Before Him

“I wouldn’t—”

“That’s interrupting.” He gives me a really terrible scowl. Terrible as in, not real. And my heart, it’s not aching so much right now.

“I’m going to give you a year of you time. A year to figure out what you want. I spent yesterday thinking it through. We’re going to get someone to run the café, and I’m going to buy a house nearby. I’ll take Wilder to school, so you don’t have to worry about the logistics of home and work. I’ll take over the cooking, mainly because—”

“I so can cook!”

“Meatloaf,” he says with a pitying face. “What even is that shit?”

“An American staple!”

“More like something to wedge your door open with. You’re not supposed to be speaking, remember? A year,” he says fiercely. “All for you. To decide what you want to do, rather than what you have to do.”

“This is crazy. Work and Wilder are all I know!”

“That and worrying about everyone else. Making sure Jenner has enough hours to fund his Botox habit and that Holland isn’t missing out on the things you had to, and that everyone knows Annie’s cakes are amazeballs. She told me it was your idea to start a bakery business.”

“Well, her asshole of an ex left her. She needed the money. But it was mostly self-serving. As you’ve pointed out, I can’t cook. And Annie can. Bake, I mean.” Although, I happen to know she’s an excellent cook, too. Not that I feel generous enough to mention it at the moment.

“What about the oldies next door? How is making sure they’re eating enough self-serving? Unless you’ve got Hansel and Gretel designs on them.”

“Superior looks don’t suit you,” I mutter with a frown while I try to control this excitement building and bubbling inside. This relief. I’m not sure what this year thing is all about, but the fact that we’re back to bickering feels so, so good. “It’s just a few leftovers.”

“They said endless cakes and savouries. Milk and coffee beans you’re worried might be too stale to serve.”

“Betty has to have decaf. I’m just looking out for her. What can I say? Wilder likes them.”

“Because he’s a good judge of character.”

“I don’t know about that.” The same as I don’t believe that Betty is only grouchy because she has bunions. “Old people don’t look after themselves enough,” I mutter, feigning annoyance. “And anyway, sometimes, I let Moose lick Betty’s cookie.”

Roman pulls a distasteful face. “You might want to rephrase that before someone calls the ASPCA?”

“Ew, Roman!”

“You said it.”

“You’re the one with the dirty mind.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.” Those words are like a sudden reminder, a soft caress between my legs.

“I am not that nice.” I’m not quite sure if I’m encouraging him or clinging to my previous point.

“You’re nicer than you like people to think. Come on, you were going to refinance your house for me.”

“Because you deserve—"

“I deserve a kick up the arse for walking out, but I needed to get my head straight. And now I’m back, kicking arse and taking names.”

“Like the wallabies?”

“You don’t believe me? Wait until we’re creeping through the fields after a night at the pub.”

“I’ll have you there to defend me.” My heart! Oh, my heart! “My knight in”—I look down—“Gucci loafers.”

“These are Prada kicks.”

“Whatever, model boy.” God, I want to crawl across this sofa and curl up on his knee, but I’m not sure I have the courage.

“So getting back to my plan, I’ll be nearby. High Grounds will be in good hands, and meanwhile, you can become a lady who lunches, a lady who goes back to school, or a lazy lady who sits on her arse all day eating bonbons. You just need to figure out what you want to do. And,” he adds, giving an open-handed shrug, “if you want to do me in the meantime, I’m okay with that, too.”

I laugh, Lord, do I. I love him so much, I could scream it from the rooftops. “So are we talking casual here?”

Suddenly, he makes a grab for me, tangling me in the blanket as he pulls me closer.

“First, you jezebel. I’m a married man. I don’t do casual.”

“You said you’d get a house nearby.”

“You were supposed to veto that suggestion at some point.”

“How about now?” I press my hands to his face. “Can I veto it now?” Then I press a kiss to his lips to prevent him from answering. His body is hard under mine, but his lips are so soft.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispers, settling his hands on my arms to set me a little farther away. “I don’t want to be a guest in this house. I want it all, and I want it now.”

“I love you so much, Roman Phillips.”

“And then she said it.” He smiles the brightest of his hundred smiles. “And it only took her eight years.”