AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I tug on the hem of my dress, straightening the tight fabric back into place, and then I give Roman a friendly wave before heading inside.
A couple minutes later, I’m changing out of Margaux’s dress and into jersey pajama shorts and a white cotton tank when my sister knocks at my bedroom door. It’s unusual seeing her in yoga pants and a faded T-shirt instead of her normal frilly frocks, but seeing how she had no choice but to work from home today, I don’t blame her for dressing for comfort.
“So?” she asks with sky-high brows. “How’d it go?”
“It went really good,” I say.
“Why are you smiling like you’re on cloud nine or something?” Margaux frowns. “Sloane . . .”
I hadn’t realized I was grinning.
“What did you do?” she asks before I can answer. “Oh, my god. Did you flirt with him? Did you kiss? Please tell me you didn’t kiss him.”
I roll my eyes. Of course she’s jumping to conclusions. It’s what she does.
“It was nothing like that,” I say. “He took me to Halcyon’s studio and gave me three paintings. He’s having them framed and delivered later this week.”
Her wrinkled expression isn’t a good sign.
“What?” I ask.
“Guys don’t usually give women gifts unless they like them . . . or if they want something in return.” She cocks a hand on one hip. “What’s his angle? What’s he gunning for?”
I lift a single shoulder. “I don’t know? I think he just saw that I was a big fan of Halcyon’s and he wanted to do something nice?”
“Do you even hear yourself right now?”
“Do you hear yourself?” I shoot her question right back at her. “Even if he did want something—and he doesn’t—he’s not going to get it. I made it pretty clear that work is my priority, and when he dropped me off, he didn’t say anything about seeing me later. He didn’t even say bye. He just looked at me. And then the driver shut the door. Does that sound like a man who wants something from me?”
“No,” she says with a sigh. I knew she’d see it my way. “He sounds like a guy with shitty social skills.”
I sniff a chuckle. “I don’t get that vibe from him. I think he’s just . . . in a funk.”
While I hardly know Roman, I get the sense that he has more layers than a glass onion. The person on the surface is hardly representative of the person underneath the cold, impenetrably hard, distant facade he projects.
I never thought I’d say that about a man who cost me my job once upon a time, but I’m catching glimpses of a different side of him.
In another lifetime—one where I’m Sloane and not Margaux, one where he’s not still woefully in love with his late wife—maybe we could have lit a spark and fanned the flames. Maybe there could have been something between us . . . or at least the potential for something.
“So no more dates then?” Margaux asks.
“That wasn’t a date today.”
“No more seeing him then?” she rephrases her question.
“Right,” I say.
“Ugh.” She places her hand on her stomach.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ever since that sushi two weekends ago, I’ve literally been so nauseous.” She smacks her lips like she’s about to throw up. “But I’m not getting sick, I just constantly feel like I’m about to be sick. And everything grosses me out. Like I’m so hungry sometimes, but just thinking about food makes me want to puke.”
“Even in Utah?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “I was popping a Pepto Bismol tab every few hours just to get through the meetings. It kind of went away over the weekend, but now it’s back. Damn sushi. Never again. I swear on my life.”
“Babe, I don’t think it’s the sushi,” I say. “It’d be out of your system by now. Are you running a fever or anything?”
“No,” she says. “I checked. Thought maybe I had the flu or something, but it’s not that. I’m just queasy, like, all the time. Even brushing my teeth makes me low-key gag.”
“You should go to the doctor because that’s definitely not normal. There’s a walk-in urgent care place a couple blocks from here. I can go with you if you want?”
Brushing her loose curls away from her face, she leans against my door and exhales.
“Yeah, I probably should go and make sure it’s nothing contagious since I’m going back to the office tomorrow,” she says. “If I get anyone sick, I’ll never hear the end of it. Marcel gave the entire accounting department the flu two years ago, and people still bring it up.”
“Want me to go with you?”
“No, it’s fine.”
“Let me know what they say . . . ,” I call as she heads down the hall to her room to freshen up.
Ten minutes later, Margaux is dashing out the door, leaving a cloud of Chanel perfume in her wake, and I’m heating up last night’s leftovers for dinner. The ding of the microwave almost drowns out the chime of my phone when a text message comes through.
