Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
CLOVER
If I catch Roman staring at me one more time, so help me God.
“What? Do I have something on my dress?” I finally ask when we’re out of hearing distance from the rest of the group.
Roman shakes his head slowly, almost looking pained.
“Okay, well what’s wrong with it?” Self-consciousness spreads like wildfire through my system.
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” he says as his eyes rake over me.
“Roman Everett, are you saying I look good?”
I expect him to banter with me, but his eyes darken. “I am.”
I don’t know what to do with that answer, and it’s making my brain short-circuit. “Cut that out.”
“What?”
“Your being anything aside from a dick makes me suspicious.”
He gives a shrug that’s impossible for me to interpret.
By the time we head toward the restaurant for our wine tasting, I’m thoroughly confused.
Mentally and physically. I swear, being this close to Roman for this long has an intoxicating effect.
I blame his outfit. His pants are tailored to perfection, and I have had to give myself a stern talking to every time my gaze snags on his perfect ass.
His charcoal grey button-up is unbuttoned the perfect amount, giving a hint of his chest muscles and showing off the tiniest glimpse of the tattoo that’s there.
I still can’t make out what it is, and it’s driving me nuts.
His sleeves are rolled up to expose his forearms, and suddenly I get why the Victorian era was scandalized by ankles if my response to this little expanse of skin is anything to go on.
Something strange is building between us today. The way he looked at me during our vineyard tour has caused a delicious pressure to build between my legs all afternoon and early evening.
Between the warmth of his body and his spicy and woodsy cologne, I need the sobering effect of some fresh air.
Unfortunately, when I mentally requested fresh air, it turns out I should’ve been more specific, because now I’m stuck at a tiny candlelit table with Roman on the hotel’s restaurant patio, and no amount of breeze is helping me cool down.
Roman taps at the table with his fingertips, perhaps a sign of impatience or hyperactivity, I’m not sure.
When our server comes by a few minutes later with liberally poured wine flights, I waste no time and take down the first glass.
“I’m not sure if you’re aware, but wine tastings aren’t typically races,” Roman says with raised eyebrows.
“I’m thirsty.” In more ways than one... I need to do something to bring down the temperature, and fast. I can’t be feeling like this going into sharing a bed together tonight.
“Well, in that case, here’s to our first weekend away,” he says.
Our glasses clink together, and I swallow mouthfuls of the Cabernet Sauvignon. Perhaps I should take a minute to savor all the notes, but I’m having a hard time keeping my thoughts straight.
Looking around, I notice that one girl at a table about twenty feet away has her phone out and pointing toward us. Pretending not to notice, I subtly gesture to Roman, and he catches on right away.
He quietly says, “Showtime,” and I know we need to be on our guard and in full fake couple mode.
“So, what do we do?”
“Talk, Clover, we talk.”
Right. I can handle that.
“Okay, um... what’s your favorite col–” I start.
“None of that small talk bullshit. If we’re going to talk, we’re going to talk about something real.” His eyes have a fire in them that unsettles and irks me.
“Do you always need to be so abrasive?”
“Personality trait I was born with, I’m afraid.” He opens and closes his hand around his thumb, like he’s itching to do something with his fingers.
I know I shouldn’t say it, but I’m also desperate to put space between us somehow, even verbally. “That and having a silver spoon in your mouth. You want real questions? Fine, tell me how that was then,” I challenge. The fire in those icy blue eyes falters for a moment before returning.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me what it’s like to have a horseshoe up your ass and get picked from obscurity for the role.”
“Get fucked.” I smile sweetly.
“Are you volunteering?”
I scoff before drinking some rosé in my flight, “You wish.”
His eyes darken, and my heart thunders, anticipating his answer before he says it. “And if I did?”
My core tightens in response. Clearly, it didn’t get the memo that I don’t like him. Traitor. “Well... that’s... not happening. So.” I finish lamely, mentally kicking myself for sounding so immature.
He raises his eyebrows with a dangerous smile. Shit, I just issued a challenge, and someone like Roman lives for them.
Reverting to the original subject, I continue. “For what it’s worth, it wasn’t luck that got me the role, and you know that. Arnold wouldn’t have cast me if I weren’t right for the role, so I’m going to need you to quit running your mouth.”
He opens said mouth with a devilish glint in his eyes.
“And no, before you start, I don’t want to hear what else your mouth can do.”
“Presumptuous there, Sparky.” He smirks before taking a drink from one of his wines. I don’t even want to know the shade my cheeks turn in response. Mercifully, Roman puts me out of my misery.
“I’ll be nice and answer your question. I wouldn’t know any different, since it’s been this way my entire life, but this level of fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” His expression shifts to distant, and his gaze drops down to his wineglass.
“Alright, humor me. Why’s that?”
“You saw it with Jill.” He drinks, draining one glass. “We’ve all got our shit. No one could grow up in that household and end up normal.”
“What’s your shit then, Roman?”
“We haven’t had nearly enough wine to be having this conversation.”
Raising my glass in a mock cheers, I down the rest of the contents. “You’re the one who said you wanted to move past superficial.”
“You’ve had the misfortune of meeting my father.” His posture remains casual, but I can see the irritation flit across his face.
“He’s kind of a dick.”
Roman laughs, but there’s no humor in it. The sound makes my heart clench. Something about this hurts him, even if he’s too stubborn to ever admit it outright.
“Is he like that even at home?” I ask, thinking back to the night of the concert.
“What you’ve seen is a hint of who he was at home.” Roman drains the rest of the glasses in his flight. Not wanting to be left behind, I do the same. “There’s a reason my brother’s gone no-contact with him.”
I think back to the Under Violet Skies premiere and remember there was a moment where Deacon and James seemed to be locked in conversation. I’m not sure what was said, but I remember that Deacon didn’t look thrilled. Then again maybe that’s his general disposition.
“And you? Why haven’t you?”
He appears to mull over the question as the server approaches our table.
“Can I interest you in–”
“We’ll take this bottle of the cab sauv, and this chardonnay,” Roman says pointing to the menu.
My eyes nearly bug out of my skull. He just picked the two most expensive bottles the vineyard has to offer.
I would know because I looked at the price and wondered who in their right fucking mind would ever spend that kind of money on wine.
“Absolutely, I’ll be right back,” the server’s eyes light up, no doubt calculating the wild tip they’ll be receiving later.
“Roman,” I hiss, “those cost more than my rent!”
“Relax, Clover. I’m paying.”
“It’s the principle of the matter.”
“There’s something to be said for seizing the moment and enjoying what you want. You like this chardonnay best. We’re getting a bottle, end of discussion.”
“How did you know I liked that one best?”
“It’s not hard, I paid attention.” When he says it, I wonder just how much else he’s noticed.
The server returns with the bottles and two fresh glasses. We thank them and they head back inside.
Uncorking the wine, Roman gives my glass a generous pour before filling his own.
“To enjoying what we want,” he says as heat floods my system.
“Mhmm,” I agree before taking a drink of the most expensive bottle of wine I’ll ever have the privilege of tasting.
I focus on Roman’s grip on the glass. It looks so small and fragile in his broad and strong hands.
Hands that, despite common sense, I’ve fantasized about roaming over my body and taking whatever they want.
My gaze snags on the compass, and the beginnings of the tattoo sleeve working its way up his arm. None of the costumes for the movie have given me the chance to see any more of the tattoos, and I shouldn’t be, but I’m curious.
“What’s on the rest of your sleeve?”
“Wait an hour and I’ll show you the rest.” I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, and I can’t tell if I want him to be or not.
I give him a glare that hopefully masks that fact.
“It’s made up of a bunch of different things.
Inspired by places I’ve been, people I’ve met, or songs that’ve made me feel something,” he says.
I think back to the car and the music he played on the drive. “What kind of music makes you feel something?”
“You might’ve missed your true calling in journalism.” Roman sips the wine.
“That’ll be Plan B.”
“I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it’s the harmonies, the way they ebb and flow and build something together. I like music that tells a story.” His fingers lightly drag along the edge of the table, and finally I put it together.
A thought strikes me. “Roman, do you play an instrument?”
His lips twist into a devastatingly handsome smile. “If I did, which one do you think it’d be?”
“Don’t all slightly douchey men play the guitar?”
He barks out a laugh. “I’m flattered that you think I’m only slightly douchey.”
“Okay, so definitely the guitar.”
“I play a few,” is all he says before handing me the bread basket in the middle of the table. “You haven’t eaten any, and we’re drinking too much not to have something else in our systems.”
I look down at the heavenly-looking bread rolls inside, and panic surges through my veins.
Christ, why is my fight or flight being activated by the prospect of eating a piece of bread?
I’m already drinking more calories than I should be.
The only reason I felt it was okay to proceed with the drinking was because I’d limited my intake yesterday and earlier today and made myself compromise that in order to drink I wouldn’t eat much.
Hesitating to grab the roll, Roman shakes the basket.
“Why are you being so weird?”
“I’m not, I just don’t like–”
“Don’t you dare lie to me and say you don’t like bread. Who the fuck dislikes bread aside from celiacs?”
“I don’t need the bread.” What Roman doesn’t know is that there’s so much meaning laced into that sentence.
“It’s okay to just want something too.”
“No, I don’t think it is,” I mutter into my wineglass.
“What’s going on with you and your eating?” he asks.
My heart stops, and I want to be swallowed up by the ground. No one has ever called me out on it so plainly. “It’s none of your business.”
“Fine,” he lifts his hands in supplication, “You can make your own choices. But for the sake of not being hungover pieces of shit tomorrow, consider having a bite or two.”
It’s stupid, but the fact that he doesn’t force me means more than I’ll ever admit. And begrudgingly, I have to admit that he makes a good point about not being hungover.
I dig into one roll before savoring a sip of the best wine I’ll ever drink with the co-star that I’m beginning to hate a little bit less.