Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
WILLOW
Which sounds easy—just nod, ask a few questions, prove you’re paying attention. But with Roman, listening feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, because sometimes he lets things slip that tear me wide open.
It happens late one night as we’re closing up, the store bathed in twinkle lights and quiet. He’s restocking the high shelves, muscles taut as he stretches, while I tape up another shipping box.
Out of nowhere, he mutters, “You ever notice how everyone else seems to belong somewhere during the holidays?”
I pause, the tape gun sticking mid-swipe. “What do you mean?”
He hops down from the ladder, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“It’s just . . . for most people, Christmas means family.
Traditions. Tables full of people who actually give a damn if you’re there.
For me, it’s always been the opposite. A season that reminds me what’s missing.
” His laugh is low, rough. “Not that it matters. Easier to bury myself in work anyway.”
My chest pulls tight. He rarely says things like this out loud.
“Roman . . .”
He shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m fine. Always am.”
But I can hear it—the weariness threaded through his voice, the way fine sounds like a word he doesn’t even believe himself.
I set the tape gun aside, stepping closer until we’re sharing the same pool of golden light. “You don’t have to be fine with me.”
His eyes lift to mine, guarded, searching.
“You’ve given so much of yourself to everyone else,” I say quietly. “To me. To this shop. To this whole town. But when do you ever let yourself . . . rest? Let someone else carry some of it?”
The air feels thick between us for a second, like he might actually let me in. His jaw flexes, his hands clenching at his sides, and it looks like he’s fighting himself.
Then he exhales slowly, eyes dropping. “If I stop moving, I don’t know if I’ll be able to start again.”
The words cut through me. Raw, unguarded. The truth beneath all his joking, his constant motion.
I swallow hard, my throat burning. “Then I’ll keep moving with you. Whatever it takes.”
He stares at me like I’ve just said something he doesn’t know how to process—something dangerous. His hand twitches, like he might reach for mine, then stills.
“Careful, Princess,” he says finally, voice rough. “You keep saying things like that, I might actually believe you.”
And God, I want him to.