Blindsided (Roman Holiday 3)

Never want to see you again.

Something wrong with you.

Always, always something wrong with him. Something broken that he could never fix.

But it was done now. He’d done it, and he couldn’t undo it. He could only draw a line under it and refuse to repeat it.

Roman tucked himself away and washed his hands.

The sun had begun to come up, lighting a glow out over the swamp.

He washed all the dishes twice, dried them, and put them away.

CHAPTER THREE

Ashley found Roman at the breakfast table.

Morning light came in at an angle through the glass patio doors and made his black hair gleam white, as though he had no color to him at all. Beneath the table, the bunched shapes of his calves were visible through his gray-and-white striped pajama pants.

Old-man pajamas. She bet he had the matching top in his suitcase—collared, with long sleeves and buttons. She bet he wore it, normally, but hadn’t been able to bring himself to put it on in Mitzi’s House of Carnal Hippie Sin.

The T-shirt he’d put on instead was green and surprisingly soft-looking. So was the curve of his neck as he bent his head over his cell phone. It unsettled her how much she wanted to walk up behind him and run one finger along the visible bumps of his vertebrae. Lean close to smell his warm skin.

Damn. Maybe her dirty thoughts last night hadn’t been entirely drumming-related.

She made coffee.

When she placed a mug on the table in front of him, he said, “The only tow service is a hundred miles away.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“What do they do around here if a car needs towing?”

“Usually Jerry does it. He has a big truck with a hitch.”

“Bigger than the Cadillac?”

“Yeah, he could tow the Cadillac. Does it really need to be towed?”

Roman glanced outside. “The mud’s up to the axles, and it hardened overnight. It’s like concrete now. Plus, something’s wrong with the trailer hitch. It won’t unhook.”

“That’s probably just the pressure from it being jackknifed.”

“No, I’m pretty sure a piece got bent. It’s going to have to be cut off.”

“With a saw?” She imagined Roman kneeling in the grass, furiously working a handsaw. Sweaty and hot. Desire curled in her lower belly and started to purr.

Oh, fuck. Double fuck.

“I was thinking with a cutting torch.”

“Is this part of the trailer or of your car?”

“My truck.”

“Good.”

“No, I mean, I drive a truck. Not a car. It’s part of the trailer.”