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Now my blush was turning into a full-body heat. Aside from the steamy kiss in his office yesterday, it had been weeks since Roman and I had been intimate. The smallest touch still set me off.
The mayor and Roman chatted about the state and various events coming up, while the mayor’s wife and I mostly nodded and smiled. The couple seemed nice and genuine. But what was interesting was the way Roman looked at Mayor Stanton—with a certain respect.
“I hear your campaign is going well,” Roman said.
Ken took a drink of his wine and nodded. “We’ll see after his new ad comes out. Cunningham is running a tough campaign.”
“I thought Mrs. Cunningham was retiring this year,” I said. I was certain Warren had said that at the fundraiser.
“She is. It’s her son who is going for her seat,” Ken affirmed. “Young guy, mid-twenties I believe.”
I accidentally dropped my fork, and it clanged against my plate. “Her son. As in, Warren Cunningham?”
Roman nodded, his jaw clenching tightly. I tried really hard to not look shocked, but this was definitely news to me. Roman returned to his conversation with Ken, for which I was grateful.
“Tough?” Roman asked. “It looks like Cunningham has launched a smear campaign against you. How are you going to retaliate?”
Ken took another bite of his pork chop and smiled at me before returning his attention to Roman.
“I’m not, son,” he said, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “What Cunningham is putting out there about me is baseless and without fact. The people of New York know I’m honest. I just have to trust that.”
Roman looked at me for a long moment. Something was going on behind those eyes. Something I so badly wanted him to share with me. And in his own way, he was. Slowly. Dropping little hints here and there about the man he was, the man he wanted to be.
As if reading my mind, he smiled and wound his fingers with mine, holding my hand under the table, offering a glimpse of support.
Despite all that had happened over the past few weeks, tonight, for the most part, was a success. And I’d cling to that.
“What are you doing?” Roman asked from the doorway of the kitchen.
“Apparently nothing.” I spun around and looked at the spotless kitchen. “I was going to help clean up, but it looks like your staff already did.”
He nodded. “They left over an hour ago.” He leaned against the doorjamb and stared me down. “Dinner was impressive.”
“Thank you. I hope it was like you remember it.” Taking a page from his book, I did my own leaning: a hip against the island in the middle of the massive kitchen.
“It was better.”
His voice sent sparks along my nape. Running my fingertip along the cool granite counter, I kept my eyes locked on his, and my body language approachable, but strong. Another thing I was learning from him.
“Thank you for cooking, Amy. It really was incredible, and you didn’t have to do it.”
“You’re welcome. And I wanted to.”
He nodded slowly, his gaze going from my eyes to my toes, then back up again.
One thing Roman was good at was eliciting information using few words. Right now, he was testing how much I’d say. Seeing if I’d broach the subject of us not “sleeping” together, as I had earlier.
Instead, I took the opportunity to practice my method of “showing,” rather than “telling.”
“We are going to talk now,” I informed him. Yeah, informed. The idea made me giggle internally a little.
He raised a brow. “Are we?”
I nodded, keeping my casual stance.
“And what would you like to talk about, Miss Underwood?”
“This afternoon and what you said.”
