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He's currently having a shower, while I'm in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on a Mexican feast. And by feast, I mean tacos. And by tacos, I mean beef mince tacos with lettuce, tomato, sour cream, and avocado. What can I say? Aussie tacos don't hold a candle to what you can get here in the States. These are the tacos I grew up with, and more importantly, I'm eighty percent confident they're edible. Not exactly the world's greatest chef here.
"Holy shit," Roman exclaims when he enters the kitchen. "What’s happened?"
I glance around at the four cutting boards and ingredients sprawled out over the counter, the pile of pans and baking dishes overflowing out of the sink, the washcloth I chucked on the floor to cover the salsa that slipped out of my hands that I haven't gotten around to wiping up yet. Not exactly the world's cleanest chef, either.
"What does it look like?" I say, cracking a smile. "I'm cooking!"
"Right," Roman drawls, taking it all in.
I'm a little messy. Used to be one of Bailey's bugbears with me. Roman hasn't said anything yet, although I have noticed the plates I leave in the sink are gone when I wake up in the morning. All my stuff from the living room is usually stacked neatly on the dining table as well. Might need to up my roommate game so I don't end up pissing him off and wearing out my welcome.
"Need a hand with anything?" he asks.
"Nope, it's all under control."
I hear him mutter something under his breath that sounds like, "It is?" but he just nods and pulls out a stool from the breakfast bar.
I finish plating the last of the tacos when I look up at him.
Properlylook at him.
He's freshly showered, so his hair is still damp. There's also a spot he must've missed drying on his upper chest that’s made the material of his white T-shirt translucent there. I can make out the outline of a circular tribal tattoo. Matches the ones running up and down both arms. I wonder if they connect, if his whole body is just one big art piece.
Not that Roman needs to be inked for that. He's basically a walking masterpiece anyway. Some people just exude a sexy, smoldering confidence, and Roman is one of them. He's broody and dangerous with bedroom eyes and sharp features that do not do anything for me. Nope. My downstairs department setting is set to floppy.
Okay. Maybe not entirely floppy.
Semi-floppy.
Or semi-hard.
Depends if you're a cock half hard or cock half soft person, I guess.
"So, how was your week?" I ask, as much to distract myself from my ever-spiraling thoughts as I am genuinely keen to know.
I carry two taco-filled platters over to the small dining table.
"The usual," he replies, scooping up some plates and cutlery and bringing them over.
"I've barely seen you."
We sit down, and Roman stacks six tacos onto his plate. He's got an appetite, which is good.
And very large hands. Also good.
"Don't have a lot of free time." He takes a bite and makes a grunty sound of approval. "This is good," he says, with his mouth half full.
"Thanks. It's nothing. I guess working full time and helping Bishop out at the shelter would keep you pretty busy."
"Yeah. It does." He licks up some sauce that's spilled on his fingers. His thick, long fingers, and no nono, I am not viewing that through a sexual lens.
I amnot.
Roman's staring at me in his usual, full-on way, making my heart tick along faster. Someone needs to crack a window open, because it's gotten warm in here all of a sudden.
"Don't know how much you've heard about me from the others." There's a hint of warning in his tone.
"Not a lot." I grin at him. "They're not really the gossiping kind."
