Chapter 21
DISTRACTING
ROMAN
Roman smells something sweet as he drops his keys on the console by the front door. In the hallway mirror, he sees that his cheeks are flushed. He loosens the tie around his neck, leaving it hanging as he works a few buttons undone walking further into the house.
The lights are off in the hallway.
“Jahlani?” he asks in a whisper.
When there’s no response, he rounds the corner crossing the threshold to the living room, and the sight before him causes his heart to lodge in his throat.
Lucy is wrapped in Jahlani’s arms as they both breathe evenly, their eyes closed.
The television still flashes with animated figures, causing different colors to extend over their features.
He wipes a hand down his mouth, staring at how peaceful they look unsure of what to do. He knows he should pick Lucy up, and put her in the crib, but the greedy part of him wants to take it in.
How right they look together.
Whole.
Roman tiptoes forward, clicking the remote to turn the television off and that wakes Jahlani. She blinks, before looking down at Lucy.
“Hey, what time is it?” she asks, her voice thick. She shifts against the couch, pulling Lucy closer to her.
He clears his throat, sinking next to her so that their knees brush. “A little after midnight,” he murmurs.
“Hmm. Sorry for not putting her in the crib, she convinced me to watch the show and I couldn’t say no to this face,” she says softly, leaning her head back.
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “She has that ability.”
Jahlani nods, her eyes drifting shut again and he has to restrain himself from asking her to stay the night.
He stands abruptly, trying to put some distance and her eyes fly open again. “Here, let me put her to bed so you can get your stuff.”
As he gathers Lucy against him, her head rolls against his neck and he can feel that she’s hot. He inhales her powdery scent as he walks with her to her room. He places a soft kiss on her head as he lays her down in her crib, undoing a few buttons on her onesie before shutting the door softly.
He returns to find Jahlani leaning across the counter, engrossed in something on her phone.
This woman.
He stands for several moments in the archway studying her.
Trying to process the shock of seeing her in his fucking kitchen.
She’s shed the oversized sweater from earlier and now stands in a white cotton T-shirt with a low V-neck.
Her braids cascade down her spine while her black leggings hug the length of her toned calves.
Jahlani in his house might be his favorite version yet.
Her lips turn up at whatever she’s watching, and the deep glow from the Edison bulbs above her seems to sharpen her. Put her in this golden spotlight that’s hard to look away from.
Or is it him?
He strides forward until he’s next to her because she’s in his goddamn kitchen and isn’t paying him any attention. He leans against the counter opposite from her.
Look at me. Pay attention.
“How was she?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble.
She finally turns to face him, her lips parting as her eyes wash over him. She shakes her head, looking back down at her phone.
“Yeah. I kind of love her. Sorry again for not putting her in the crib—she kept crying, and I sort of panicked.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. Do you want a drink?” he asks, moving to grab glasses from the cabinet.
“No, thanks,” she says, still very much engrossed in whatever is on her phone. He pours himself one, bringing it to his mouth.
“How was work?” She asks.
He almost chokes on the dark liquid as he swallows, before setting the glass down.
Her back is to him, and he braces his hands on the counter to steady himself because it’s all so domestic.
Her in his house. In his kitchen. Asking about his day.
She turns to look over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah,” he says, wiping a hand down his shirt. “Sorry,” he adds, scratching behind his ear. “I guess I’m just not used to anyone asking about my day.”
And this seems to catch her attention, because her lips part ever so slightly, and she turns fully, mirroring his stance against the island.
“Oh. Well then, let me be the first to break the cycle,” she says, a twitch on her lips. “How was your day?”
Roman swallows. “It was good … great. Nothing too crazy happened,” he says, clearing his throat, hating how nervous he sounds, and he wonders if she knows how much power she has over him.
He closes the distance, sliding up to her, so that his left arm is brushing ever so slightly against her right.
“What are you watching?” he asks as he tilts his head in the direction of her phone.
“It’s a pimple-popping video,” she murmurs, turning back around to face it.
“A what?” he says, his mouth twisting as he peers at her phone.
She turns to face him, seemingly in a daze because she repeats it, more hesitantly. “A … pimple-popping video?”
“What the hell is that?”
She clears her throat, seemingly embarrassed. “It’s where a dermatologist pops people’s pimples. They’re actually really satisfying to watch,” she says, almost shyly, turning back, and pressing the play button.
Stepping forward, he places a hand next to her arm on the countertop, partially bracing himself behind her. His chest flutters as his eyes bounce between the screen and the expanse of her cheek. The screen and the curve of her lip. The hair in her eyebrows, the arch of her neck.
For the next eight minutes, they stand side by side in his kitchen watching the video. She’s quick to answer any questions he has, and he watches her intently. Anytime she shifts, whatever perfume she has on overwhelms him. It’s sweet.
Distracting.
“See? It’s interesting, right?” She turns to look up at him, smiling brightly.
He gives her a closed-mouth smile, stepping back to the opposite side.
Not like this.
“Hmm. Never show me those again, please.”
Her smile falls and she clicks the phone off, flipping it over.
He lets out a soft laugh. Folding her arms over her chest, she leans against the island.
The clock reads that it’s just past midnight.
He knows he should send her off, thank her for watching Lucy, walk her out to her car, tell her goodnight, but—
She’s in his kitchen, and he wants to keep her there.
“What am I smelling?” he asks, trying to distract himself.
She sniffs, turning her nose up. “Cinnamon rolls.”
His stomach growls then, and she laughs slipping on his mitts. He watches, in a daze, as she pulls out the tray from the oven.
“They’re done. I just put them back in there to keep them warm.”
Snapping out of his stupor, he shakes his head. “Wait, why did you make cinnamon rolls?”
She shrugs, placing the mitts back in the drawer with the takeout menus.
She knows his kitchen.
“I used to make them with my cousin, Teryn, when we were kids, after my parents divorced. It’s my comfort food. But, I’m not sure you deserve any,” she says, nudging her head toward her phone. “Since you had so much to say about one of your favorite pastimes.”
Reaching forward, he pulls one from the sheet, and bites into it.
“Holy shit.”
Her eyebrows raise. “Good?”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever had in my life,” he says, tipping his head back as he swallows before meeting her gaze.
She rolls her eyes, grabbing her own. He watches her chew through it. She tilts her head, seeming to analyze the baked goods as she swallows.
“It’s okay,” she says, chewing thoroughly. “It’s missing something.”
He grabs a second one. “What’s in this?” he asks, his mouth tasting of sugar and dough and cinnamon. Of her creation.
Her eyes flash to him. “Not telling,” she says with a teasing shake of her head.
“Come on, tell me.” He pushes away from the counter. “You owe me,” he adds with narrow eyes.
She gives a defiant shake, and he steps closer as she swallows the last piece of her bite, some icing lingering.
Roman swallows, gesturing to his lip. “You have some here.”
Her hand flies to her face. “What? Is it gone?” She wipes frantically.
“Here.” Roman’s left hand slides behind her neck, tilting her head back while his right thumb brushes the corner of her mouth.
He drags it down, brushing her bottom lip in the process.
Her skin is smooth. Her lip, slightly damp.
His finger lingers longer than necessary, and he hopes that she’s okay with it, but also can’t bring himself to care if she isn’t.
Their eyes lock and he wants nothing more than to take this a step further.
He wants to know what else she would allow him to do.
He wants to push himself against her, to make her feel what she’s doing to him.
He wants to know if this is just an itch or a full-blown rash. He wants—
“Got it?” she says, but it sounds raspy. Her hand lightly grips the one against the back of her neck.
“Got it.”
He releases his hold on her, stepping back, his stomach clenching.
“Jahlani—”
“I should go,” she says. “It’s late.” He watches her fly around his kitchen island. A blur of movements.
He blinks. “Yeah. Sure. Thanks again.”
She slides her purse onto her shoulder, stepping toward the front hallway. He trails behind, flipping on the light switch as she presses her feet into her sneakers, not bothering to tie them.
She spins on her heels, patting her pockets, before she fishes her keys out. She blows out a breath, wrapping her hair into a low bun before flashing him a small smile.
“Goodnight, Roman.”
Her shoes.
Crouching down to her left foot, he reaches out, pressing his fingers into her calf to steady her leg as he lifts it.
She lets out a sound, but he ignores it, making sure to double-knot before moving to the other side.
When he’s finished, he taps her foot, dragging his fingertips over the muscle of her calf as he rises to his full height.
In the process, they’ve inched closer—too close now.
She’s looking up at him, blinking, her mouth slightly open, and he clears his throat when she breathes out slowly. Their eyes lock onto each other and he watches as several expressions play out across her features.
Confusion creases her brow, a trace of annoyance crossing her forehead, but her eyes say something else. They lower and fall to his mouth before moving back up. They search and stare and wait.
And his do the same as he leans in closer, searching and staring, and waiting.
It’s there, the subtle shake of her head, and maybe she does it subconsciously, but it’s enough to stop him. He rubs a hand over his mouth, stepping back.
“Goodnight, Jahlani.”
She exhales slowly, reaching for the door handle and twisting.
“Goodnight,” she says, her voice soft.
Back in the kitchen, he waits for the latch to click, for the tires to crunch across the driveway—then unzips his pants, the noise echoing in the desolate kitchen as he works over himself. He can’t seem to stop his mind from reeling back.
He knows he shouldn’t be doing this, but his hand tightens. He catches sight of her cardigan, draped over the back of the couch, and he squeezes his eyes shut, his head falling back as a soft groan escapes.
Thoughts of his arm brushing against her—her in his kitchen, is it gone? His palm on her neck, the tension in his stomach builds as he quickens his pace.
He thinks of his thumb on her lip, a breathless got it.
His name from her mouth, the rise and fall of her chest, her body pressed against his, his erection pressed against his zipper, and he thinks she fucking felt it she had to have as he pulls and twists, his breath coming out harsh.
The muscle of her calf. Him on his knees, her above him.
Her hand on his wrist, her shifting ever so slightly against him, her eyes heady, and heavy.
He braces his free hand on the counter’s edge as he lets go with a drawn-out groan.
His winded breaths echo through the space, and he sinks into a stool at the counter.
“Fuck.”