Then, at night, she’ll sometimes drift downstairs in one of her bonnets—many of which I bought her, because she only had plain black ones when she moved in, and Elodie Sage is not a plain black bonnet type of girl.
She’s a butterflies, flowers, polka dots, and bows type of girl.
As evidenced by the fact that she accepted my gift of pretty bonnets with barely any suspicion, squirreling them away in her room immediately, lest I change my mind.
“Elodie,” I murmur, “come on. You can sleep after you eat.”
My eyes travel a path from the ends of her hair to her eyes, and I find her squinting at me, lips downturned. “I can eat tomorrow,” she grumps. “At breakfast.”
“Have you had anything since you left work?” I ask, dubious about this plan.
She averts her eyes.
Uh huh. Right.
“If you don’t sit up and eat this sandwich, I’m going to sit you up and feed it to you myself.”
She harrumphs, digging her face deeper into her bag as her arms wind around it. “I’m tired, Salty. Calories can wait.”
Calories cannot wait. Calories give us the fuel we need to make it through the day, and for someone who works on their feet and exercises regularly, the more the merrier.
I don’t know how far Elodie had to bike to get to whatever class she had tonight—juggling cacti and other pointy objects?
—but judging by the sheen on her skin and the tint of pink on her usually pale arms, it was at least far enough for the midsummer heat to get to her.
She can’t afford to forgo a meal normally, and she definitely can’t afford to forgo one after biking through the city under the blistering sun.
And yet, here she lies, unwilling to take care of the problem.
I tsk. I did warn her.
My hand slips under her torso, eliciting an outraged squeal from my unfed companion. She shoots upright, her face cloaked in fury as I step into her, nudging her legs to one side so she’s forced to lean on me if she doesn’t want to fall off the counter. My arm, now fully around her waist, locks.
“I’m going to kill you,” she hisses. Her nails dig into my back through my shirt, setting my nerves on fire. I ignore them.
“Open up,” I order, snatching her sandwich. I use my teeth to unwrap the plastic around it, tightening my grip on her waist when she tries to pry it off.
“I’m not opening up for you, you freaking buffoon. What do you think you’re doing ?”
“Feeding you,” I reply, lifting the sandwich to her face. “Open.”
She, notably, does not, jaw popping as she grits her teeth.
“I gave you options,” I remind her. “You didn’t listen. You need to eat. You’re going to eat. Open up so I can make that happen, or act like a big girl and feed yourself.”
“You fu—”
I push a corner of the sandwich into her mouth, interrupting her curse, and she bites it off. Rage shimmers in her pale blue eyes.
I’ve always liked her eyes. As blue as a summer sky and as light as a breeze, they suit her. Much like her hair, they’re beautiful and inviting.
Well, normally inviting. When she’s not aiming them at me.
Chewing her food with murder written on her face, she reaches up with her free hand to snatch the sandwich out of mine.
Graciously, I allow this, but don’t adjust my position. When left to her own devices, this is a woman who chooses to starve. Best to keep her in my devices instead, methinks.
“I am not a child,” she snaps. “And I do not appreciate you treating me like one. Do you not know how to listen ?”
“I know how to listen,” I assure her. “But I’m not sure you know how to return the favor. I warned you. You needed to eat, and it was happening whichever way you chose. You chose this way.”
“I didn’t choose for you to manhandle me and shove food down my throat,” she retorts. “You’re so freaking full of yourself. I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but Roman does not always know best.”
“Today, you ate half a piece of toast for breakfast, two chocolate muffins for lunch, and one blueberry scone after work before you left for class. Essentially, you’ve eaten sugar, flour, and more sugar today.
This sandwich adds protein and veggies to your day’s diet, something you need to make up for the energy spent working a full shift here, then biking who knows how long twice to get to your class and back.
I understand that you need rest, Sweet, but you also need food if you want to be able to wake up tomorrow not feeling like total garbage. ”
I shouldn’t have to explain all of this to a grown woman so insistent that she can take care of herself.
If she can take care of herself, then she very well should .
And if she won’t? Then she doesn’t get to be a brat about me doing it for her.
My arm tightens around her as frustration mounts, swelling with every word I speak, and I have to focus on being careful so I don’t crush her slight frame.
“You’re still not listening ,” she snaps, pushing against my hold.
“It doesn’t matter if you’re right, Roman.
It matters that I’m a grown woman who gets to make her own decisions, regardless of if they’re good for me or not.
If I don’t eat enough today and I feel crap tomorrow because of it, that’s my prerogative and my lesson to learn. It has nothing to do with you.”
“It has everything to do with me,” I counter, “especially when you’re under my care.”
She sputters. “I’m not under your care , you idiot. Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how stupid that sounds?”
“Of course you are,” I reply, unconcerned about whether it sounds stupid or not. It’s the truth.
“Oh?” she sasses, rolling her eyes. “According to who?”
“According to my sister, your brother, and, most importantly, you.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow. “And just when did I put myself under your care?”
“Roughly four months ago,” I answer, eyes zeroing in on the sandwich in her hand. “Take another bite.”
“Renting a room from you does not equate to putting myself under your care , you freaking moron,” she says, bringing her food no closer to her mouth.
“Take a bite, Sweet,” I try again, half hoping she doesn’t. Hand-feeding her could be…
Well. We don’t need to think about that .
“Are you going to force one on me if I don’t?”
I raise my eyebrows. We both know the answer to that.
She rips another bite off with her teeth, then snarls around it, “Can you let go of me now? I’m eating your stupid sandwich.”
“Mm. I could, but…”
But this is actually quite comfortable, and she smells like vanilla beans and summer, and her hair is brushing oh-so-softly against my arm.
“I don’t trust you’ll finish your food if I do,” I finish.
Ears spitting steam, she digs her nails into my back again and leaves them there while she eats in irate silence, only breaking it once to ask for help opening her water bottle.
I oblige, ever her servant, as her nails spark a current under my skin.
She drinks half the bottle in one go, finishes her sandwich off, then drinks the other half, glaring at me the entire time.
I wonder if she knows how long her eyelashes look when she squints like that.
I wonder how they’d feel against my cheek, dotting butterfly kisses along my skin.
I wonder if she’s going to say anything about the fact that I still have my arm around her even though she’s finished eating.
I remove it before she gets the chance, shooting her an unimpressed frown.
“Good job,” I say. “You’ve earned yourself a nap.”
“You’re such a pompous jerk,” she replies, not lying down. Almost as if feeding her body gave her back some of the energy she’d depleted.
Crazy.
“Do you even hear me when I speak?” she asks. “Or are you so deafened by the sound of your own self-righteous need for everyone to recognize how right you are all the time that me even opening my mouth is a waste of my time?”
“Elodie, you don’t take care of yourself,” I reply. “I get why you’re annoyed with me, but do you realize that ninety percent of our arguments start because I’m worried about you, and you’re so defensive that you take everything I say as combative instead of caring?”
“Right,” she says, sarcasm dial on full. “Because you’re so benevolent all the time.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” She’s so freaking obstinate.
“I know what I’m like, especially when I get in a mood.
But that doesn’t change the fact that ninety percent of our arguments start because I’m worried about you, and you’re so defensive that you take everything I say as combative instead of caring , ” I repeat.
She breathes in—one, two, three times—then grits out, “It’s not your job to care about me. Or for me.”
I throw my hands up. “We don’t get to decide who we care about, Sweet. Because, believe me, I would not have decided to care about you if I had any choice in the matter. I do, though, and I’m doing the best job of it I know how.”
“Well, I’m so sorry to have caused such great inconvenience to you,” she spits, face red. “But, you know, being a grown freaking man , you can stop any time you want to. Especially as it is not invited or asked for. ”
She’s not getting it. At all.
“I’m trying here, Sweet, to do the best I know how.”
“And I’m telling you to stop .”
Fire pours from her eyes. The frustration in my own jaunts quickly toward anger.
She’s so maddening .
“I need twenty minutes to finish cleaning,” I tell her, deciding to step away from this conversation before I say or do something stupid. “Then we can go home.”
Nostrils flaring, she nods.
Nostrils flaring, I nod back.
Then I turn, get on my knees, and scrub my frustrations into the tile while Elodie slips from the room to spend the next twenty minutes in the shopfront instead of back here with me.
Which is fine. Cool. Super freaking excellent.
I scrub harder, knuckles white around the scrub brush.
Super. Freaking. Excellent.