Page 93 of Romeo

She had no idea.

Or maybe she was beginning to.

The interesting part wasn’t that Fiona had asked what I was wearing or dared me to prove what I was imagining. It was that she’d done all of it and stayed. A few weeks ago, one suggestive comment would’ve sent her scrambling back behind sarcasm and safer questions.

Tonight, she’d pushed.

Then pushed again.

I’d spent so much time worrying that I might move too fast that I hadn’t considered what would happen when Fiona started setting the pace herself. Apparently, it involved me lying shirtless in my bed, staring at my phone and questioning every ounce of restraint I possessed.

I set the phone beside me and rubbed both hands over my face.

What I wanted was simple.

Doing it right wasn’t.

There were things I could’ve typed that would’ve left absolutely no doubt about how I saw her. What I thought about when my mind wandered. How badly I wanted the day to come when distance wasn’t the thing keeping us apart.

But Fiona already knew I was attracted to her.

Tonight had answered that question.

She didn’t need me drowning her in everything else before she’d figured out what she wanted to do with that knowledge.

I picked up the phone again.

Her last message still waited on the screen.

Debatable.

My smile came back.

She was right.

I wasn’t much of a gentleman.

But for her, I could fake it a little longer.

The harder question was, how long was she going to let me?

I plugged the phone into the charger and stretched out beneath the covers, though sleep still felt a long way off.

For months, I’d thought patience meant waiting for Fiona to catch up.

Tonight, for the first time, I wondered whether the day was coming when I’d be the one trying to keep up with her. That thought was far more dangerous than anything I could’ve sent over text.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Romeo

After dinner was over, I finally realized what had been bothering me all damn day.

I sat on the edge of my bed with Fiona’s text thread open, trying to decide whether asking the question rattling around in my head would make me sound curious or completely fucking insane.

Saturday was prom.

Josie had mentioned it the week before—something about every high school girl in Rosewood losing her mind over dresses and dates. At the time, I hadn’t thought much about it.