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The backs of my eyes grow warm. Every garment Roman has selected for me has been breathtakingly exquisite, but I’ve always felt like an impostor trying to fake Italian elegance.
This denim dress and the blocky heels are exactly the sort of thing I would buy.
“It’s perfect,” I say, my voice breathy with awe. “But I thought you would want me to dress up for tonight?”
He wraps an arm around my shoulder. “Not for family dinners,” he murmurs. “Everyone wears whatever they want, and I want my brothers to see you, not someone with their personality hidden behind labels.”
I bite down on my bottom lip. “You’re my fucking fairy godfather.”
Roman laughs, the sound as rich as whiskey. “Less of the fairy and more of the fucking. Now, open up the last gift.”
The final box contains a selection of silk scarves from Pucci. I gasp at the vibrant colors and wild patterns.
“These are too much,” I whisper, taking out one with pinks and purples and black.
Roman places a hand on my shoulder, infusing my body with warmth. “It adds a pop of color to represent your artistic spirit.”
A giddy laugh bubbles up from my chest. Before I can stop myself, the words slip from my lips. “I fucking love you.”
Roman stiffens, his eyes widening, and my stomach plummets.
My cheeks go hot, and my insides twist into painful knots.
I meant love in the other way. Not love love, but the appreciation of a larger-than-life personality who’s irresistibly magnetic or a friend who tells the most eye-watering jokes. It’s a strong like,. A deep affection, a fucking figure of speech.
Now, Roman’s going to think I’m some clingy gold digger trying to manipulate him into saying it back.
“Roman, I’m sorry.” I turn to him, my voice rising with a dizzying cocktail of panic and humiliation. “That came out wrong. I’m shit with words. It’s just that I think you’re really great.”
He smiles, making the corners of his eyes crinkle, and pulls me into a hug so warm and tight that I can feel the beat of his heart.
It’s fast, the way it was when he talked about the man who framed him for murder. Fast, just like when he’s fucking me from behind and is about to climax. Fast, just like when what he’s about to say next is emotionally charged.
His lips brush my ear, making me tingle. “I know what you meant,” he whispers in my ear. “And I fucking love you too.”
FORTY-FIVE
EMBERLY
He loves me?
Before I can even ask Roman what the hell that means, he cups the side of my face and kisses me so tenderly, my toes curl. My knees tremble, and I cling to his arms, all doubts and thoughts and confusion evaporating into the ether.
Maybe his declaration is just a manner of speech.
I like him. A lot. When I’m with him, I feel seen. He appreciates all aspects of my craziness and doesn’t try to make me feel small. And I find him more than attractive. Sex with him is always beyond satisfying, and he takes an interest in my art.
The broken part of me that never thought I would find love reminds me that Roman is the only man who can protect me from Jim. What more can a woman ask for?
Roman’s arm wraps around my waist, and his deep groan makes my body melt against his chest. Our kiss is gentle, slow, and so filled with emotion that I could drown and never want to come up for air.
Okay. Maybe I more than like him. Maybe what I feel for him is close to love. It’s so difficult to tell. I’ve been infatuated, but never in love. Every man I’ve been with has been a user.
Jim only saw a person he could control. The guy before that was another artist who used my affection for him as free labor to launch his career. He got me touting his work from gallery to gallery when all he did was criticize mine. Then he dumped me for ‘bringing down the vibe’ when Mom committed suicide.
Things are different with Roman. Maybe not at the beginning, when I grabbed him to get away from Jim, but I’ve seen the kindness beneath his tough exterior. I love his strength, I love his comfort, I love his stability. When we’re together, I feel like the center of his world. When we’re apart, my thoughts always drift to him.
The kiss deepens, and I tangle my fingers through his hair and pull him closer. Roman tastes of whiskey and mint, of protectiveness and strength, of something addictive and primal that overwhelms rational thoughts with pure desire.
