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“I don’t have anywhere else to be . . .”
Roman studies me, like he’s been doing all night.
Like he always does.
“Come on.” I take a few steps in the direction of the grocery store and wave for him to follow me. I haven’t baked a cake in forever. When you live in a city with some of the best bakeries in the entire world, it doesn’t make sense to whip up a box of Betty Crocker devil’s food. But that’s exactly the plan tonight. “Betty’s going to save the day.”
“Betty?”
“Crocker.”
He cracks a smile, one that showcases his deep dimples and makes me think of what Antonio said yesterday about not hurting him.
As our dinner progressed tonight, we found ourselves connecting over films we love and trips we hope to take. The conversation flowed nonstop until we arrived at Lincoln Center, but as the orchestra played some of the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard, all I could think about was what if . . .
What if this worked out?
What if I came clean and he didn’t storm off in a cloud of hatred, never to be heard from again?
What if he understood the situation and found humor in it, and we could move forward with a clean slate?
What if this is the kind of thing we could laugh about someday?
We’re wandering the near-empty Westside Market a few minutes later under a sky of fluorescent lighting and a soundtrack of elevator music when Roman slips his hand over mine. The touch alone sends a start to my chest, painful almost, but a good kind of pain—like when you stretch a muscle that hasn’t been used in ages.
Who’d have thought such a simple move could be so titillating?
If my body reacts this way to a simple holding of my hand, I can only imagine how it’ll respond when he kisses me—something I’m certain is in the cards for us. More times than I can count tonight, I’ve caught him looking at my lips.
Roman’s palm is soft against mine, and he steers me close to him. The warmth of his intoxicating cologne invades my lungs, sending a dizzying sensation to my head. If I could bottle this feeling and drink it, I’d be a goner.
“This aisle,” I say, pointing with my free hand toward a sign that says BAKING MIXES, OILS, AND FROSTING. We head toward the section of colorful boxes with coordinating frostings. Grabbing a chocolate cake mix, a jar of marshmallow frosting, and a shaker of rainbow sprinkles, I place them in our basket. “Easy enough.”
He gives my hand a squeeze.
I squeeze it back.
I don’t know what it means, but whatever he’s feeling, I’m feeling it too.
We could wax on for hours about all the art and music and film in the world, but at the end of the day, talk is cheap. Words mean nothing without the emotions and intention behind them. The connection I’m feeling with Roman is happening beneath the surface, on a deeper plane. It’s taking place between the words and the stolen glances and the dimpled smiles.
My heart hammers in my chest with each step we take—hand in hand—toward the checkout. I keep expecting him to let me go at some point . . . for logistic reasons . . . but he manages to place our basket on the conveyor with his free hand before retrieving his wallet from his pocket.
Fifteen dollars later, we’re on our way to my place in the back of his Escalade. Darkening my phone screen, I quickly tap out a text to my sister, telling her about the cake situation along with instructions to stay in her room for the night and don’t come out until I give her the all-clear.
The message shows as delivered but not read.
Last I knew, Ethan was going to show her that three-bedroom apartment tonight, but I haven’t heard from her in hours. Lately she’s been complaining about fatigue, even going so far as to steal catnaps in her office in the afternoons. There’s a good chance she’s already asleep for the night.
Antonio drops us off at my building, and we head upstairs.
My apartment is dark. No music. No candles. No TV droning in the background. I flick on a light and place our grocery bag on the counter by the stove before preheating the oven to 350.
Roman shrugs out of his sports jacket, places it on the back of a kitchen chair, and rolls up his sleeves while I grab the baking pan, eggs, oil, a measuring cup, a hand mixer, and nonstick spray.
I’m not sure why it didn’t occur to me earlier, but the cake will need to cool completely before we can frost it. We can stick it in the fridge, of course, but this is going to be—at minimum—a two-hour ordeal.
“Okay, how good are you at cracking eggs?” I hold up two eggs.
