Chapter 16
Eloise
When I roll over to quiet my alarm, I accidentally knock my foot into the hot mountain next to me. Literally hot.
After we came back to our room last night—to the room with only one bed—we did exactly what Roman said.
We changed into something more comfortable and watched a movie, some action flick on cable about the White House being blown up…
or something. I didn’t pay much attention because Roman lay next to me in only black boxer briefs.
He told me he ran hot, and usually only slept in underwear, then asked if I would mind.
Would I mind?
I proceeded to laugh maniacally. Because who in the hell would mind?
The man is a walking side of beef. Pure muscle. Every part of him is huge. If I didn’t find it adorable that he sometimes has trouble making it through doors and has to turn sideways, I’d say it was too much. But this man is just enough for me. Even with barbells through his nipples.
Especially with barbells through his nipples.
The thing in his pants, on the other hand?
It’s a goddamn anaconda.
It’s all well and good in rap songs, until it’s right there, next to you, outlined in cotton. I’m not exactly a nature girlie, and the thought of trying to tame that monster is intimidating.
Not to say I would be the one to do it.
Roman was a perfect gentleman last night, surprising even when he asked if I wanted to snuggle.
My heart wept at his actual words, “You need a cuddle, sunshine?”
Fuck yeah, I did.
I always need a cuddle.
And his arm was so heavy, it felt wonderful. Immediate sensory relief.
We talked a lot, not about my mom or family, but more about my ADHD.
He was so interested in learning about things that helped, praising me for my daily adaptations as if I were solving world hunger and not simply living my life.
We talked a lot about Mazie, flipped through the hundreds of pictures on his phone of her and then the posts of cars on his social media.
He told me how he grew up working on cars with Ian, and when he was old enough, it was the only thing that interested him.
The only thing that he felt kept him connected to his family that was so far away, not necessarily physically but certainly emotionally.
He explained how he’d lived in a few different places, going wherever the next high took him, but that he’d been in upstate New York for the last ten years or so, and that’s where he’d met Mazie’s mom.
Since he gave me that in, I asked about her, but all the answer I got was, “That’s a long story. For another time, maybe.”
It was almost two in the morning by then, so I agreed and burrowed under the covers. He reminded me to set my alarm because I’d asked him to earlier, and he kissed my forehead. Then the living heat box threw his arm over his head and fell asleep instantaneously.
I laughed, thinking it was a joke.
But, no. The man closed his eyes and went to sleep like a magic trick. Look, folks—now, he’s awake. And now, he’s asleep.
I ended up scrolling on my phone for another forty-five minutes before I closed my eyes, so I’m not super energetic after less than five hours of sleep.
But I was told in no uncertain terms that I would ruin Lily’s big day if I didn’t meet the bridal party in the salon at seven thirty this morning.
Before I creep out of bed, a seventy-five-pound weight bands around my waist, a face against my neck. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning,” I say through a yawn.
He pulls me right up against him, my back against his chest, my ass against the steel rod in his underwear.
He’s clearly not embarrassed—nor should he be.
Though he might want to call a doctor about giant syndrome.
Could a person only have it in their penis?
Not that the rest of him is all that small. I’d have to Google it to know for sure.
“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, hand snaking up under my pajama top to spread over my belly, and I start to tug it away. He doesn’t budge, but he does raise his head. “What?”
“That’s my pooch.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t move except for his fingertips pressing into my skin. I curl my legs up as if I can make myself smaller, but he isn’t having it and tightens his hold, angling his elbow to force me to straighten out.
“I like your pooch,” he says, grinding himself against me as if to prove the point.
And yeah, okay. I get it.
But as I’m about to put on the ugliest dress known to man and stand up next to a bunch of women who are half my size, I’m not particularly excited about it.
I can already hear my mother’s fatphobic comments about me eating the wedding cake tonight.
“I can hear you thinking,” Roman says, lips moving against the nape of my neck. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t feel like getting up.”
Another squeeze of his arm. “So don’t.”
“I can’t be late. I’m sure I’ll get shit about last night.”
“Well then, come on.” He pats my thighs and hops out of bed, absently adjusting himself before digging through his duffel to pull out a pair of athletic shorts. When he catches me watching him, he raises his brow in question.
“What are you doing?” I ask, still in bed.
“Getting dressed.” He pulls on a T-shirt. “You have to be down there in half an hour, right?” When I nod, he shrugs. “I’m goin’ with you.”
“For your makeup?”
“You think I need it?” he deadpans, and I crawl to the edge of the bed.
“No. I think you’re beautiful the way you are.”
He meets me, pushing my rat’s nest back from my face, holding me so I’m peering up at him, me on my knees, him looming over me. I like it. I like feeling how big he is, strong yet tender, embracing me so softly. Better yet, I know he can be rough.
He shows me again by gripping my hair, tugging tightly. “Don’t let the sons of bitches get you down.”
I stifle a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats and presses a kiss to my mouth before releasing me so I can take a quick shower and throw on some clothes.
Once we’re both dressed and brushed, we head down to the salon hand in hand, and it fills me with giddy joy to see all the bridesmaids’ eyes become dinner plates when we enter the room.
The man can make an entrance.
“Roman,” Aunt Beverly says with a barely concealed grimace. “Nice to see you again.”
He answers with a grunt then turns to me, yanking me close to lay a kiss on me.
With tongue.
The squeeze to my ass earns a few murmurs, and I can feel them all watching when he brushes his lips over my ear. “You don’t owe anybody anything. Not your smile and definitely not your tears.”
I nod and realize I have to uncurl my fists from his T-shirt so he can leave. When I do, he pinches my chin. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay,” I croak, dying inside. I have to lean against the wall as all 6’5” of him stalks out of the overtly feminine salon like he owns the place.
“Well done,” one of the bridesmaids whispers to me as she fills up a champagne flute with a mimosa mixture to pass to me.
I gulp it down before finally replying, “Thanks. He’s pretty great.”
The morning is a flurry of brushes and wands, steam and curlers, but my aunt stays away, mostly fussing over Lily. I don’t even see my mother until we’re all dressed for pictures. Besides a curt, “Hello, Eloise,” she stays quiet.
All because Roman stood up for me last night, and while my first instinct is to apologize, I remind myself of what he said.
You don’t owe anybody anything. Not your smile and definitely not your tears.
I don’t need to feel bad about anything. I don’t need to slap on a smile when I don’t want to, and I certainly don’t need to apologize when I never did anything wrong. My mother is the one who owes me an apology.
The ceremony is held outside with a backdrop of fall foliage and white linen, and I immediately spot Roman, seated on one of the chairs toward the back.
He’s in head to toe black, but I don’t get a good look at him until I’m positioned with the other bridesmaids at the makeshift dais.
That’s when I notice he has his hair slicked back in a bun, a newly trimmed beard, and the top few buttons on his shirt undone.
I’m toast.
But it’s his unshakable gaze that truly does me in. My anchor amid this sea of floral prints and forced joy. It’s the way his eyes soften when he looks at me and how his mouth quirks to the side. His weird little smile that’s only for me.
The moment the ceremony wraps, I practically run to him and his waiting arms. But he doesn’t pull me to him as he’s been doing since we arrived yesterday.
Instead, he holds me out, inspecting me from the top of my breezy curls to my heels.
He whistles, and it’s as ridiculous as it is thrilling, and I bat at his chest. He responds by wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my throat. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m the swamp thing.”
“A beautiful swamp thing,” he says, and I snort-laugh.
“This swamp thing needs a drink.”
He takes my hand in his, and we follow the rest of the guests inside to the banquet hall, where I snag a glass of champagne.
With our pictures already taken, my bridesmaid duties are essentially fulfilled, so Roman and I find our seats so we can watch the newlyweds enjoy their carefully choreographed first dance.
Leaning into my fake boyfriend’s side, I quietly tell him, “It’s going to be real laid-back when I get married.
No first dances or assigned seats.” He angles his head so he can meet my gaze, though he stays quiet, and I go on.
“It’ll be outside with comfort food, and there’ll be disposable cameras everywhere for everyone to take pictures.
Nothing formal. I want the exact opposite. ”
“Sounds like fun,” he says eventually. “Will I be invited?”
I shoot him my sassiest smirk. “Yes, but you have to bring a date.”
He huffs an amused sound and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The reception is a blur of pleasantries and stilted conversations, most people not bothering to even approach us.
“I think you scared everyone away,” I tease, tracing the melting skulls and dark flowers that make up the sleeve of his tattoo that’s on display since he ditched his suit jacket during dinner and he rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows because he’s actively trying to kill me.
Last night, he’d told me he’s had a lot of work redone because of “stupid shit” he had inked when he was younger.
Including the portrait of SpongeBob, which he got one night while he was high.
I laughed about that for five minutes straight.
He certainly doesn’t seem like someone who’d have a SpongeBob tattoo. What he does seem like is someone who might commit murder. And he’s proud of it. “Good. It’s working.”
“The mean mugging?”
He hits me with his mean mug, and I giggle. His features thaw, and he cups my cheek, brushing his thumb over my mouth. “You’re missing your pink.”
I scrunch up my nose. “Had to be demure today.”
“Fuck demure. I want you to be pink.”
“Between Mazie and me, you’re surrounded with it.”
“I don’t mind,” he says with a shrug, dragging his knuckles across my jaw and down my throat, plucking at the neckline of my dress. “Pink might be my new favorite color.”
I feel the flush rise from my chest—his new favorite color—and with the way his pupils blaze with heat, I suddenly have a hard time breathing.
“You okay?” he asks, skimming his fingertips over the side of my breast, knowing exactly what he’s doing to me.
“Fine.” To put some room between us, I scoot my chair back. “But I want to dance.”
He doesn’t budge. “Dance?”
“Yeah.” I tug on his arm. “It’s a wedding. People dance at weddings.”
“I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Everyone can dance,” I say, pulling him toward the dance floor. “Just follow my lead.”
He grumbles a few curses but lets me drag him to the dance floor, where other couples sway to a slow song.
I pull him close, wrapping my arms around his neck, and he hesitantly places his hands on my waist. I can feel the warmth of his palms even through the fabric of my dress, and I lean my head against his chest.
“See? This isn’t so bad,” I murmur.
He doesn’t reply, save for a kiss to my head, an answer all its own, and the song ends after, like, forty-seven seconds, moving right into Guns N’ Roses. I pout, but Roman’s already shaking his head. “That’s all you get from me, sunshine.”
“It wasn’t even a whole song.”
“More than anyone else has ever had.”
“Really?” I tip my head, curious. “You never danced at your own wedding or attended homecoming or something?”
“Do I look like I attended homecoming?” My laugh cuts off when he says, “And I was never married.”
“Oh.”
“So, no, I’ve never willingly danced with anybody except for you.”
I press my hand to my heart. “I’m honored to pop your slow-dancing cherry.”
He fights a growing smile. “You’re something else.”
“Something good?”
“Something amazing.” He curls his hand around my neck, pressing his forehead to mine, in a singularly possessive yet romantic move that has me melting into him.
Our noses touch, skate along each other until our mouths barely meet.
It’s more of a shared breath. Something infinitely better than a kiss.
Something offered and accepted.
And my heart’s in my throat when he says, “Let’s get out of here.”
So, I can only nod and place my hand in his.