When in Rome (When in Rome, #1)

by Sarah Adams

“I was born with an enormous need for affection, and a terrible need to give it.” —Audrey Hepburn

“Have you never loved something just for what it means to you?”

“I’m drowning and no one sees me.”

It’s not infatuation. Not even lust. It’s the worst of all the feelings…care. Care is reckless because it doesn’t come with the seat belt that selfishness offers. Care has so much to lose, and almost always ends in heartbreak.

“I still can’t believe he sat beside her bed all night and monitored her.

“And let me ask you something? When the hell did it become such a crime to be selfish now and again?”

Sometimes a woman is just worn out and needs a break, you know?” The lines on her forehead deepen. “That doesn’t prove that you’re weak or neglectful, it proves to all the women standing by and watching you pave the road to success that it’s okay to say no. It’s okay to shut your door every now and then and put up a sign that says Busy taking care of me today. Piss off.”

“Well, of course you don’t, darlin’. No one loves anything they’re miserably chained to.”

And the way she’s looking at me, it’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, without a slur but words heavy with sleep. “And you sing like an angel, too.”

We make eye contact and he doesn’t smile at first, but the longer he looks at me, his lips start to rise in the corners like he just can’t help himself. And all at once, I think maybe my chances aren’t hopeless after all.

“Dammit,” he whispers and then looks at me one more time. “You look very pretty.” I feel a smile in my soul before it reaches my lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” “It is for me.”

“I missed you.” My laughter stops. My heart skips. My lips part. But before I can respond, he adds, “But you’re still a pain in my ass.”

Over these last few days, I feel parts of me coming alive again. Like when you’ve been sitting on your foot too long and then finally walk around. It’s tingly and uncomfortable at first, but then you shake it back to life and can move normally again.

He doesn’t even offer advice or throw a pile of shoulds on me. Doesn’t even seem to expect me to come to any conclusion right now. I just get to say what I feel, and if that’s not freedom, I don’t know what is.

And the thing that’s so weird is I’m rarely ever alone, and yet I can be standing in a room full of hundreds of people that supposedly love me and feel completely isolated.”

“I’m trying so hard to stay away,” he says in a low rasp. His eyes track over my face and now the pull between us feels crushing. Unbearable. “And I’m failing.”

Instead, I sob. It’s the kind of cry you hold off as long as you can, pretending you don’t see the need for it even though it’s glaring you right in the face. And then one day, your emotions break, and anger dissolves into frustrated tears that won’t quit until your pillow is soaked through. There’s nothing for it—no magical answer or earth-shattering conclusion to be found. All I can do is wrap my arms around my abdomen and let my body rid itself of all this pain until it doesn’t hurt so much.

“To me, you’re Amelia. Maker of shitty pancakes and a smile that rivals the sun. All I want is you.”