Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

Her backbone is stronger, but I’m working on mine.

As I follow Roman through the house, he flips on the kitchen light before setting the box on the counter.

“I assume you brought this for me?” He taps the top of it with two fingers.

“Yes, it’s your award.” I wring my hands. “I’ve been working on it religiously since taking it back to my place.”

He nods. “Let’s check it out then.”

Roman is smiling as he begins tentatively prying open the top of the box I put packing tape on, sealing the flaps down as though I were sending the item on a cross-country journey.

He is tall enough to peer inside before his hands dig around, reaching to carefully grasp it between two very large hands.

I do my best not to stare.

You are not looking for a boyfriend, Lilly—you’re not even looking for a boy that’s a friend. Stop looking at him.

Lifting it out slowly, this piece of glass wrapped in a towel, he lets out a low whistle. “Moment of truth, eh?”

I worry my bottom lip, fearful now that he’ll be disappointed—the award is much different than it looked before it was ruined (based on my research), but I’m optimistic he’ll be open-minded about the glitter and rhinestones.

Who doesn’t want some sparkle in their life?

Roman lays the award on the counter like a baby—the same way I did—peeling back the layers one by one and unrolling the swaddling. Beneath the glow of the overhead light, the newly constructed masterpiece shimmers and sparkles, and I watch his face carefully, waiting for his reaction.

His eyebrows shoot up.

Mouth opens.

Closes.

Oh god. “Do you hate it?”

Roman finally lifts his gaze—his eyes are blue—as a smile spreads slowly across his mouth.

He rightens the award, resting it vertically on the counter.

“Wow, Lilly. This is…”

Horrible.

Ugly.

Stupid.

“…awesome.”

That perks me up, and I raise my chin. “Really? You don’t hate it?”

Rather than staring at me, he’s staring at the accolade as if seeing it for the first time—which he basically is. It was like a puzzle being pieced back together; all it required was patience and lots of super glue.

“No, I don’t hate it. This is amazing.” His hands hoist it up and his eyes inspect it. “Is this glitter glue or just glue you put glitter on?”

“Um, both,” I admit, face turning red as I put my fingers to my forehead. “My bedroom is an absolute mess. I’m going to have glitter everywhere for months.”

Roman studies my face, gaze going to my hairline. “You have some there. And there.” He points to it but doesn’t touch me.

“I love anything that sparkles,” I confess sheepishly, embarrassed that I am a grown adult who loves to craft. “I usually don’t have time for it.” This project fueled my soul for the short time it took me to complete it, in a way that cheerleading does not.

I should do it more often; maybe I should even consider taking an art class at the rec center—Lord knows I’d never be able to take one through the university. My mother would kill me. There’s no chance in hell she would be willing to pay tuition costs for me to putter.

“You should do it more often—craft, I mean. This—what you’ve done—is incredible. Why don’t you take an art class somewhere?”

Is he a mind reader?

I stare at him again, stupefied. “Get out of my brain.” I laugh. “I would, but my parents would never go for it.”

He’s quiet, thinking to himself, brows furrowing. His head nods slowly. “Sure, I get that.”

Self-consciously, I’m aware of the sky darkening outside, the intimate setting, the closeness of our bodies as we stand in this space, surrounded by complete silence.

It’s getting late.

“I should go.”

“You don’t have to rush out.”

Nor do I want to.

Leave, that is.

The truth is, I don’t want to go back to my house—Kaylee is still home and she’s in a mood, and even if I hang out in my bedroom, the vibes lingering in the air will be weird.

But Roman is being polite, and I should say my goodbyes and be on my merry way.

“Do you want to come to Sunday dinner with my family? My mom said I could bring my new roommates,” Roman blurts out, the invitation coming out of nowhere. “Shit. Sorry, I’m not trying to be creepy.”

I tilt my head. “What are you having?” Wait…what am I even talking about? No, no, no—I cannot go to some random dude’s parents’ house for dinner, some dude I just met. No.

“Spaghetti.”

Duh, he said that already. Why does he make me so nervous that I forget myself?

“Spaghetti is my weakness and it’s sweet of you to offer, but I really shouldn’t.”

His shoulders fall, but in a relieved kind of way. “Are you sure? It doesn’t seem like you want to be alone.”

We just met; how does this person keep reading my thoughts? “I can’t ambush your family because I don’t want to go home—that would be so weird.”