Chapter Nine #2
“Thank you,” he whispers before leaning way in and kissing me on the cheek .
When he pulls back, I’m shell-shocked, and even more so when he twists a bunch of curls into his hand behind me, letting them completely cover his skin as he turns to Brian and Amelia, who watch us with unrestrained curiosity.
I blush, eyes darting to the other people at the table, who are also focused on the Roman and Elodie show.
That’s just… great.
Desperately, I look to Ruby, the only one without eyes on me. Sure, it’s because her head is tilted to the perfect eavesdropping angle, but whatever. I’ll take what I can get.
“I was looking at venues,” I tell her, ignoring Will’s aggressively waggling eyebrows. “There’s a place uptown that’s pretty, and the price seems reasonable to me. I could arrange a tour?”
“We’re getting married in the elevator at Whirlwind Branding.”
“The… elevator?” I ask, using all my willpower to ignore Roman’s fingers twirling strands of my hair around them. “That wasn’t a joke?”
She’d mentioned it, of course, months ago, when she and Will were first together. I didn’t think she was serious, though. Who gets married in an elevator? No one, that’s who.
“Why would that be a joke?” she asks, brows furrowing.
“Uh… because it’s an elevator?” Duh.
“It’s a lovely elevator,” Will sighs dreamily. “Supremely romantic.”
“Making out in an elevator doesn’t make it romantic,” I educate. “I’ve made out in plenty of elevators. They’re still just elevators.”
The fingers in my hair tense, tugging not-quite-painfully.
“It’s the love confessions that make it romantic,” Will replies. “Have you done one of those in any of your elevators?”
“Well, no,” I concede, glancing at Ruby for a bit of Will-has-lost-his-mind solidarity. Unfortunately, I failed to account for all of her in-loveness .
“The elevator plan stays. You can talk to Liam about venue costs.”
Venue costs. For an elevator .
“It’s free,” Liam says across the table. “Just let me know what floor you want it stopped on.”
And to think, I thought I was Ruby’s craziest friend.
Before I can ask what, exactly, the several hundred thousand dollar budget is for, if not venue or invitations or food, our server returns with a hoard of equally armed gentlemen behind him to deliver our meals.
They set our plates in front of us with a grace that rivals a ballet instructor I once had—a lifetime ballerina who kindly but firmly told me that ballet was not a match for me.
Tap, hip hop, jazz, contemporary, and interpretive were also not matches, unfortunately.
I still have hope for ballroom, but I’ll have to find a different dance studio for that.
None of the guys at my previous one would partner with me.
You step on someone’s toes a single dozen times, and suddenly you’re persona non grata at the partner’s dance classes. Whole lot of nonsense, if you ask me.
What is absolutely not nonsense is how delicious—and, bless all, regularly proportioned—the food being set before us looks.
My crab cakes have my mouth watering to the point where I can just about forget that there are only two of them, and my stomach definitely will not be satisfied with that amount.
That’s okay, though, because my tongue will be more than satisfied.
The crispy, golden exterior calls to me, and I reach for my silverware.
Before I can put my fork to good use, Roman’s enters my line of sight, stabbing , scooping , and stealing one of my cakes.
I emit a noise somewhere between a whimper and a growl, and his hand in my hair disentangles itself so he can run it across my shoulder, petting me.
He keeps his eyes on Brian and Amelia as he puts my crab cake on his plate while he maintains a conversation with them about the newest collection of stamps about to be released.
Under Brian’s amused gaze and Amelia’s wide-eyed one, Roman scoots our plates close enough together that he can easily slide a pile of buttery, aromatic mushrooms onto my plate.
He follows that with a mound of thinly sliced potatoes before giving me one of two lamb ribs.
He does not look at my aghast expression once during this interaction. He also does not remove his hand from my person, somehow managing to transfer all of this food one-handed without spilling a drop on the table while Brian and Amelia look on.
I, actually, might kill him.
“Seriously,” I hiss. “Are you insane ?”
His head turns and he shrugs as his eyes sparkle with the sinister need to feed people. “Eat your dinner, Sweet.”
My stomach, the stupid traitor, chooses this moment to rumble loud enough that Ruby says, “He’s right, El. You should eat.”
Fingers flow through my hair, rewrapping curls around rough skin. “Yeah, El. I’m right,” Roman… teases? Mocks? What is that new tone? Whatever it is, he drops it to order, “Eat.”
My stomach pangs, and I… listen. I just listen. I’m not so stupid as to not, really, when good food is right in front of me, slowly going cold.
“Fine,” I capitulate, nose in the air. I mutter a begrudging thank you to Roman, who responds only with a light tug of my hair.
On principle, I start with my crab cake, crunching through the crispy exterior to enjoy the creamy concoction within.
I don’t know what I was expecting when I ordered seafood this far away from any sort of coast, but it wasn’t this —a crab cake to rival the ones I had in Maine the weekend I tricked Ruby into the car and drove us six hours to “pick up some seafood.
" But even fresh, right-by-the-ocean crab cakes have nothing on the flavor, texture, and all-around joy happening in my mouth right now.
I wonder if Roman can recreate this based on taste alone? Suddenly, him stealing one doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
Eyeing my plate, then his, then mine again, I quickly separate bites of the pommes Anna and the mushrooms, nudging to the side closest to him. Just in case he wants to have a taste and make them at home. You know, for that whole cooking is my passion thing he does.
I am so kind.
As the last crumbs of crab cake fall, I set my sights on the mushrooms. Yes, please, come to me.
I work through my meal like this, one item at a time, thoroughly savoring each bite.
I glance at the bits I’ve left for Roman, then at the man himself, who has his eyes likewise fixed on the scraps of food at the edge of my plate.
He is not, for reasons unknown, reading my mind about said bits being for him.
Men are dumb.
I tap the potatoes with my fork, pushing them ever closer to him, and his eyes dart to me, then back to where I’m now inching the mushrooms toward his seat. The corner of his mouth lifts, and his fork knocks mine out of the way so that he can scoop the potatoes onto his plate. The mushrooms follow.
I sit on my hands to keep from throwing them up in victory.
Yummy food at home! Yummy food at home!
He cuts into the mushrooms first, sliding a piece around in the buttery sauce before bringing it to his mouth. His brows furrow in concentration.
He hums, lifts a bit of sauce on his spoon to inspect it, then sniffs, tastes it sans mushroom, and pulls out his phone to open the Notes app, marking down flavors and… whatever else he needs to know to make this at home. Who cares, really? All that matters is he’s doing it. Yummy food at home!
He follows the same procedure with the potatoes, also taking notes. When he goes to return his phone to his pocket, I clear my throat, staring pointedly at the spare bites of his lamb Provencal that remain untouched.
He sighs, reopens the app to type more, tasting and inspecting between notes.
I sigh, content.
After another round of tiny pink cakes, the group scatters to head to their respective homes, Ruby and Will finding a ride with Amelia and Brian—after Roman conducts a full big brother inspection of Ruby, assuring himself that she’s okay after today.
Against my will, I admit that his protective streak, while often taken way too far, can be pretty sweet. Sometimes. When aimed at not me and confined to the limits of reason and rationality.
I do not say these thoughts out loud, of course, because Roman turns the full force of his concern on me in the car, not in the form of words, but in the form of his hand tangled once again in my hair while his other holds the wheel, a soft “to home” on his lips.
To home we go, a Barbie soundtrack low in the background as his fingers twist further into my locks, making their own sort of home within them while my heart beats erratic, unsure how to behave in this new land where Roman is sweet, not salty.
Eventually, it does calm down, slightly, but that eventually is when I’m alone in my bedroom, hair braided and bonneted, the memory of Roman’s palm against my scalp following me into my dreams.