Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
WILLOW
Which would be decent advice if the man in question wasn’t Roman Tate—the boy who has known me since my scraped-knees-and-braided-pigtails days. The man who has seen me ugly cry, vomit tequila, and lose my shit over printer toner. We don’t need common ground. We are common ground.
But I try anyway.
“Read anything new or interesting lately?” I ask during a slow weekday shift, aiming for breezy, casual, definitely-not-a-flirting-attempt.
Roman shrugs, hopping up onto the counter like he owns the place. “Tried Watership Down the other day. Less maritime than I was expecting . . . more rabbit-y.”
I stare at him, working very hard to keep my face neutral. “Really. Wow.”
He smirks. “What’s that look? Is this Saint Willow judging me for getting duped by a book?”
“Books couldn’t trick you if you bothered to read the synopses occasionally.” My tone is sharp enough to cut, but it’s that or laugh in his face.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Roman kicks his heel against the counter like he’s ten again. “Besides, you’ll just tell me what I really want to read. Just like you did with The Sun Also Rises—”
“Still not a western,” I cut in.
“Or The Art of War—”
“War. Literally in the title.”
He leans closer, eyes glinting. “Or how Pride and Prejudice wasn’t a nonfiction guidebook. Which, honestly, is a shame. I could’ve used the tutorial.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re messing with me.”
“I would never.” His grin says otherwise, smug and devastating.
And just like that, Tip one dies a quick death. Common ground doesn’t exist when every conversation between us spirals into him making me want to kiss him and strangle him at the same time.