Was that me who just growled? Because the clusterfucks just keep on coming—split-second nothings that seem to roll into a shit show of a disaster.
“Can Ethan and me have ice cream?” Wilder sounds completely unfazed, but I know historically not to one hundred percent trust that innocent look.
“Sure, sweetie.” I turn him bodily by the shoulders and prod him in the direction of the table Ethan is sitting at, letting sleeping dogs lie for a moment. “I’ll bring them over.”
“I’ll do it,” pipes up my soon-to-be dead barista, bustling in the direction of the ice cream cabinet
“He’s your—” Annie lowers her voice, her attention sliding to the back of Wilder’s head, then Roman’s in turn. “Wow, he’s? He’s . . . well, wow.” She turns to me with a grin and a raised hand. “Well done, you!”
My brows pinch. Her response doesn’t do a lot for my confidence. Or my general mood. And was it too much to ask the universe to make him keep his distance? Especially after I proved to myself this morning that I can’t be around him and hang on to my sanity.
“I thought—” Annie seems to think better of finishing that sentence. At least the looks I’m throwing out seem to have the desired effect on some people. Dammit. So much for Wilder being the first to know about his father.
I take a deep breath and launch into a hurried CliffsNotes version. “His name is Roman. He’s Australian. And no, Wilder doesn’t know yet, but he will soon, so can we please not talk about it until then?”
“Hon, you don’t have to tell me anything, and you know I would never betray a confidence.”
“I know,” I say through a sigh as I press my fingers over hers where they rest on my arm. “I’m just . . .”
“Stressed.”
“Yeah, that.”
“Absolutely natural. Can I just say, once you’ve told Wilder, a high five is the very least I’m going to want from you because hot damn! But right now, I believe I’m needed in the kitchen.”
I’m not sure which part of her response is most comical. Those finger guns of direction or the way she bolts. Not so comical is the way Roman saunters towards me, all ease and confidence and the kind of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Hello, love,” he says, pressing his palms to the countertop.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Sure, he’d been flirty when I’d turned up at his doorstep, but by the time I’d left (read: fled) I’d seen another side to him somehow. Roman, the family man. Roman, the serious. But this. This is like Roman, the Vegas version. So I frown the kind of frown that’s becoming my default expression these days. At this rate, I’ll need Jenner to give up his Botox appointment for me.
“What do you want, Roman?” My surliness meets his smooth, but in my defence, it’s been a morning and a half, not to mention a hot minute since I left him. Left him with a few photographs and vague promises. Guilt pinches my chest, but I push it away. Achievement: expert level.
“What do I want?” His gaze flickers over me, and my body reacts with treachery. Tingles. Prickles of awareness. Nipples tightening under the thin cotton of my T-shirt. I know he knows it, too.
“As in order or move away from the counter,” I counter, playing obtuse.
He glances negligently behind him, sending a sweet smile to Ursula and Betty. They, of course, are watching like we’re the season finale of General Hospital. “Am I holding up the queue?” he asks mildly.
“That’s not the point.” I drag my gaze away from the sisters. What’s with his sudden connection to them?
“They’re a pair of sweet old girls, Ursula and Betty.”
I bark out a laugh that feels weird. “Well, doesn’t that out you as a stranger.” I deliver the insult by pressing my hand to my chest. I’m being a bitch and a liar to boot because at least fifty percent of the pair is sweet. The Ursula fifty percent. Though maybe it’s more like forty percent, given she’s the smaller of the two. But also, he’s on first name terms already? How?
“I like ’em. And we had a good old chinwag, the three of us. It was a very enlightening conversation.”
What the hell did they tell him? And maybe more to the point, what did he tell them? “Are you going to order?” I snap, and wow, check out my customer service surly.
“What’s good?”
This time, my gaze wanders over him, totally without my say-so and absolutely with his notice. Hell yes, he’s good. Good to look at. Good at other things, as I recall. I force myself to move on from that thought and notice he’s changed his T-shirt. No more booby-loving today, I think darkly. “How about a pumpkin latte?”