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Heat rises to my cheeks, and I shift against his hard body. “Roman?”
“It can wait.” He rises off the floor, helps me back on the sofa, and props up my spine with enough cushions to form a small fortress.
My shoulders sag as he walks to the kitchen, finds the bowls and spoons, then serves out the minestrone soup. After grating a generous amount of parmesan over my serving, he drizzles it with olive oil and places it on a tray with a glass of iced water.
As he approaches and sets the tray down on the coffee table, I mentally rehearse my confession. My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. “Roman?—”
“Eat first,” he says.
With a sigh, I pick up the bowl and take a spoonful. Roman stands over me, staring so intently that my breaths slow. He looks like I’m the judge about to deliver my verdict.
The soup is as rich and thick and delicious as it smells, with the perfect blend of tomatoes, garlic, and herbs.
“What do you think?” he asks, his voice halting.
“I can’t believe you can cook so well,” I say. “It’s perfect.”
He crouches beside me and smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Then all the time I spent making Sofia teach me to prepare your favorite dishes was worthwhile.”
I take another bite and laugh. “What on earth made you want to learn?”
“You’re moving into the final trimester and need extra help. I want to be able to tend to your needs any time of the night.”
I stiffen. “What does that mean?”
“You get cravings, right?”
“Of course.” I take another mouthful of the soup.
“And the school is giving you maternity leave?”
“So?”
“You’re going to need help. I remodeled the pool house’s kitchen to give me more space to cook, so I can whip up something healthy and fresh.”
“But I’m not going back to you.” I set down my spoon.
Roman frowns. “I know, which is why I’m offering you the pool house.”
“No…” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “This is my home.”
“What kind of man would leave his wife and child alone at her weakest? Even if Jim is dead, you’re still a target.”
I flinch.
Wife?
Once is a slip of the tongue I can dismiss as testosterone-fueled posturing. Twice is a proposal. Or maybe even an order.
“Roman.” I twist around in my seat and look him straight in the eye. “We’re not getting married.”
He glances away.
“What?” I snap.
He remains silent.
“Roman, please.”
