Chapter 8
EIGHT
MAGGIE
Chewing my lower lip, I watch Roman via the hidden cameras. The tensing of his forearm muscles is distracting as he tips the rice container onto a plate, a cloud of steam momentarily fogging my view.
It’s rather idiotic to eat food gifted to you by a weird neighbour, really. He clearly lacked any wider sense of danger.
Silly little Maggie, just the nerd next door.
Well. He’ll soon see.
He piles a staggering amount of food onto his fork and groans as he practically inhales it. I’d spared no expense. If you’re going to drug a guy, the least you can do is get him the good takeout.
The sleeping pills crushed into the food are strong, and from experience watching Eliza drug people for information, would render him in an almost drunken state, still awake but in a dreamlike zone where he’d either forget me being there or consider it a dream.
I hope they work. The last thing I need is for him to get suspicious before it’s go time on the wedding journey up to Scotland.
The rice dish disappears in an astonishingly short amount of time, and I pick at the edge of my nails, hoping to god I’ve got the dosage right. Too little and he’ll wonder why he’s feeling off. Too much and I could do him some actual damage.
When he gets a glass of water, I flick to another view to keep a close eye on him.
Not that I can drag my eyes away. I hate to admit it, but the more time I spend focusing on the dishy man next door, the more I imagine the what ifs that can’t possibly be.
What if he looks at me the way he looked at the other women?
What if he knew I fantasise about being one of those women?
What if he scoops me up and pins me to the wall and—
Nope. Stop it.
He’ll never see me like that. Not after I kidnap his muscly ass and drag him to the other end of the British Isles.
I’m aiming to get through the wedding undiscovered and, with both of us surviving—me emotionally, him in the more literal sense—to make it back to London in one piece.
Ten minutes on, Roman begins to falter. His hip catches the countertop as he passes it. Water sloshes onto his top as he tries to take a drink. His arms tangle in the material when he tries to remove the wet clothing, giving me a mouth-watering view of his rippling abs.
I follow him through the home, flicking from camera to camera to watch his slow descent into oblivion. After thirty minutes of stumbling and bumping and muttering, he comes to a stop, flopping on the sofa, shirtless.
The tiniest morsel of guilt attacks me, just a bubble really, and I remind myself that he’s not as innocent and sweet as he pretends to be. If he weren’t such a hypocrite, I wouldn’t be able to blackmail him, and none of us would be in this mess.
And I really, really don’t want to marry Eddie-fucking-Stewart. Needs must. Hopefully, he’ll understand.
A quick trip to the bathroom furnishes me with a slick of eyeliner and some tinted lip oil that smells like freshly cut cherries, and I smooth the waves in my hair, trying to combat their propensity to fly away.
Grabbing my phone and both sets of keys, I head to Roman’s.
Tentatively, I sit next to Roman, the couch cushion sagging beneath our combined weight.
Not daring to breathe, I watch him, waiting for him to react. He lets out a soft murmur and gives a slow, disorientated blink before closing his eyes again.
Sweat pricks at the back of my neck. It’s crazy that I’m doing this. I should just tell Dad to shove his stupid plans and rules up his ass.
As if.
Dad loves us, but he is used to getting his own way. I half expect him to put Roman under the patio and slap an engagement ring on my finger regardless of any perceived relationship.
Sighing, I lay down beside Roman, pulling one of his arms loosely over my waist. Warmth exudes from him.
Fuck me, lying next to him feels so damn nice.
I allow myself a few moments to imagine this being real.
To imagine being Roman’s girlfriend and having him snuggle into me without being out of his face on sedatives.
His hand flexes against my stomach, pulling me tighter as I angle my phone and snap a few pictures of us both together, looking every bit the cosied-up couple. The way his fingers pull me closer to his pelvis sends tingles darting up my spine and renders my senses useless.
I have the photo to send to Eliza, and I should get out of here pronto.
But…
Being in his arms might well be a one-time thing, because in a few days, he’ll hate me. Let’s face it, I’ve already broken countless laws and made dubious moral choices, what a little cuddle amongst future enemies, right?
His chest expands against my back, his crotch pressed distractingly against my butt. How can such a fine specimen of a man eschew so much absolute bullshit online? He has his pick of women and liberally indulges in them, yet has this sexless douche act that the world believes.
Extracting myself from his arm, quite reluctantly, I sit. Gosh, the way his dark eyelashes skim his cheeks has me in a chokehold. The naked expanse of his chest is like a new terrain just begging to be explored.
Throwing caution to the wind, I press one fingertip lightly to his warm skin and follow the dips and swells of his muscled abdomen. My thighs clench at having him skin to skin, and I know I need to stop.
To behave myself.
‘Maggie,’ he breathes, and I still my hand just north of his waistband where a dark line of hair disappears into the no-go-zone. ‘I heard you.’
I’m frozen to the spot when his eyes flutter open, struggling to focus on my face.
Stay calm, Maggie. He’ll forget this if you don’t do anything rash.
‘Heard me say what?’ I ask.
‘You were being a… dirty girl… moaning my name.’ The words were slurred, but brought a flaming heat to my cheeks.
He heard me?!
Oh god. That was before I got locked out. He’d stood there and spoken to me after listening to me fuck myself.
Holy crap. If he wasn’t off his tits, I’d be mortified. Hell. I am mortified.
‘Shh,’ I croon, hoping his eyes will close again.
‘My real name. Say it again.’ Even through his drugged haze, there’s a command to his voice that makes my stomach flip-flop like a disorientated trout.
‘I—’
‘For me?’
I crumble.
‘Roman.’ I say his name softly.
‘Dirtier,’ he murmured, his eyes fluttering once more.
‘I can’t.’ If my cheeks redden any more, I fear they’ll set his place alight.
‘Later?’
His word dies on his lips as he slips back into unconsciousness. I’m left both embarrassed and somewhat turned on by the revelation he’d listened to me, and hadn’t been utterly repulsed by it.
I press my hand to those delicious abs for one more moment, revelling in their glory.
‘Only one week to go,’ I say, watching his breathing even out as he slips to the dreamworld. ‘Let’s hope you can act as well for me as you do for your insipid fans, Roman.’