Chapter 4
Chapter Four
WILLOW
Achieving my goal is easier said than done.
I have to leap over about a million hurdles, starting with the “Roman still sees me as the awkward kid he defended on the playground” factor. Then there’s the horrifying “what if he looks at me like a wounded animal and I have to crawl into a hole and die of shame” scenario.
And, of course, the ever-present “all of our friends live here, and if I screw this up, I’ll make things so awkward we’ll have to divide up the town like divorced parents at Christmas” paradigm.
If I’m being honest, this entire plan has a very-large, non-zero chance of blowing up spectacularly in my face.
I waffled about it for hours. Days, maybe. Is it worth risking the fragile balance of our friend group on the slim chance that Roman might actually like me back? The logical answer—mine and every reasonable human’s—should be a hard no.
But then I remember.
When I was feeling lonely and down in the city, who called me in the middle of the day just to make me laugh?
Who sent rambling emails or texts about whatever obsession he’d picked up that month—woodworking, survival shows, fantasy football, once even sourdough bread—because he knew I needed a distraction?
Who held me together when we lost my mom?
When my ex-boyfriend decided I was “too much”—too determined, too passionate, too loud when I cared about something, too relentless when I wanted more from life—and told me, with a straight face, that I’d “burn myself out chasing impossible dreams.” As if my ambition was a flaw he was tired of managing. As if my grief made me inconvenient.
He didn’t even have the guts to break up with me like a decent human. Just stopped answering calls, vanished out of my apartment like I was a phase he’d outgrown. Months of my life dismissed like an overdue subscription.
Who stormed in when I was staring at the pile of his things in my living room, too numb to move, too humiliated to cry?
Who scooped up every last hoodie, every textbook, every goddamn coffee mug he left behind and launched them onto the lawn without a second thought, shouting curses so loud the neighbors peeked out their windows?
It was Roman.
Roman, who stood in my kitchen afterward, chest rising and falling, daring me to tell him he’d gone too far.
Roman, who stayed until the adrenaline drained from me and I collapsed, sobbing into his shirt.
He held me through the ugly, through the heartbreak that threatened to hollow me out, whispering over and over that the guy was an idiot, that I wasn’t “too much”—I was exactly enough.
Roman, who saw me at my most fragile and didn’t look away. Who pieced me back together when I was sure no one could.
Who wrapped me up when I felt frayed and breakable, when I thought a broken heart might actually kill me? Who whispered reassurance into the cracks of my silence until I could breathe again on my own?
It was always Roman.
Even when he was raw and restless, juggling family fires that somehow always landed on his phone.
Even when his life was swallowed by late nights and impossible deadlines, blueprints rolled under his arm and coffee staining his cuffs.
Even when glossy features in architectural magazines turned him into a prize—women smiling for the camera because he looked good on a page, not because they knew him.
He’d stumble into my place after a fourteen-hour day, tux jacket slung over one shoulder from some gala, eyes rimmed with fatigue—and still show up at my door with takeout because he’d heard something in my voice.
He’d answer my calls from job sites and conference rooms, whispering, “Give me five minutes, Wills. I’m here.
” He missed parties for me. He skipped interviews.
He ignored texts from women who only wanted the version of him that came with magazine spreads and glossy bylines.
With everyone else, he was an image. With me, he was real.
He was stretched thin, always pulled in a dozen directions—clients demanding revisions at midnight, deadlines stacked so high he could barely breathe, his family calling with crises he never explained.
But no matter how much the city drained him, he carved out pieces of himself for me.
Time he didn’t have. Energy he couldn’t spare.
He gave it anyway, freely, like I was the one place he could set everything down and breathe without pretending.
With me, he wasn’t Roman Tate, rising star architect.
He was just . . . Roman.
When his family pulled at him, when the deadlines threatened to bury him whole, I braced for the day he’d finally stop coming back.
I told myself it was inevitable—that I’d become another obligation he couldn’t carry sooner or later.
That I’d hear the words too much all over again.
But he never let it happen. He carried everything, and still walked through my door like I was worth the detour.
Like choosing me was the easiest decision in a life that rarely offered easy choices.
And when I moved back home and staked everything I had on converting the old post office into a bookstore, he didn’t just roll his eyes and tell me I was reckless.
He picked up a hammer. He stayed late after site visits, still in dress shoes and cufflinks, patching drywall and hauling lumber beside me.
He fixed the shelves minutes before sprinting back to catch a train.
He worked until his shirt stuck to his back and his hands blistered, never complaining, never asking for anything in return.
No matter how far the city called him, he always circled back. To this street. To these lights. To me.
He was never angry with me. Not once.
So yes, he’s worth it.
And as my mom always said, when in doubt, research.
In an unprecedentedly mature move, I don’t even overcomplicate it. Instead, I open my laptop and dive into the world’s least reliable source of wisdom: the internet. Searches include:
“How to impress your crush without being a total weirdo.”
“Not-creepy ways to tell your best friend you’re in love with them.”
“Totally casual strategies for making out without freaking out.”
“Best holiday romance books that don’t end in humiliation.”
“Holiday recipes that don’t scream ‘pathetic single person.’”
I even scroll through a few self-help e-books, most of which are an absolute waste of my time because they have no answers for me. Plus one disturbingly graphic sex advice column that makes me slam the tab shut so fast I nearly sprain my wrist.
Hopefully, something out there will tell me how to deal with this stupid fucking crush before it crushes me.
But after an hour of worthless lists, clickbait headlines, and advice that clearly wasn’t written for anyone with dignity, the hairs on my neck rise. Instinctively, I slam my laptop shut—hard—before I even process why.
Roman.
Of course.
He’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, arms folded, eyes glinting with curiosity. Typical.
“Whatcha looking at there, Princess?”
My mouth goes dry. “N-nothing,” I stammer. “Just . . . research. For the holidays.”
Not technically a lie. I want this to happen before or during the holidays.
Roman clicks his tongue, skeptical. “Right. The infamously difficult-to-navigate holidays. Good thing we’ve got you doing all the . . . research.”
Heat scorches my cheeks. My whole body feels hot, traitorous. “Have to make sure everything’s in stock before Black Friday. Can’t have us running out of classics when people are feeling nostalgic.”
He leans closer, his lips hovering just above my ear, and it takes everything I have not to shiver. His voice is low, threaded with amusement. “Didn’t you order those books last month?”
His warm and teasing words brush my ear, and the closeness makes my skin prickle.
I can feel his heat at my back, the faintest trace of cedar clinging to his shirt.
My brain starts a panicked chant—don’t blush, don’t blush, for the love of God, don’t blush—but my face betrays me instantly.
My pulse is hammering so loud I’m half afraid he can hear it.
If he leaned even a breath closer, we'd collide if I turned my head.
And that thought alone nearly undoes me.
“I—” Fuck. My brain blanks. I’ve got nothing.
His grin is audible. I can feel it without even looking at him.
“I could’ve sworn you had six boxes of Little Women stacked in the back.”
“Maybe people want eight boxes this year,” I snap, shifting my gaze anywhere but his. My blush is climbing my neck, burning all the way to my ears.
“Sure,” he drawls. “Or maybe you’re just hiding something.”
I grit my teeth. “Oh, would you look at that? A customer.”
And thank God, because the bell above the door jingles at that exact second. I make a beeline for the entrance, walking as calmly as humanly possible (definitely not running, not even close).
Mr. Gibbs, a sweet older gentleman, shuffles in with his endless list of grandchildren, all of whom apparently need handpicked book recommendations for Christmas. My salvation in human form.
By the time Mr. Gibbs is gone, the store feels normal again, but my laptop is still sitting there like a loaded secret. Small miracles, sure. But I know I’m only one close call away from Roman finding the truth, and I don’t know if that will save or destroy me.