20. Roman
CHAPTER 20
ROMAN
With every whiskey Waverly has, I see her shoulders fall away from her ears. This woman needs a good massage. She’s so tense. Well, not anymore.
“You know what? Enough chat about all this,” she giggles out, gesturing loosely with her hands. “Let’s party, Rome. If you’re not too busy driving the boat.” She slaps her hand over her chest. “Oh no! Who’s driving the boat?!”
She’s so fucking cute, I can’t help but laugh, and I rock backward from the force of it, whiskey sloshing over the side of my glass. I'll pretend that didn't happen…
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that.” I rub my hand down her silky hair.
A nice shade of rosy pink climbs her cheeks. “Rome. You treat me so well.” Her hand pushes my chest steadily, backing me up against the window. She’s feeling the wine now…and those shots.
She steps onto her tip-toes and touches her nose to mine. The smell of wine mixed with her coconut shampoo is driving me insane. “Can I tell you a secret, Ro-man?” she says my name seductively and slowly. My heart is beating against my rib cage. There is no way she can’t feel it.
“Tell me all of your secrets, Waverly.”
She leans her body into mine. “I knew I was wearing your Shamrock 5K shirt.”
My lips threaten to turn up at her words, but I keep a stone-cold face, hoping she’ll tell me more. Our eyes dance with each other’s.
“It smelled like you. I always loved the way you smelled. Like a mix of sweet and salty.” She rubs her nose against mine. “Do you like sweet and salty, Roman?”
I’m not even sure what she’s insinuating. I’m so turned on by her forwardness that my brain is misfiring. I nod, egging her on to spill more secrets. They’re refreshing. She’s been hiding her feelings so well lately that I thought I was deep in the friend zone.
She stares at me, and I let her. Except instead of her falling into a kiss I’m pretty sure we both want, she pushes my chest again, moving herself away from my proximity, and her smile fades.
“Your mom said you’re seeing someone.” She looks upset.
I don’t answer but instead, it’s my turn to push her against the window. I turn her around, backing her up against the tinted glass. I lean down and touch my forehead to hers. “Someone sounds a little jealous, Kensi.”
“I’m not jealous. I’m curious. You told me one thing, your mom said another. Which is it?”
My hand glides up her arm while I’m propping myself up on the wall with the other. “I am seeing someone.” Her shoulders slump. “I’m not sure if she’s into me, though.”
Her mouth drops open, and she merely stares, tongue-tied. “I’m sure she is. What’s not to love about Roman Huxley?”
Having her this close to my body is doing too much to me. I’ve tried taking care of the problem myself multiple times, in the shower, in my bed, but that only leaves me wanting her more. My imagination Waverly is one thing. But having her here in the flesh, I can barely control myself sober, but now...
Without a second thought, I brush my lips against her exposed neck and a soft gasp escapes her. I don’t actually kiss her neck, but I sure want to. We need to talk, and one thing I’m not good at is timing.
“Roman,” she whispers past my ear as I drag my lips across her skin, stoking a gently growing flame between us. My body aches for her touch, and it’s like she’s reading my mind when her fingers trail up my arms, over my shoulders, and into my hair, while one hand rests on my waist.
“What do you want from me, Rome?” I peel myself away from her neck to look at her, fighting the overwhelming need to push our bodies closer together. Her question causes a tingle in my stomach, and I do what I’ve been so eager to do, but feared would scare her away. My functioning mind has told me not to, but it’s no longer in control, and my liquid courage has now overtaken all rational thought.
“You.” It’s simple. It always has been. At least to me. But I see her falter, her eyes darting between mine as she tries to read my face. I’ve blown this .
“Rome, I’m not who I…who I… used to be. I’m damaged goods.” I see her falter, her eyes darting between mine as she tries to read my face. Something she’s always been so good at.
“You are not damaged?—”
She shoves one finger against my lips, cutting me off. I wish that finger was back in my hair. But the plus side is that her quick move threw her off balance, so the hand on my waist is tighter, her grip so strong—and so distracting—that I barely hear her next words.
“I feel like I’m damaged goods. And I’m not looking for your pity when I say this. I know I have a lot of work to do on myself.”
This is the most coherent she’s been all night, yet I have to stop her. I can’t bear to hear it any longer, so I hold up my hand, praying that she’ll let me speak, “I need to say something before you go on,” I mumble through the finger still pressed against my lips.
She nods, retracting said finger and hooking it through one of my belt loops instead, keeping me close to her.
“And you’ll listen until the end before you interrupt?”
She rolls her eyes but nods again.
“Okay. Then, here it is. You can’t talk about yourself like that. You might have days where the damaged part of you surfaces, but it doesn’t define you.” I rest my hand on her chest, over her heart, and she leans into my touch as her eyes flutter shut.
“What’s in here defines you. Don’t fall victim to your thoughts, but instead be the victor.” Her eyes open slowly, trying to focus on mine as she blinks widely, and I smile.
“You are not damaged, you’re healing. And I think you’re healing from a lot more than just Patrick’s death.” Her wide gaze remains fixated on mine, as the gentle jut of her chin urges me to say more. I remove my hand from her chest, and it comes to rest on her hip.
“I love my brother. He was a decent fucking guy. He’d never leave the people he loves to go without. But he was also a dick, and you deserved to be treated so much better. You deserved to go out to eat, or bowling, or to wear weird t-shirts that say strange things. There is so much more to learn about the real you than the you Patrick created.”
I can feel her start to tremble as the words resonate within her, and I can’t stop myself from grasping at her waist to steady her with both my words and my being. “I want to know everything about you, Kensi, if you’d just stop pushing me away. I want to know how you like your coffee. Or if you think there was enough room for Jack on that damn door, or if you think Rose was being selfish or dumb? Would you ever swim with sharks? What was your favorite class in college, and why ? What is your most embarrassing moment? Whether or not you think pineapple belongs on pizza… I could go on and on. Because I want to know everything about you.” I move a hand to her face and cup her chin, as my tone lowers, and she’s forced to lean in closer to hear my next words. “I want to know what makes you laugh. What makes you cry…” I rub my thumb along her bottom lip as I gaze into her tear-filled eyes. “If you’ll let me, I want to know what makes you scream.” I feel her stiffen beneath my fingertips. I shouldn’t have said that. I really shouldn’t have said that.
Overwhelmed with paranoia, I move away, running my hands through my hair. “I’m sorry.” I’m not even sure what I’m apologizing for, and being the wine-infused smartass she is, she calls me out on it.
“Sorry for what , exactly? Telling me how you feel?” Her gaze is as soft as a caress. Something I’ve been burning for. “Sorry for trying to learn who I am?” She shakes her head and lets out a breath of air.
“Rome, I’ve been?—”
I jump, as the door slams open against the wall, and her confession, or admittance, or whatever it was going to be, is cut short.
“I thought I’d find you kids here. We’re going to lunch on the sun deck. Neen made delicious tuna steaks.” My dad looks between us, acknowledging the silence, his eyes reading the unspoken truth of what’s been happening. What could have happened if he hadn’t interrupted us.
“Waverly, why don’t you run ahead? I have some shop talk about the boat and finances that I’ll just run through with my son before we join you.”
The woman of my dreams looks flustered, and wanton, with something I can’t read swirling in her eyes as she locks eyes with me once more on her way out. I stare after the empty space, longing to follow, already dreading the shit about to spew from my dad’s mouth.
My dad clears his throat. “I always pride myself on being open and honest with my kids.” He pours two glasses of whiskey and hands me one. As if I need another. “I see the way you look at her.”
The way I look at her. How I’ve always looked at her. As if she lights up the darkest of rooms with her laugh. Something I’ve become so fond of hearing. Waverly’s always found me funny when I joked. But more importantly, she was the only one who always heard me on my quietest days.
“Dad, I?—”
“No. Hear me out, please, Roman.” My dad rubs his hands through his hair, frustrated. Welcome to the damn club. “I see the way you look at her. It’s in a way that I’d never seen Patrick look at her. Not in the years I’ve known her.” That’s right. Patrick never brought her around the first three years. He chalked it up to the fear of Mom and Dad scaring her away. But one night he got drunk after he had been gone for three months and admitted he didn’t know if he wanted long term with her, let alone with any woman. I think his words were, “ They just don’t make women like they used to .” I never understood that because Waverly is the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. He was unsure of her from the get-go, which pisses me right off, considering he approached her knowing I was going to. What did he expect?
My dad sips his Crown Royal and waits for me to say something. I’ve got nothing. “But, son, she looks at you like you have lit up her entire world, despite losing a fiancé—a person someone considers the love of their life.” I swallow hard. “Perhaps it was meant to be you this whole time.”
My body sings with anticipation. Me? The love of Waverly’s life. The idea makes my head spin.
“What I’m trying to say is yes, Patrick’s my son, too, but I don’t think he was it for her. I think you have something with her that never existed with her and your brother…and turning your back on such a gift will only lead to prolonged heartache for the both of you,” he adds.
No words are forming. The love of my life? I do like her a lot. We haven’t even kissed. Who knows, maybe it would be pretty terrible. Maybe we would bump teeth more than tongues if we kissed. What if she was constantly comparing me to Patrick? He and I are built differently. He was bulky with muscles and looked like TJ Watt’s twin. Who wouldn’t want to date someone who looks like a linebacker from the Steelers? It’s what Waverly’s used to. I’m lean and athletic. I can’t wrap her into a bear hug like he could.
“Any-hoo, don’t let my words get to you too much. Just an observation.” Dad stands abruptly, conversation over, and chugs the rest of his glass before slamming it down. “What do you say we go grab that lunch your mom made?”
Lunch? He basically dumped an ice-cold bucket of water over me. Shocking me with his words, and snappily ends it like we just talked football? Like we didn’t just have a potential life-changing conversation. My father astounds me.
“Yeah. I’ll be up in a minute.” Like my father’s habit I inherited, I run my hands through my hair, pulling at the roots. I’m trying not to let his words seep into my brain and burrow like a ticking time bomb. But I see the future. The bomb will burrow. It will detonate…and it will take its victims with it.
I make it up to the sun deck after taking a few work calls and refilling my drink. Lord knows I need it, and I find Lena talking circles around Mom and Waverly.
“And then Roman kissed me. It was so romantic.” What the…?
Dad sits at the end of the table while Mom sits at the other, leaving both my past and present with empty chairs next to both of them. Waverly never looks up at me as she moves a piece of fruit around on her plate with her fork. This has to be awkward for her, and for Lena to be talking about kissing…I hope she wasn’t talking about me.
“Ahi tuna, huh, Mom? My favorite.” I clap my hands together announcing my presence. I know she feels me when I enter the room. It was always like that between us. She could be mid-conversation with a group of people, and when I walked in the room, she was the first person I’d notice—and when my eyes landed on her, she’d turn.
“Looks delicious, Mom, thank you.” I walk behind Waverly to get to my chair, dragging my fingers from one shoulder to the other, causing goosebumps in their wake. Even if sitting next to Lena was my only option, I’d make everyone move so I could sit next to the woman who’s stolen a piece of my heart.
Waverly must be sobering up by now, or maybe she’s just deep in her own thoughts. Can’t have the latter happen.
“I’m glad you and your father decided to join us,” my mom smirks. I give my mother a pointed look. Sarcasm isn’t a good look on her. I glance at Waverly. Her light hair is wind-blown and starting to curl from being on the water. It does the same thing to mine.
“She just brought it out. It looks wonderful. We love ahi, don’t we, Roman?” Lena asks, trying to steal my attention.
I know Waverly knows I’m staring at her. Mom knows, Dad knows; hell, I can hear it in Lena’s voice. Lena’s probably wondering why the hell my mom invited her if this was strictly for Waverly. The better question would be why would she join us knowing that we’d broken up and she’d moved out? I’ll open that can of worms later.
“Do you like ahi tuna, Kensi?” I lean my arm across the back of her chair, circling my thumb on her bare shoulder, and she leans into the touch.
She nods and her lips turn up at the sides. “I love ahi, especially how your mom prepares it.” My mom reaches over and places her hand on Waverly’s, thankful for the compliment.
Ever the subtle man, my dad chimes in, “I already had enough cheese today, let’s put a pause on all of this cheesiness. Now, let’s eat before the tuna swims away.”
I tear my gaze from Waverly and tap my hand on the table. “This man has jokes!”
My mother serves all of us and herself before we say a short prayer before digging in. Although we’re Irish Catholic, we never used to say a prayer before we ate. After Patrick died, my mom started attending mass regularly. She said it made her feel closer to him and she was able to stop the anti-depressants. I’m happy something so easy can bring her peace. Now if I could crack the nut beside me, I could figure out what’s going on inside that gorgeous head of hers.
She must feel my eyes on her again because the corner of her mouth tilts up and her eyes flutter.
“So, Lena,” my dad, ever the wordsmith, makes small talk with the girl who has yet to read the room. “Why are you here?”
My mom drops her fork at the same time Waverly chokes on her water. Jesus, Dad.
Lena’s a sweet girl, but that’s exactly what she is. She’s an Instagram influencer, and she’s always happy, and kind, but other than that, we didn’t really have much to talk about outside of the bedroom.
“Oh, Harold! When Janine asked me to come help celebrate Roman’s late brother’s fiancée’s birthday, I knew I had to come,” Lena says innocently.
Waverly tenses at her words. Is that all she thinks she is? My “late brother’s fiancée?” That’s not the title she should have to carry. She should have her own identity.
I move my hand from her shoulders and slip it under the table to find her leg, all in the pretense of adjusting my napkin. I’m not sure what the hell I was thinking by touching her there. It just feels natural. We’ve exchanged a few intimate moments, but I’ve never gotten close to the area that could detonate the tension between us with a flip of a switch.
“Why’s that, Lena? Why did you have to come seeing as we’ve only met once?” Waverly asks, raising her eyebrow and an “I-can’t-wait-to-hear-this” smile. She may give off a sweet vibe from her exterior, but her interior is screaming with insecurities.
Harold's gray eyes blaze with outrage and chimes in, “You girls have met? Both interested in our boy here?” He chuckles. I see Harold’s drinks are starting to kick in.
My mom sets her fork down, exhaling an ‘oh brother’, and giving my dad a look before he takes another massive bite of his tuna steak. He obviously gives zero shits about how unpleasant this is for us.
“No! Dad, what?” Roman growls loudly into his hands. “This is my worst nightmare.”