Eliza does not seem to care one bit that Jack isn’t a college athlete.
They’d both rather watch action movies and read comic books and spend their free time at this little café they love on the outskirts of campus.
Basically they are couple goals, if there is such a thing.
“I went out with a rugby player once,” Aunt Myrtle is saying from her side of the table, a small blob of cranberry sauce stuck to the corner of her already bright red lips. “Worst lay of my life.”
Mrs. Whitaker groans.
“I’m not kidding. He had a glorious shaft but didn’t know where to stick it, if you catch my drift.” She blinks twice, but I’m convinced she’s trying to wink. “That man shoved it in the wrong hole so many times I started to get a complex.” She delivers the line without so much as flinching. “Gives new meaning to the phrase butt hurt.”
“Aunt Myrtle!” Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes dart from her great aunt to her young son, whose eyes are as round as saucers.
“What wrong hole?” he immediately wants to know, glancing at both his parents. “Her butthole?”
His mother gasps as if he’s dropped an F bomb. “Don’t say butthole at the dinner table.” Roman’s mom is the exact shade of the cranberry sauce.
“Butthole isn’t a swear word, Mom. Chill,” Alex smarts back.
To be fair, he’s not wrong. But in this context, Aunt Myrtle is basically implying accidental anal sex, which makes it inappropriate? At least it does in Mrs. Whitaker’s eyes.
She is. Freaking. Out.
So very entertaining, I must say.
Way more fun than staying home and watching subscription TV, which is what I would have been doing had I not chosen to drop in on Eliza and Jack unannounced last week.
It was fate.
And Roman smells amazing—better than the food—as he leans forward and kicks up his cologne. He’s shaved, and have I mentioned his haircut?
Gone are the shaggy, long locks. Gone is the man-bun.
Gone is the face scruff.
I thought Roman was handsome before he trimmed his hair and shaved, but now?
He looks like Prince Charming from a movie screen.
A modern-day Romeo.
A Greek god who isn’t remotely Greek.
Handsome.
Cute. Hot. Attractive. Gorgeous—pick your adjective; I’m no thesaurus, and I’m no poet. All I know is, when I climbed into that car tonight, I could barely keep my eyes off him. And because Roman is sweet, and charming, and smart—he’s all the more beautiful to me.
I fidget in my seat, our knees bumping.
He’s tall so our knees have been bumping a lot, and each time has my blood pressure skyrocketing.
To avoid looking over at him again, I gaze out the dining room window, noticing for the first time the winter white trees. The snowflakes are not just falling but falling sideways in a frenzy.
“Wait. Was it supposed to snow?”
Everyone’s heads swivel toward the windows.
“Let me check the weather,” Mr. Whitaker announces, pulling the phone from his pressed khakis and swiping open what I assume is a weather app of some kind.
“You don’t have to check the weather, Josh—everyone can see it’s coming down in buckets.” She looks at Alex. “You’re going to have to shovel.”
Alex Whitaker lets out a groan so loud Aunt Myrtle startles in her seat.
“Eight inches!” Mr. Whitaker broadcasts the news. “There’s a winter weather advisory in place.” He sets his phone on the tabletop and resumes slicing through the meat on his plate. “Bit early, wouldn’t you say?”
“Eight inches?” Roman’s mom’s eyes widen.
“That’s what she said.” Alex laughs, unable to contain himself.
His mother ignores him. “Eight inches—no one is driving anywhere tonight.” She’s shaking her head furiously. “Do you know how many accidents there are going to be? First snow of the season?” She wipes her hands on a napkin and stands. “I’m going to go get the guest bedroom ready—Eliza and Jack, you can sleep in there. I’ll go make it nice and cozy.”
She’s practically buzzing with excitement. Her son home for the night?! It’s what she’s wanted since the day he moved out. The fact that he has friends with him?
Bonus!
“She’s momming so hard right now.” Roman laughs and we laugh along with him, but deep down inside, my mind is reeling. If Mrs. Whitaker is putting Eliza and Jack in the one guest bedroom, that means she expects me to sleep with…
Roman.
“Roman is the modern-day Romeo,” his mother tells me with a sly smile, reading my mind just then—and I half-believe he is, despite the way he’s frozen me out after we had sex. “I don’t mind you two spending the night together.”
“Oh no. No, no, no, ma’am—Eliza and I can bunk together if the guys want to stay in Roman’s room. I totally understand if you’re not okay with it.”
I’m a tad over the top, even to my own ears, protesting the sleeping arrangements, mind whirling. Roman must be dying inside—it’s not his fault he’s shy, and it’s not his fault he had no idea what to do after we slept together.