Chapter 6
Eloise
Aunt Bev
You haven’t RSVPed yet with the name of your date. Please do so as soon as you can. We need to get the place cards made up.
Aunt Bev
Unless you aren’t bringing anyone. That’s fine too. Let me know either way.
In the two weeks since I met the refrigerator known as Roman Stone in person, I haven’t had any more grain disasters, but I did have an issue with my bike.
I only live a few blocks away and like to ride to work whenever possible.
The exercise helps clear my head, plus it’s a perfect way to start my day with a burst of energy. My ADHD brain loves it.
It was one of those perfect September days with clear skies and a cool breeze, and I happened to ride past his repair shop since it’s on my way to Sweet Cheeks, when my bike broke, forcing me to walk while dragging it next to me. Roman saw me and popped right out to come to my rescue.
He insisted he take a look then hoisted the thing up to his shoulder like it was nothing. I protested—after I wiped the drool from my face—but he told me I’d have it back by the time I finished working.
And there it was. My bike, waiting for me when I stepped outside Sweet Cheeks, chain fixed and back in place.
With his quiet nature and steady gaze, Roman is enthralling.
Not to mention, he looks like a goddamn Greek god.
His long hair is as dark as his brown eyes that don’t give anything away, but I’ve noticed the way they crinkle when he’s amused, in that weird estimation of a smile I can’t get enough of.
He’s naturally tanned, darker than me, like he spends all his days out in the sunshine—as Greek gods do—though he’s always cooped up in his garage.
Quite frankly, I don’t know how he does it, ducking all eighteen feet of him down to fix cars, holding itty-bitty wrenches in those oven-mitt hands of his.
Of course, there are the tattoos scrawled all over his arms, even on his hands, letters of his daughter’s name on his right knuckles and Stone on his left.
I’m sure he’s inked other places that I’ve fantasized about only a few dozen times, so I don’t have a clear mental picture.
But then he went and fixed my bike like some kind of superhero.
I never stood a chance.
And that’s how I found myself marching into Stone Auto Repair a few days ago with a big box of pastries as payment.
“It was nothing,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, so I once again forcibly set my gift of gratitude in his bear paws, ignoring the curious stares of the other workers.
As I walked out the door, I heard one of them say, “What’dya got in there?”
To which Roman groused, “Nothing for you.”
And I liked him all rough and growly, hoarding my pastries to himself.
Now, it’s the last weekend of September, and all of Aster Street is shut down for the fall festival.
Every business has its doors open, booths set out front, displaying products or playing games in hopes of finding new customers.
People are able to pick up a card from the West Chester Community Association, and if they have it punched by all sixteen businesses, they will be entered into a drawing for something or other.
It’s supposed to kick off soon, but of course I’m late getting ready, because of the text reminder from my aunt about the RSVP still sitting on my kitchen counter causing a teensy anxiety spiral.
I nearly threw the stupid paper invitation into the recycling bin.
I didn’t think people sent paper invites in the mail anymore.
Let alone any with foil Cinderella shoes on them over the script She’s found her prince!
I imagine lighting the damn thing on fire to calm my nerves and concentrate on laying out free samples of the cinnamon buns and pumpkin scones. Humming to myself, I step back to take in my booth, not noticing the hulking figure planted there until I smack right into him.
Strong hands grip my arms, and I look up, way up, at Roman “the refrigerator” Stone. And for a moment, I’m stunned. “Hi.”
His chest rises on an inhale, and I catch a whiff of his scent that I imagine on his bedsheets, and suddenly, I’m on his mattress in my mind. I hop away from him, cheeks heating. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
I playfully whack at him. “Guess you need something much bigger than me to move you, huh?”
His dark gaze tracks down the length of me, slow and delicious. He finally meets my eyes again and huffs a sort of offended sound. “Girl, I could throw you over my shoulder like your sacks of flour.”
I choke out a laugh with how my throat’s suddenly drier than a box of saltines.
“Daddy?”
The name has my focus lowering to the little girl standing next to Roman, her hair braided in two pigtails, her dress full of multicolored tulle with a rainbow across her chest. She has the same brown eyes as Roman, but hers sparkle as brightly as her clothes, a dimple in the center of her right cheek. Adorable.
“Who’s this?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Eloise, this is Mazie,” he says, his hand on the top of her head, and I wonder if he did her hair. My ovaries weep at the thought of his thick fingers plaiting section over section, taking her shopping for those pink glitter shoes, giving her piggyback rides.
Gah!
“Hi!” Mazie bounces on her toes. “Is this your store?” she asks, pointing to Sweet Cheeks behind me.
I nod. “I heard you like my cinnamon rolls.”
“I love them,” she says, hands out and full of sass.
“Do you want one right now?”
Mazie’s head bobs, and I glance to Roman for permission before handing her one from the tray. She accepts it but stops with it halfway to her mouth. “What about Daddy?”
I don’t let my smile falter and tip my head in his direction. “What about you, Daddy? You want one of my buns?”
The tip of his tongue pokes out of his parted lips, resting for a second on his left incisor, and a wild idea about him biting me floats into my lust-fogged brain. Then he very slowly shakes his head, his mouth breaking into a semblance of a smile. “You’re trouble.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I’m always on my best behavior.”
He clucks his tongue, gaze raking over me again, and this time, I know it’s him turning the temperature of my skin up a few degrees and not the sun.
Mazie pulls on my apron. “Do you like pink?”
I prop my hands on my hips. “What do you think?”
She giggles. Clearly, I am a lady who likes pink. Between my store, my pink-and-white polka dot apron, and my pink Converse, it’s not a question. “It’s my favorite color.”
“Me too!”
We high-five, and I bend down so we’re eye to eye and talk about her dress. Meanwhile, Roman peers down at us, tree trunks folded across his chest, his mouth set in a semi-slanted line like he doesn’t want to acknowledge he finds this funny.
After she tells me about her friend Tegan who has a Barbie backpack and how she beat this boy named Boden in a race so he cried—to which Roman murmured “Good”—I ask her, “Who did your hair?”
“Daddy.”
That popping sound? Only my eggs spontaneously being fertilized.
“That’s pretty impressive that Daddy does your hair so well.”
She nods. “He didn’t useta. He was real bad at it, always said the hair bands are too fucking small.”
“Mazie,” he snaps, but she doesn’t appear sheepish at all, and I have to slap my palm over my mouth to keep from laughing.
When I pull it together, I say, “Hair bands can be hard to use if they’re too small.”
Roman huffs. “They always break with one little tug.”
I stand to my full height, noticing I could perfectly rest my chin on his shoulder. I mean, I won’t.
But I could.
And because all my brain cells exited my body about the time he told me he could throw me over those shoulders, I squeeze his biceps. “I would guess one tug from you could easily rip an elastic band. Not exactly dainty.”
His eyes dip to my mouth and then lower to where I’m touching him. “No, I’m not.”
“Well!” I cackle, high-pitched and frenzied. “I should finish up here.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, taking Mazie’s hand. “We’ll let you.”
“Wait, I want to stay!”
I smile at the little girl. “We can hang out together later, okay? You come see me in a bit.” I wink and put my hand at the corner of my mouth, stage-whispering, “I’ll sneak you another cinnamon roll.”
She jumps up and down, satisfied, and I finish up with my booth, laying out business cards and coupons for 10% off their next purchase then sneak off to Cuppa Jo’s for a coffee before the festival starts.
On my way back, I stop to say hello to Nicole at Chapter and Verse, where she’s having a huge sale and activities inside, along with a table out front that has sign-ups for book clubs, author groups, and coloring pages of different classic books.
Ian, in all his silver-fox glory, flirts with her, obviously trying to waylay her efforts in setting up.
She bats his hand away, keeping it from wandering around her hips, disrupting her answer when I ask if she wants me to drop off any treats.
“We’ll take whatever you got, Eloise,” Ian answers in her stead, and she rolls her eyes.
“They’re for her customers,” Nicole says with a shake of her head at him.
He shrugs. “And I’m her best customer.” He turns to me. “Am I not?”
I grin. “The absolute best.”
He smacks her ass so she yelps, and that’s my cue to keep walking.
Jaybird and Cash are posted up outside Stone Ink, ready to pass out flyers and stick-on tattoos, and I steal one before settling behind my table, ready for the crowds, which come in dribs and drabs for the first hour and then suddenly all at once.
Mio shows up in time for me to refill our samples, and I spend a lot of time introducing myself to people and grabbing pics and videos for social media.
I’ve just finished punching some cards for patrons when Mazie plows into my side. “Hiii!”
I laugh. “You on roller skates or what?”
“I don’t got roller skates,” she says seriously, lifting her feet to show me.
“I’m kidding. You want another treat?”