Chapter 28
brIELLE
“Are you hungry?” Roman asks once we’ve entered my apartment and left our shoes at the door.
“I’m pretty sure I should be the one asking you that.” I gesture to the fridge beside me and the cheeked-up peach magnet holding up a picture of me and Aubrey. “You know, since this is my place.”
“Then I’m starving. Are you going to cook me dinner, Brielle?” He smirks, slowly dropping the arms he’s had folded awkwardly across his chest. “You know, since this is your place.”
The sudden nerves that race through me are unexpected. I blow them off with a laugh.
“Is that why you came over? To see if I’m a good cook?”
“Why not?”
I pause before clearing my throat and facing away from him. “Then sure. Let me check what I have.”
With a tug, I open the fridge and immediately feel the cool air against my cheeks. It’s a small reprieve from the blistering gaze on my back.
There’s nothing in my fridge that I can use to cook anything of substance. My skills in the kitchen are minuscule unless I’m toasting a bagel or scrambling eggs. Surely, a man like Roman isn’t interested in either of those things.
I don’t even have eggs.
The heat of his hand settling firmly on my spine has me jerking and nearly smashing my head on the fridge. He chuckles and leans in beside me, inspecting the few items on the shelves. I hold my breath while standing beside him, hoping that he can’t feel the way I’ve started trembling.
“Go sit down. I’ll cook,” he says, already ushering me away from the fridge.
My bare feet stick to the tile as I take two steps to the side and watch as he starts pulling open every drawer and rooting through the food inside. The freezer is next, before suddenly, he’s got his arms full.
“You know what to do with all of that?” I ask.
His eyes find me over his shoulder before they’re sliding to a pink bar stool. “Sit.”
“Yes, sir.”
He coughs suddenly, and I swear the back of his neck goes red while I sit. “Don’t start with me, Brielle. Just sit and let me cook for you.”
“It’s been a long time since a man has cooked for me,” I blurt.
A half-used package of bacon, Parmesan cheese, and a package of frozen pasta find the countertop. There’s a steady calm to his movements as he starts searching through my cabinets.
“Why is that?”
“Do I really come off like the type of woman who invites men over to prepare dinner for her often?”
“You have a brother. Doesn’t he cook for you?”
I snort a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Wes? Yeah, right. You’re funny.”
When Roman twists to pin me beneath a flat stare, I quickly realize it wasn’t meant to be a joke.
“Does he just not know how to cook, or is there another reason why he doesn’t come over here to take care of you?” he asks sharply.
My heart throbs behind my ribs as I look harder at him, trying to find the reason behind his concern. “It’s not that he doesn’t take care of me. Although I don’t need anyone to do that.”
“I know you don’t. He’s your family, and I expected him to do it regardless of need.”
“You sound like our father,” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Roman finds where I store my pink pans and sets a medium-sized one a bit harder than necessary on the stove before adding a pot next to it. “How so?”
“He’s hard on Wes. Harder than he should be, considering their rocky relationship.”
“I’ve heard . . . rumblings about that around the clubhouse.”
I sigh, propping my chin up in my hand. “Great. I’m sure Wes loves the gossip.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone what we speak about tonight. If you need to vent or just talk, you’re more than welcome to.”
Lowering my eyes, I fixate on a dark spot on the marble countertop so I don’t stare at him as boldly as I want to.
He’d be able to see everything I’m feeling if I did that, and I know he’s not ready for that truth bomb yet.
I’m not even sure that I am when everything here is still so new.
I mean, come on, this is the first time he’s been inside my apartment, let alone being this open with speaking.
“Our father wants Wes to be perfect. The perfect son, perfect brother, and perfect ballplayer. That pressure’s been slowly crushing him since he was a little boy, even when I tried to take some of it away.
I’ve only ever wanted to make clothes, and that wasn’t of interest to our dad.
I guess that’s why he put so much focus on my brother, even though he’s outright hated baseball all our lives,” I explain, hating how tight my throat’s gotten.
“Mom is the opposite. To this day, I know the only reason they’ve stayed married is because she doesn’t want to be alone and would rather we appear like the perfect family to all of her equally perfect friends.
They hate each other. I’ve never looked at them and thought that they were what real love should look like.
They aren’t an example of anything but the consequences of marrying the wrong person. ”
I force myself to stop talking. There’s the sound of water running before a loud sizzling begins where the bacon is cooking on the stove. The noises fill the almost awkward silence that’s beginning to settle, so I don’t immediately want to crawl out of my skin.
Surely, Roman wouldn’t have encouraged me to speak unless he was sure that he wanted me to. But did he mean that he wanted to hear all of that?
“I’m sorry if that’s too much information. I don’t want you to go easy on Wes or anything. That’s not why I told you that,” I clarify nervously.
Roman’s shoulders tense and pull back as he uses a pair of tongs to flip the bacon. “I know.”
“I love my family. I do. It’s just . . .
” The backs of my eyes burn. There’s no way I’m going to start crying in front of him, so I look at the ceiling and blink.
“I got Wes to agree to come to the birthday party our mom wants to throw him next week. It hurts me that I had to work so hard for his agreement, and even then, he only said yes because I guilted him into it. I’m sure that makes me a terrible sister. ”
“It doesn’t,” he says instantly, mid-turn. The moment his eyes fall on me, I lower mine from the ceiling. “You’re not a terrible sister, Brielle. I’d argue that the issue here is your father, but I don’t want to upset you when I clearly only know what you’ve shared tonight.”
“He is the problem. I wish he wasn’t, but he is.
It’s always been easier for me to ignore him than it is for Wes.
I think that despite everything that’s happened between them, he still seeks his approval.
Not only with baseball, but with everything else in his life, too.
From who he dates to which house he chooses to purchase and car he drives when he visits.
There’s always some sort of judgmental comment or look that tears him down. ”
“Is he different with you? Or do you just think that because Wesley has a hard time, when you do, it pales in comparison?”
I physically recoil. My chest tightens, squishing my insides as I divert my gaze again, needing some sort of boundary between us. The scent of bacon is almost revolting now as my stomach sours.
“Does it matter which it is? My feelings don’t change how badly Wes struggles.”
I’m drowning in mortification. I hear what I think it the sound of a burner being turned off before I feel Roman’s shifting presence.
Without looking at him, I can tell that he’s walking toward me, and that’s—that’s trouble.
The closer he gets, the more choked up I get until I feel like I can’t breathe properly.
“You are allowed to feel how you do, regardless of your brother’s struggles.
Both of you can suffer without focusing on who’s hurting worse.
Bottling up your feelings and spending your life suffering with something that you shouldn’t have to isn’t right, sweetheart.
” He stops behind my hunched shoulders and takes one beneath his large hand, massaging it.
Then, he spins the bar stool toward him and lifts me out of it.
“Do you think Wesley wants you to feel unimportant?”
I tighten my thighs around his hips and loop my arms around his neck while he carries me to the counter beside the stove and slides me onto it. The new position allows me a clear view of his cooking, and my stomach growls despite the seriousness of our conversation, my hunger returning.
There’s water boiling on the back burner while perfectly crisped bacon sits in the pan, spitting grease beside it. I didn’t know I had pasta to begin with, but there’s no mistaking the package by my thigh for anything else. The fresh Parmesan next to it has my stomach rumbling a second time.
“Hmm?” Roman pushes, standing between my legs. I haven’t attempted to release his hips. “Do you think your brother wants you to feel like your feelings don’t matter?”
“No. Of course he doesn’t.”
“You need to stop shoving them away. That’s no way to live. You only get one family, Brielle. And once they’re gone . . .” He trails off, his expression growing tense as his mind travels somewhere far away.
I lean forward, reaching up to touch the side of his throat. He doesn’t pull away as I stroke the length of it and then venture up to the sharp line of his jaw. It’s shaved the way it always is, leaving only a rough peppering of hair behind after a long day.
He’s staring past me at the backsplash, now splattered with bacon grease. I don’t push him to leave wherever he’s gone just yet, even though I’m feeling more than a little desperate to crack him open and slurp up everything that would spill out.
Only once I’ve brought a second hand into the mix and begun rubbing small circles into his low back with my thumb does he blink, the fog clearing from his dark eyes.
There’s a brief flash of panic that appears before I shake my head and bring my lips to his, kissing him firmly enough to convince him that I’m not about to ask for an explanation.
He groans softly, responding with a heat that sears my mouth. Every inch of my skin sparks with life as he fists the shoulder of my cardigan and glides it down past my shoulder. I shiver, arching into his body, seeking more of the strength that he carries within himself.
“The food,” I breathe out, stealing one last taste of his tongue before his mouth finds my throat.
The water is boiling furiously as he sucks on my pulse and palms the inward curve of my waist. I moan when he pushes my cardigan off, leaving it pooling at my wrists. His lips slide down my neck to my collarbone and across my shoulder before finally finding mine again.
“The food,” he repeats roughly.
My stomach screams with hunger. The noise it makes is so, so freaking loud that it forces us apart. Roman presses his lips together and stares at my middle. There’s a twitch of his brow before a loud laugh forces his mouth open.
Bewilderment draws one out of me in response as I sit and listen to the raspy, deep sound of happiness filling my kitchen.
I just hope that I’ll remember this moment for a long time to come.
Or maybe I’ll get lucky enough to make him laugh like this more often.