Jock Romeo (Jock Hard 6)

It’s cold so I can’t stand out here forever, especially once it gets dark, but I can’t exactly go knocking.

I am here to see Eliza.

Screw Roman—if he’s too big of a pussy to talk to me, that’s on him. It is not my fault. He was in that bed, too.

Words I’ve been repeating to myself on a loop since the last time I was here and he avoided me, leaving out the side door within minutes of my arrival and not returning home all night. I haven’t had a single chance to say a word to him, and he hasn’t been responding to my texts.

That is not a mature person.

I am better off without that drama in my life.

When will I learn my lesson?

First Kyle, now Roman? No thank you.

Eliza is my friend—I have every right to walk up to the door and hang out with her without feeling guilty or weird or like I’m imposing on Roman’s space.

He can go to his damn bedroom if he doesn’t like it.

Decision made, I stomp to the door, pressing on the doorbell with more confidence than I feel.

Rub my hands together to warm them as I wait, a shadow appearing in the foyer, porch light flicking on.

“’Allo!” Jack opens the door wide. “Come inside before you catch a chill.”

Catch a chill.

I step over the threshold. “I love it when you speak British.”

“I am British, love.”

Laughing, I remove my earbuds and wind them up, storing them in my pocket. “Is Eliza home?”

“Yup, kitchen.”

“Awesome.” I ruffle my ponytail, shaking out the cold as I enter the bright kitchen at the back of the house, my friend in the throes of loading up a tray of treats. “Hey hey.”

I slide onto one of the stools at the counter with a smile.

“Oh hey!” My former roommate sets down some cheese and wipes her hands so she can squeeze me into a hug. “This is a fun surprise—are you here for the football game? I’m throwing together a charcuterie board.”

“Sure, I’ll stay for the game!” I say it with more enthusiasm than I’m feeling, my gut in turmoil as my eyes stay homed in on the arched doorway leading to the stairs.

What if Roman walks through it? What will I say? How will I act?

I spy his car through the kitchen window, parked near the detached garage where Jack has an at-home gym his brother actually built during his time here.

I shift my gaze, heart racing.

Pluck a carrot off Eliza’s tray.

She scowls. “No snacking until the game begins.”

“When does the game begin?”

“’Bout half an hour?”

“Ugh!” That long? I’m kind of starving now that I see food, and staying for the game sounds like a blast.

Jack goes in and out of the kitchen, busying himself with taking out the trash as Eliza makes food, carrying small bowls of chips and Goldfish crackers into the living room.

They certainly know how to entertain, and I’m here for it.

And then…

Roman enters the room, just as I knew he would. When he sees me, he halts in his tracks like a romantic comedy cliché. Deer in headlights if I ever did see one.

His eyes flash to Jack to Eliza to me, back to Eliza then back to me.

He clears his throat, palming the cell phone in his hand. “Hey.”

“Hi.” I lift an arm and give him a feeble little wave. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” He barely moves.

“Roman, get in here and sit. I’m making snacks,” Eliza commands, moving around the room efficiently, continuing to load her wooden board with tasty vittles. “Sit.”

She has to tell him twice before he hesitantly pulls out the stool at the end of the counter, two stools now separating us.

Two stools of separation, ha!

His phone rings, and when I look down, I see that it’s his mother.

He hesitates again.

“That your mom?” Eliza asks. “Answer it so we can say hello!”

Lord she’s bossy tonight; I wonder what’s gotten into her.

Roman hits the green button to accept his mother’s FaceTime chat.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hey, honey bunches of oats! How is my baby doing today? Getting ready for the game?”

Roman’s face turns red at the endearments. “Yeah. Eliza is making food and we’re going to watch it.” He pauses. “What’s up?”

“Well, as you know, Thanksgiving is next week and I’m trying to plan the meal. Dad doesn’t really want turkey this year and Aunt Myrtle can’t eat yams, so I was going to see if—” His mother stops talking. “Is that Lilly in the background? Turn your phone.”

Roman groans but obediently turns the screen in my direction.

“Lilly!” his mom enthuses. “How are you?”

“I’m doing good, Mrs. Whitaker. How are you?”

“So good. I’m planning Thanksgiving—I don’t want to keep you if you kids are having a party.”

“Not a party—just a few of us gathered at Jack and Eliza’s house. She’s making food.”

Roman pans his phone around the room, and Eliza gives it a wave.