Page 71 of From Rome, With Hate

My grin fades when she grows closer and opens the cabinet behind me. I move to the side, out of her way. Leaning against the counter, I force myself to focus on what’s in front of me.

But I can’t.

This is so fucking stupid. I’m acting as if I don’t know how to exist around Julianna now that we’ve broken our most recent vow to stay away from one another. I’m tongue tied and captivated by her, just like I was back in high school.

I can’t deny the way my pulse races whenever she’s nearby. Her scent of vanilla and patchouli surrounds me. With a white-knuckled grip, I clench my hand around the edge of the counter, holding myself back from bending her over the kitchen counter and fucking her from behind.

Julianna stands on her toes to peer into the cabinet. My gaze drops to her wrists, still red from the elastic I used to bind her. Then my attention turns to her long legs and exposed midsection as she says, “Oh, here we go.” She closes the cabinet and holds up a bright blue box. “Mac and cheese.”

I scrunch my nose at the picture of yellow goo-covered noodles.

“Come on, Rome.” Julianna turns the box to look at the front. “Mac and cheese is good.”

“Thatmac and cheese? Looks radioactive. What kind of cheese looks like that?”

She rolls her eyes. “You sound like such a rich snob right now.”

“If I’m such a rich snob, why would I keep mac and cheese in my own house?”

She twists her mouth in thought before she opens it again. “This is Marcus’s, isn’t it?”

“Probably.” I chuckle, conceding. “He has been the one planning dinners and buying all the groceries. I wish the private chef I have in the city could be here.”

“I bet your chef makes fantastic food, but can they make a box of radioactive macaroni and cheese?” Grinning with satisfaction, she turns her attention back to the box.

I pop a brow. “Doyouknow how to make it?”

“Can’t be that hard,” she mumbles, reading the back. She stabs the box with her finger. “Look, there are instructions right here.”

When she looks back up at me, my heart stops. Dimples press into her soft cheeks, which are blushing red. Strands of her thick brown hair frame her face, a contrast to her stunning blue eyes. The sight of her standing in the kitchen reminds me of how easily I fell in love with her that day at the library.

“What?” she asks, her smile fading.

“Nothing.” I shake my head and push off the counter, shoving the memory back into its cage. “It’s just, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this bad for not knowing how to cook. I’ve always had someone cook for me. Who knew a single box of mac and cheese could make me feel so guilty?”

“Same here,” Julianna says, searching another cabinet for a pot. “It’s why doing charity fundraisers grounds me.”

“Right.” I clear my throat, thinking back to our conversation at target practice earlier. She told me one of the reasons she’s consumed herself with her charity work, but I know there is another reason. One she refuses to acknowledge.

She was angry when I pressed her about it, but I needed to hear her say it. I needed to know I wasn’t alone in the way I felt.

Julianna is tough, quick to throw up her walls, and she refused. Anything to avoid talking about the pain. She was clearly affected just by me asking her about birth control.

I can’t say I blame her. I’ve been doing the same, avoiding and reinventing myself. But now, here we are, slipping back into a domestic routine as if it’s been us all along. We’ve fallen back into our usual pattern. Hate each other until one of us breaks. Let the other in, only to turn around and do something to destroy the other.

But being with her these past few days has made me want to change that pattern once and for all.

Julianna begins filling a small pot with water, when my phone buzzes on the counter. It steals both our attention. I cross the room and pick it up. I’m hoping it’s Marcus with news, but my heart drops when I read the notification. It’s just a work email.

“Do you think this is enough water?” She asks, tearing my attention away from my phone. Clearing my throat, I put it back, face down on the counter, and cross the kitchen to join her again.

Planting a hand on the counter beside the stove, we both stare blankly at the pot of water on the stovetop.

“Looks good to me.” I shrug a shoulder.

“Okay.” She turns on the burner, then rocks back onto her heels. “It says on the box to add the noodles once the water is boiling.”

“Uh-huh,” I agree, unable to stop looking at her.