Chapter 23
LOVE ON THE brAIN
ROMAN
When Roman sees her, the first thing that comes to mind is how much of a terrible fucking idea it was to invite her over again. It’s far too intimate. It’s too secluded, and worst of all, it’s his house. Here, he used to be able to think. Here, he used to be able to breathe.
Here, he was safe.
It was pure.
Untouched.
There were no remnants of the sea green jacket. Of fruit-scented hair wash. No imprints of her laughter within the echoes of the wall, no woman-shaped impression in his sofa, no relics of her time within the confines of this house.
Here, he was free from the increasingly dangerous, eroticizing, loud, unbefitting thoughts of the woman who has bulldozed her way into his central and peripheral nervous system.
But now.
Now, it’s ruined. He’s ruined.
Because it’s his house, and he knows it like the back of his hand.
He knows the best places to sit for a good view of the television, the perfect temperature to set the thermostat at so it’s not too hot for him and Lucy, the ideal time to start the washer and dryer so that it doesn’t disturb his daughter. And now all he can think about is her.
In his kitchen. On the dining room table.
In his bedroom.
She leans against the doorway in a layer of fabric that has to be destroying the blood circulation in her body, but is doing everything to accentuate the roundness of her breasts, the muscles of her thighs, the curve of her arms, and—
“Roman. You gonna let me in or has the offer been rescinded?”
His eyes cut to her own, and he steps backward.
How could she possibly think that?
He shakes his head, letting out a strained chuckle.
“Shit, yeah. Come in.”
Just thinking about how I could lock this door, spread your legs open, and work you up until morning against it. The bookshelf. The floor. Anywhere. Everywhere.
His fists clench at his sides as his stomach dips.
“Just thinking how nice you look,” he finishes in a raspy, uneven tone.
He clears his throat again as a gentle smile seeps onto her face, like his pathetic attempt at a compliment actually did something for her, which is now doing something for him.
“Thanks,” she says, sliding past him to slip off her shoes. He follows slowly behind her and moves to the fridge. “Do you want something to drink? Water, wine?”
“I’ll take a glass of wine.”
He looks up and sees that she’s now positioned herself on top of the island.
Quite comfortably, and he wonders would she mind?
Would she really hate it if he drew her leggings down over her ass and thighs until they were a heap of fabric on his kitchen floor—if he worked his mouth over her body, slipped his fingers inside her, and watched her unravel with his name on her lips? Would it be so bad?
She murmurs something, snapping him back to the present conundrum: a very real, very titillating Jahlani on his kitchen island.
Slamming the cabinet shut, he pours her drink.
“Lucy’s asleep?” she asks as he hands her the drink.
He hums in response, taking a sip from his own.
“Bummer,” she says, pouting, and he wants to scream at her not to do that, but instead settles on reaching for a doughnut from the bag.
He extends one to her, and she takes it—the heat of her fingertips traveling his entire system. As she draws her fingers into her mouth, one by one, he’s unable to look away.
He clears his throat. “What happened to your plans with your mom?”
Her eyes catch his. “Oh, so you don’t want me here. It’s fine. I’ll take my doughnuts.” She starts to slide from the counter, but his hand presses her hip back down and he stands in front of her to block her.
He rolls his eyes, taking another doughnut from the bag.
She sighs as she brushes her hands together before drinking from her wine glass. “Dick happened.”
He arches a brow, and she sends him a pointed look. He raises his hands as if to say you said it, not me.
“That’s his name. Richard, but his friends call him Dick,” she says in a mocking tone. “My mom and I don’t really get along.” She sets her glass down. He shifts closer, reaching for another doughnut, and his arm brushes against her thigh, sending sparks through his chest.
“She developed this really bad habit when I was a kid, after my dad left, of just bringing home all these random guys. She would just shower them in affection and give them all this attention, and I was just kind of there. Forgotten. Like tonight,” she says, laughing bitterly.
“Tonight, she tried to make me serve him dinner like this is the 1950s and I’m his little housewife or something. ”
“I’m sorry,” he says, his fingers drawing small circles against her leg.
She shrugs, tracing the rim of her glass. “I got used to it. I just worked harder in school, got as many scholarships as possible and left. I figured she wouldn’t care if I did anyway.”
“What about your dad? You never talk about him.”
“My dad,” she says slowly. “My dad has a new family with Helen. Helen is nice. They’re having a baby. A girl. He’s starting over. The perfect wife, the perfect daughter.” She exhales, shaking her head, laughing silently. “Is it fucked up that I’m jealous of my unborn sister?”
She wipes at a lone tear, and his chest pinches. He wants to reach out and wrap her in his arms, but he doesn’t. Instead, he continues to watch her, his eyes tracking her every movement.
“Ever since I moved back here, I’ve felt this weight on my chest. I’m doing everything wrong and saying everything wrong, and what happened with you just further solidified that my life is this bumbling mess.”
Her shoulders are tense, and she doesn’t meet his eyes as she slips off the counter and walks to the couch. She continues talking, and she sinks against the cushions.
He follows her, dropping into the space next to her, their bodies lined up together. She pulls a loose thread from one of the pillows as she continues speaking, her tone soft and murmured.
“Like, I’m twenty-six and I’m fucking drowning—drowning in debt because my dad is a useless piece of shit, and my mom won’t even look at me, or hold a conversation with me and I shouldn’t be here because this was not in my plan, like at all, but my stupid ex decided to cheat on me and then my internship combusted, and it’s just been one thing after another,” she says, her glassy eyes meeting his.
Roman wants to find the right words to comfort her, to let her know that he’s got her, and that he’s here.
But most days he feels the exact same way.
And that scares him.
Because he has a little girl to take care of.
He has to be okay, no matter what.
“And then there’s you,” she says, scoffing, a tear spilling past. “You’re always there.
You’re everywhere, and it’s so irritating because in the grand scheme of things, my problems are so insignificant compared to yours, and that just makes me feel even shittier, and the cycle repeats.
It’s never fucking ending and I hate this,” she says, her head dropping into her hands.
Reaching forward, he tugs on her elbow, and she trembles against his chest.
“Jahlani, you’re not a mess. You’re just a person that got dealt some pretty shitty cards.”
She pulls back, wiping under her eyes. “It’s nothing. I’m being dramatic,” she says, blowing out air between her lips.
He sighs. “Jahlani, nothing about what you just said was dramatic. Your parents neglected you. That’s not nothing.”
She nods, water filling her eyes. “Yeah, well when you put it that way, it sounds bad.”
He pulls her back into his chest, shaking his head. “Baby, it is bad, and it affects you, and you’re allowed to feel however you’re feeling.”
She exhales against him. “Do you think I need a therapist, maybe?”
His muscles tense slightly at the loaded question. “It might help to talk to someone about how you’re feeling every once in a while, you know? Therapy isn’t a bad thing.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she murmurs, burying her face closer. “I always wondered … why you smelled like this.”
He clears his throat, his fingers grazing the length of her arm. Up and down. “Like what?”
She sits up, her hair framing her face. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she says, her lips twitching.
He leans closer, pushing her hair back before drawing her back to his chest. “Try,” he whispers, skating his hand over her hair, her shoulder, her cheek. His fingers growing bolder over her body when she shivers.
“Roman,” she says, her voice raspy. “If you keep doing that … I’ll fall asleep.”
His fingers stop their motion, and he settles back against the cushions, closing his eyes when his stomach clenches. She reaches up, grasping his hand and he looks down at her.
“Don’t stop … it feels nice,” she whispers, guiding his fingers over her scalp again. “So … yeah. Keep going. I’ll fight it.”
He swallows, picking up where he left off, and she curves further into his body. “You still didn’t tell me what I smell like,” he says, his voice rough.
She sighs, her own hand drawing down to her stomach. “Like lavender, and clean laundry, and … powder. Like a baby, which was confusing.”
“Confusing how?”
“It was unexpected. Most guys smell like a night out, but you smelled like …”
He wets his lips, his blood turning hot under his skin. “Like?”
“Like a home,” she says softly, pressing her face into his hand and inhaling. “You always do.”
Fuck.
He isn’t sure how long they sit there, but eventually she pulls back and mumbles something about needing to use the bathroom. When she steps back out, he’s pulling out ingredients from the kitchen. Bracing his hands on the counter, he nods toward the water he poured for her.
“Drink this,” he says, shoving a glass into her hands. Almost robotically, she brings it to her mouth. When she tries to bring it down, his hand is there, gently tipping the cup back up, his eyes on hers, urging her to empty it. When she finishes, she lowers it, letting out a shaky exhale.
“Thanks.”