I’m not sure what the logic behind my thoughts is, but ever since I got here, I haven’t needed assistance to get to sleep. I never took Xanax religiously. There was just an added comfort of having it beside me to take whenever I thought I’d need it. Yet, when I got here, it didn’t even cross my mind. Instead, I’ve caught up on three years’ worth of sleep in two days.
Roman didn’t come in after breakfast yesterday, or when he dropped food and snacks in front of the bedroom door today. There was also a single red rose that showed up. It had a weird stain, but I still left it on my bedside table.
His scent is woven into the fabrics all around me. Though he’s not in the room, one thing in this room is his tell: the heater in the corner.
Roman’s respect for my personal space usually ends where my physical well-being begins. Any attempt at abiding by my request for privacy—or even pretending to abide by it—would be thrown out the window the second he sees I’ve turned off the heater.
Another whack forces me out of bed. I angle my head toward the noise beyond the window and muster the emotional and physical strength to tear myself from any semblance of comfort. Goosebumps erupt on my skin when the blankets fall away, and I’ve never moved so fast to shove on more layers.
The frigid air makes my lungs rattle in my chest, so I reach for the inhaler waiting for me on the bedside table, and inhale two deep breaths of the medication.
I trace my fingers over one of Roman’s jerseys I’ve kept for the past five years. The tag has been cut off, as he does with all his clothes. Tracing the bleached orange lines, I still remember how he bit his lip and huffed and puffed about painting his favorite black hoodie with bleach.
Sucking in my cheeks, I tamp down the memories and look around the rest of the room, my shoes lining the bottom of the wardrobe floor, the rose on my bedside table, and the drawings of me all over the walls.
Suited up, though far from mentally prepared for whatever the rest of the day has in store for me, I leave the room. The fireplace rages in the living room in front of a mountain of pillows, cushions, and blankets. A plain white sheet now hangs on the wall above a projector.
I open the door with one last solidifying—and maybe dignifying—breath. The frozen air assaults every inch of exposed skin, almost causing me to tuck my tail and run back inside. Winter is a few months away, but I could be convinced it’s here now.
I am many things, but I am most definitely not built for the cold. I am wearing four layers, and I still think I might die.
And then there’s Roman in a thin, form-fitting long-sleeve.
Fuck him and his warm blood. And his thick forearms and defined shoulders, along with his slender waist, how the veins in his hands move as he grips the wood, and how his inky black hair whips around his face. Or how he grunts with each swing. And—oh God, why does he have to look so good chopping wood?
I’ve seen him elbows deep in grease, head in an engine, breaths heaving as his muscles ripple and tense, and—images of blood splattering across his face ruins whatever fantasy I had playing around in my head. For good reason. The last thing I need right now is to be lusting after him.
Mickey looks so out of place here. He’s got that bad boy biker thing going on, and he’s also a piercing short of falling into the rocker category.
Another cut of wood joins the pile on the ground, making the pieces tumble over. Butterflies erupt in my stomach when he looks up at me, eyes shining as he smiles. That’s the thing about Mickey: his eyes will meet mine in a crowded room every single time.
Wrapping the jacket tighter, I rock on my heels. “I don’t know much about fireplaces or natural heating, but I’m pretty sure you’ve cut enough to last an entire year.”
It’s too easy to fall into how we once were and forget everything that came after. Though his response pulls my head back into reality.
“That’s the point.”
Roman Riviera isn’t a flannel and overalls type of man, and I sure as hell am not a gumboots and chicken coop type of girl. I am not staying out here for a year.
“So what? I’m meant to just live here? Live off the land?”
Amusement is drawn all over his face, but he averts his gaze back to the wood. “I have a car if we need something, and my bike’s in the shed. No one is coming back for this house. The world is ours,” he says coolly, as if there is no other possible answer.
“I can’t live with you. I can’t share a bedroom with you. I can’t—"
“Why not?” he asks, lining up another chunk of wood.