If we had to live off the land, we’d probably die of starvation from waking up too late. Neither Roman nor I have ever been morning people. We’re both night owls through and through. I guess prison didn’t change his habit of sleeping in, either.
Other than a muffled groan, followed by soft snoring, there is no answer, so I answer my question for him. It’s my apology-not-apology for making him sleep on the floor instead of in the bed with me. The silver lining is that he has no shortage of pillows to make himself comfortable.
Just as I’m about to move, my feet keep me in my spot. Silver reflects the faint light of the living room like a beacon.
Keys.
Car keys.
My ticket to freedom is right there on top of the fireplace, and he wouldn’t know until it’s too late. I could be all the way back at my old house by the time he wakes up. Hell, I could probably be in another state.
I told him I wanted to go back. I’ve been fighting him at almost every turn, but I can’t move, unable to bring myself to grab those keys and run from him. I can’t leave him behind.
What was the point in all that fighting, then? What was I trying to achieve? I wasn’t fighting for the sake of fighting, was I?
Roman’s muttering of nonsense spurs my body toward the kitchen, but my eyes are still glued to the keys. I thought everything I wanted would be mine if I could outrun him. I guess I was wrong.
The same thoughts repeat themselves as I make brunch. I believe Roman when he said Jeremy will be looked after, and he wasn’t lying when he said all my art supplies were in the bag.
“What are you thinking about?”
I jump out of my skin and slap my hand over my heart, sending little bits of omelet flying. “Crap, you scared me.”
Leaning a hip against the counter, wearing a cocky grin, he folds his arms over his chest, lifting his long-sleeve slightly so a sliver of olive skin peeks out above his sweatpants. The deep V of his hips points to the place I’ve only ever imagined—and bumped my head into far too many times. I look away before I get caught, but his face doesn’t make it any easier to handle his presence.
The closest word to describe Roman’s bedhead is drool-worthy. The bad-boy persona is in full swing; anyone can tell he’s trouble by just the twinkle of his silver eyes.
Seconds pass, and I still can’t get my eyes off him. More specifically, the way the veins in his hands move when he squeezes his bicep, like he’s trying to rein himself in. I still remember how those skilled fingers drew pleasure from me and made my body addicted with just one hit.
He pushes off the bench, and the distance—or lack thereof—between us becomes suffocating. Not because we’re touching, but because all he needs to do is reach for me, and I’d be at his mercy. “What’s that saying? Think of the devil and he will appear?”
I square my shoulders. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
“Mmhmm, is that why you’re blushing now?”
“I’m not blushing.” I most definitely am.
“Right, and you aren’t distracted by me at all.”
“Not at all,” I say in agreement, fixated on the curve of his lips. I still remember how soft they were and how much he said against my mouth without needing to utter a word.
“Is that why you’re burning breakfast?”
“What?” I spin around and yank the pan off the hotplate.
Sure enough, the eggs are past well done. What do country people do with inedible food? Feed it to the pigs?
The reasons why we could never live here keep piling up. There’s absolutely no way I could kill any animals or even eat the eggs because they could hatch into cute little chicks.
He chuckles as he takes the handle from me and dumps the remains into a black bag. I blink quickly, unsure of what to do when Roman kisses my forehead before pushing me aside to start on another batch of eggs.
Neither of us mentions the wasted food as we eat, even though, with the way we grew up, wasting food is the most cardinal sin. Mickey blanches when he accidentally drags his fork along the porcelain, creating a high-pitched noise. He shudders, then goes on about everything he did around the house and how he’s mastered the art of Google. As he talks, my eyes drift to the keys on the fireplace mantle.
What is there left for me? It’s not like I have the money to afford a roof over my head and food in my stomach. I get a commission every few weeks, which is better than nothing. Millie probably wouldn’t want me working at the store after what’s happened, and it’s not like I’d want to.