When in Rome (When in Rome, #1)

by Sarah Adams

“Is this your version of quiet as a mouse?” He holds his frown so well even though I can feel the amusement vibrating between us. “Is that the longest sentence you’ve ever strung together?”

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.”

“And I saw him staring at your backside when you weren’t looking.” I whip my head back to Mabel. “He did not.” Her smile widens. “No, he didn’t. But now I know by the rosy hue in your cheeks that you wish he did.”

Now I’m a cartoon trying to gain traction while running in place as I slip and slide my way to my room, jerk my legs into the pajama bottoms, and race back to the living room and dive onto the couch. There’s a blanket nearby so I snatch it and cocoon myself inside it similar to how Noah wrapped me earlier today. Does this look staged? Does it look like I haven’t moved since he left? That seems creepier somehow. At the last second, I decide to ditch the blanket, shut off the TV, and run into the bathroom. That’s a more normal thing to do and doesn’t scream I HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU AND HAVE BEEN WAITING UP TO SEE YOU.

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

I shove my hands in my pockets and lightly bump my shoulder against hers. In quiet, introverted, hates-discussing-feelings language, I just said thank you.

His jaw flexes and he turns forward, gripping his steering wheel with one hand and turning the key with the other. “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.”

When Amelia is within arm’s length, I hand her one of the slices of toast. At first she hesitates. “I don’t want to take your toast.” “I made it for you,” I say with an easy shrug. “I was about to head home.” I accidentally make eye contact with James and he shakes his head, mouthing, I knew it. Then he makes a headfirst-dive gesture with his hands.

“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.”

“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.”

“She didn’t deserve you. I agree that sometimes opposites are terrible together—like pickles on brownies.” She shivers in disgust, making me laugh. “But sometimes…I think they can make each other better. Like maple syrup and bacon.”

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.

I blurt my truth, not even sure why I’m nervous to tell him. But I am. My confession is a finger prick compared to his open heart surgery.

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

“Thinking of adding a new pie to the menu.” It’s clear by the look on Phil’s face that this is not the information he was after, but he’s not disinterested. He lifts a bushy brow. “Oh? What’s it gonna be?” “It’ll have a honey base. I’ll call it Mind Your Own Damn Beeswax.”