Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

I paused at a pair of costumes, a smile overtaking the emotional battle raging inside me. I gazed at the costume, picturing just how damn incredible Roman would look in it. His smooth, dark skin, the miles of muscle rippling beneath, his eyes lined in black, and that mouth—

“Oh, Roman’s letting you pick out his costume?” Savannah said from right over my shoulder, and I jumped. She flashed me an apologetic look, but I waved her off.

“He didn’t exactly say I could—”

“You should!” Liberty said, eying the costume in my hands. “That would look amazing on him. And…” she grabbed the one next to it. “This would be phenomenal on you.”

My eyes widened at the costume, the instant denial at her compliment on the tip of my tongue. But instead of voicing it, I swallowed it.

“You know what?” I grabbed the bag from her. “You’re right.”

The girls clapped as I headed to the register and purchased the costumes.

An hour later, I walked into Roman’s house, leaving my keys at the drop station near the door. The act of coming home to him was so natural now I’d almost become dependent on it.

“Roman?” I called as I hurried through the house, excitement building in my chest. Walt greeted me first with a few licks before returning to the loveseat in the living room.

“Kitchen!” Roman called.

The smell of three-chile paste filled the air, making my mouth instantly water. “Birria?” I asked once I stopped on the other side of the kitchen island. Roman smiled and nodded as he laid out some tortillas next to a cutting board filled with chopped avocado, red onion, and cilantro.

“Meat has been in the oven since this morning.”

“You know,” I said, setting my shopping bag on the stool next to me. “If this whole running back thing ever falls through, you could absolutely be a chef.”

Roman furrowed his brow, a laugh on his lips. “Whole running back thing, huh?”

I shrugged. “Always good to have a plan B.”

“I’m sure Abuela would be thrilled to hear you think so highly of my cooking.”

I leaned over the island, lowering my voice. “Don’t tell her, but I think you could give her a run for her money.”

Roman dropped the tortilla, gaping at me. He quickly made the cross motion over his chest, shaking his head at me. “Blasphemous woman.”

We both laughed, unable to keep a serious face for more than a few seconds. Roman eyed the bag next to me. “Get anything good?”

I raised my brows, nervous butterflies filling my stomach. “I did,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Then why do you look like you stole something from the store?”

I snorted, hauling out the costumes. I showed him mine first.

“Cleopatra,” he said, nodding. “Can’t wait to see that.”

“I’m glad you said that,” I said, pulling out his and showing it to him.

“Is that a skirt?” He pointed to the picture on the bag.

“No!” I glanced at the costume again. “It’s a period-authentic warrior’s costume.”

Roman eyed the gold and black material that cut off just above the knees.

“I get that,” he said. “Who is it for?”

I swallowed hard, setting the costume on the island. “You?” I meant it as a statement, but my doubt got the better of me. Maybe it’d been a stupid idea. I shook my head. “Never mind,” I said. “I should’ve asked. I’m sure you’ve already got a date to the event and have a costume planned.”

Roman rounded the kitchen island and scooped up the costume. “You know Hendrix is going to have a field day about this,” he said, eying it. “I mean, look how much leg it shows.”

A laugh rushed from my chest, chasing away the nerves. “It can’t be any worse than the time we went as Peter Pan and Wendy. Do you remember? You got a size too-small in the green tights.” I couldn’t hold back my laugh.

“Laugh it up,” he said, lightly pinching my side. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with the tights.”

“I was eight!” I gaped at him.

He shrugged, leaning closer. “You still don’t seem to have a problem with the tights.”

I swallowed hard, heat blooming under my skin. “Can’t argue with that,” I said. “Plus, we know how good you look in gold.”

He set down the costume, sliding the bag to the floor to take a seat next to me. “Which was your favorite?”

I tilted my head.

“Of our costumes?”

I blew out a breath. God, we had so many to choose from. A lifetime of Halloweens spent together. “I think it’s pretty hard to top the Dread Pirate Roberts and Princess Buttercup,” I teased, and he laughed.

“That dress was terribly uncomfortable,” he said.

“Yeah, but I looked pretty badass in the black get-up and mask.”

“You sure did,” he said, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “When was that?” He asked. “Freshman year of high school?”