Chapter Nineteen
Oooh, they’re sharing secrets.
Elodie
I shrug, avoiding Roman’s searching gaze.
Just play it cool, El. Super cool, and he won’t ask about—
“Does Ruby know?”
That.
He won’t ask about that.
I sigh, face heating as the shame of being The Worst Best Friend on Earth courses through me. “Ruby doesn’t know,” I mumble. “I haven’t told her yet.”
He hums, head tilting in my peripheral as he considers this and all its implications—namely that I Suck with a capital S.
“How long have you been taking classes?” he asks, finally.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “A while.” Four months.
“It’s not a big deal.” It’s a supremely big deal.
“I’ve just been taking a few classes.” A full courseload for the second semester in a row, on top of working full time.
“You don’t need to make a fuss about it.
” Or about me being The Worst? friend Ruby has ever had.
“You’ve been taking classes for months? On top of working and planning the wedding?
Those aren’t recreational classes you’re going to every week?
” Understanding dawns. “You’ve been locked away in your room studying .
I thought… Well, I thought you were doing your metal yoga or something.
What are you going to school for? What made you want to? ”
That first question is easy. “Business. And…” Oof. I don’t want to answer this. Not when I’m barely on board with all of his character growth nonsense, and especially not on the heels of accidentally inflating his ego by admitting he maybe looks slightly like Soren, a certified hottie.
To be clear, he does not look like Soren. His jaw is sharper. His eyes are bluer. His shoulders are… shoulder-ier. To say they look alike is to compare a Gala apple to a Cosmic Crisp. They’re both red apples, but one is a lot more… firm.
And, unfortunately for me in this exact moment, one is also a lot more inspiring.
I wince, then push the words out as quickly as they’ll go through my discomfort, “And what made me want to do it was… you. You have an incredible work ethic, and you always seem to know exactly what you’re doing in your professional sphere.
You’re very competent. I wanted my own version of that for my position.
I’d like to, eventually, be promoted to manager.
Maybe even general manager, if Cordelia trusts me enough.
I like my job, but…” I grip my apron in my fists and work up the courage to meet Roman’s eyes, which clash against my own.
Something foreign passing through their deep blue depths.
“I love Sweet & Salty. I want to help it grow even more. I want to be a part of making it grow, like you have with your menus. I want…” To matter.
I want to matter so much. To be a person that people come to when they need someone smart, competent, and capable.
I don’t say that, though. Instead, I say, “I want to do my best, like you have.”
Roman sets his tray down on the counter, closes the four feet separating us, and wraps his arms around me, pulling until I’m squished against his chest and have to turn my head to be able to breathe.
“I’m so proud of you, Sweet,” he says into my hair, resting his cheek against my curls.
“So incredibly proud of you. It can’t be easy going back to school when you’re older than your peers, and it definitely can’t be easy doing it all alone.
I don’t know why you haven’t told anybody about it.
You know we’d all support you.” He lifts his head, dipping it until we’re eye to eye.
“I won’t say anything, El. It’s your choice when you want to tell everybody, but know that, when you’re ready, they’ll all be here for you, just like I will be now.
Supporting you.” His eyes well, startling me.
“You’re doing amazing. I hope you’ll let me support you.
I hope you’ll let me make things easier for you. ”
I can’t speak. I can’t, really, even think. His eyes, so blue, sparkle into mine, sincerity ringing through them.
Or… no. That’s the bell above the door.
I sniff, blinking away the wetness on my lashes as we straighten. “I’ll be right with you!” I call, but keep my eyes on Roman.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “It means a lot to me, what you said. That you would help. That you would keep my secret. I’m… I’m grateful.”
I hold my breath, unsure how to navigate this new space with him—a space void of sass, insults, or ill will. A space I find us in more often than not lately.
His eyes flit back and forth between my own, and his arms, still around me, convulse. “Sweet,” he mutters, leaning forward. His nose hits mine, and then—
“Uh, can I get a coffee?” a young voice snaps from the other side of the counter. “Or do I have to watch you two make out first?”
I squawk, pushing away from Roman, and swiftly approaching the counter. “Sorry about that!” I squeak, face flushing. “What kind of coffee would you like? Drip? Americano? Iced?”
The teenager, a gum-chewing blonde girl with a serious case of side eye, scoffs. “Iced, obviously.”
“Perfect! One iced coffee with whole milk, coming right up!”
“I want oat milk,” she sneers.
Oh. Sure. Yes. Of course, because I would obviously assume that she wants a dairy substitute based on my powers of premonition and also mind reading.
I beam at her. “Iced coffee with oat milk! You got it!”
“Next time,” Roman grumbles, “mention the dairy sub in your order. The default is not oat milk. The default has never been oat milk. The default will never be oat milk.”
I blink, turning my head slowly until I see him, hovering behind me and glaring at the girl, who narrows her eyes right back at him.
“You’re hot,” she says. “But not hot enough to be rude to customers and get away with it. Do you even know how to smile?”
Excuse her.
I grit my teeth, elbowing Roman when he opens his mouth to reply. “We’re all out of oat milk,” I announce, arranging my face into a semblance of regret. “I’m so sorry!”
She raises an eyebrow, eyes darting to the mini fridge behind me that holds our gallons of milk, oat included. “There’s some in there,” she says.
“Again, so sorry we can’t accommodate you today,” I reply. “If that’s all…” I trail off, grab Roman by the wrist, and disappear us both into the kitchen.
Letting go of him, I peek out of the circular window on the door. I make eye contact with Captain Rude as she stands, jaw clenched, at the counter. A few more minutes, and she’ll leave. Surely.
“Teenagers are stupid,” Roman mutters from behind me as his chin settles into my hair. The stupid teenager’s eyes move up, transferring her scowl to him.
“No kidding,” I agree. “I can’t believe she was being rude to you. That’s my job.”
He snickers, not disagreeing, and we let silence fall as we watch for her to leave.
She crosses her arms, cocks her hip, and pulls out her phone.
Okay, I guess we’re in it for the long haul, then.
Roman’s breath puffs against my hair. “Sweet?” he asks, arms settling around my waist.
“Mm?”
“Have you thought about the road trip at all?”
“No,” I lie. “Not much.”
“Hmm,” he replies. “I think, especially considering I now know exactly how busy you’ve actually been, that you really, really should consider the road trip.”
I sniff. “I’ll think about it.”
He tilts his head, and the stubble on his cheek slides across my curls, pulling against them in a way I don’t altogether hate as his hands grip my sides, forearms pressing hard against my stomach.
“Well!” I exclaim. “I better”—uh—“get to all that thinking!” Oof. “Okay, bye!”
Pesky heart beating way too fast, I book it out to the hallway and into the office, where the manager, Chris, sits behind his desk doing…
I don’t know, payroll or schedules or something.
Chris spends all of his shifts shared with Roman and me at Sweet & Salty hiding in the office looking busy because Roman, and I quote, “is terrifying enough to make a grown man cry. "
“Hey, Chris!” I greet, smiling as I close the door behind me, praying Roman doesn’t follow me in. “How’s it hanging?”
His brows scrunch together over dark, suspicious eyes. “Do you need something?”
“I’m just hiding from Roman,” I tell him. “You know how it is.”
He winces. “If he comes in here, I’m not playing mediator. I do not get paid enough.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s going to come in here,” I reply, hopeful. “I’m just going to give it a minute or two to be safe.”
He stares at me, bemused, then shrugs, turning back to his computer. “If you say so.”
I lean against the door as he starts to type, distracting myself from the lingering feel of Roman’s arms around my body by remembering the words he said, so gently, so sweetly, so sincerely about wanting me to take a break.
It doesn’t do much to calm my racing heart, but it reaches further, calming something deeper within me and making me sigh.
He wouldn’t be my first pick for someone I’d want to make proud, but it definitely does not feel bad to hear him say that I have, and it doubly doesn’t feel bad to have him ask me to let him take care of me instead of his usual bulldozer method.
Without the distraction of simply not wanting to do something because he bossed me to, I have the freedom to consider doing the thing he wants me to do—the thing that would really be a nice break from the chaos and stress that is my everyday life.
Huh.
Wild, but… I think I’m going to go on a road trip. With Roman. Who I hate.
My nose scrunches.
I do hate him, right? I mean… there was the whole being a sanctimonious jerk for almost the entirety of us knowing each other thing.
But, then, there was the him being an excellent brother thing .
The explaining basic safety to me like I’m five thing .
The being competent and helpful at work thing .
The acting like my hobbies are stupid thing .
The making sure I’m being safe doing those hobbies thing .
The making sure I’m fed even when I don’t want to be thing .
The buying me all of my favorite hair products and making sure the ones that can be cute are, even buying me cute bonnets before the apology basket thing .
The… the…
I groan.
“You’re making an awful lot of noise for someone who’s supposed to be hiding,” Chris remarks.
“Shut up, Chris. I just realized I don’t hate Roman.” Can’t he see I’m in crisis?
Chris doesn’t respond as I bang my head on the door, praying for a concussion to knock some sense into me. Then, around my twentieth hit, he says, “I thought you guys were dating. Don’t you live together?”
Ew. Ewww.
“We’re not dating,” I snip, glaring at the man who is my boss and I should probably not be getting an attitude with. “Why would you think that?”
He blinks. “Because he’s changed his entire schedule to work around yours?
Because he makes you lunches and dinners and puts them in the fridge then growls at anyone who looks like they might try to eat them?
Because any time you leave the building he starts stress scrubbing everything down like a man who doesn’t know how to handle being away from the person he loves, so he takes up whatever manual labor he can find?
” He taps his desk, which Roman built to replace the old plastic one that used to be in here.
“When you left for that wedding in June, he spent the time you were away building furniture , Elodie. What was I supposed to think?”
Well. How should I know? I sniff. “Roman likes cleaning,” I reply. “And building stuff. He’s a real go-getter type of guy.”
“Before you got here, Roman cleaned only what he had to clean,” he counters. “And he definitely never built anything. He told me he had to go out to his parents’ to use their tools to be able to do it.”
I throw my hands up. “I don’t know, man! But we’re definitely not dating. The very idea…” I shiver. “No. Absolutely not. I’ve barely decided I don’t hate him.”
“Okaaay,” he drawls. “If you say so.”
“I do,” I affirm. Me and Roman? Ludicrous. I clear my throat. “Also, since I have you here, the two of us are going to be needing next weekend off. We’re going on a road trip.”
Chris’ eyebrows shoot to the moon, and he presses his lips together before agreeing to the time off, assuring me that he can cover our shifts easily enough by pulling from Sweet & Salty downtown.
Perfect. Wonderful. That’s settled then.
I am going on a road trip. With Roman.
How… fun.