up a dozen or so bottles of wine and one good bottle of tequila when we were out and nothing else.
“Cassie says we’re on the liquid break-up diet. This place is courtesy of Cassie’s ex-boyfriend,” I said. I lounged back against the counter, unable to close the gap between Roman and I.
Roman swung the fridge door shut and turned to me, hooking an arm around my waist and drawing me to him. “Her ex seems....charitable.”
“We’ll see if that’s true when he gets the bill."
“It sounds like there’s a story there," he said.
I tried to focus on our conversation, but with him this close I was having a hard time concentrating. “There is.”
“Will Cassie be okay if you leave her?” he asked me.
“Probably. I think she's suffering more from a broken heart than alcohol." But even as I said it, I remembered that I needed to check on her.
"Sounds like she's trying to drink it off," he said.
"Yeah. He royally fucked up." Guilt started to filter through my post-orgasmic haze. Poor Cassie was in the next room, trying to heal her wounded heart and I was nailing Roman. In the last five years I’d had one bad break-up. It was years ago, but even thinking about it turned my stomach over. I wasn’t going to be winning any friend of the year awards.
Roman’s head tilted and he regarded me in a thoughtful way. “I’m starving. Your best friend is drunk. I have no choice but to procure food.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ve totally got this,” I said quickly, embarrassed that he felt the need to take care of me. I could see where he’d gotten the idea that I needed help. So far I’d been robbed at the airport and been blackmailed into paying off a street vendor. I really could take care of myself and Cassie. I just hadn’t had the chance to yet.
He raised an eyebrow, a smile dancing in his eyes. “I know you’re a strong, independent woman. Which is why I’m offering to go to the market and get right back to being barefoot in the kitchen.”
“Where you belong?” My lips twitched at the idea of Roman cooking for me.
“Mi bella—” Roman leaned forward and trailed a finger along my jaw—“I cook better than I screw.”
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
“Y-y-yeah,” I stammered. “Groceries would be great.”
A smug grin took up residence on Roman’s face as he pulled his shirt on and buttoned it. It was like the exact opposite of Christmas morning, as if he was rewrapping my presents and taking them away, and it left me feeling flustered and anxious and disappointed. But after he slipped on his sandals he caught my hand and drew me to him. Roman pressed his lips to mine, lingering long enough that my mouth parted in welcome to him. His tongue flicked across the bow of my upper lip, but then he pulled back, leaving me breathless.
“Una semana,” he whispered before he disappeared out the patio door.
I didn’t need a translation. It wasn’t simply a reminder though, it was a promise. A promise that we didn’t have to rush. That we didn’t have to hold back. That there was more to come. At least, for one week.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he beach behind our villa was fairly deserted the next afternoon, which meant it was quiet enough for me to read. If I could get lost in a textbook maybe I could forget what had happened with Roman last night. A few hours of sleep had cleared my head, reminding me that starting something with him was a terrible idea. First, he was a teacher. Second, I had just broken up with Brett. Third, he was a teacher!
I told myself to chill, but while that command usually worked on Jills and Cassie, I couldn’t swallow it myself. We were both consenting adults. We’d gone to bed together. We weren’t hurting anyone.
Yet.
This whole thing had heartbreak written all over it, which is why it would be better if una semana turned into una noche . We’d had one spectacular night together, why ruin it by dragging things out for a week?
“Why are you smiling?” Cassie asked, a
“Cassie says we’re on the liquid break-up diet. This place is courtesy of Cassie’s ex-boyfriend,” I said. I lounged back against the counter, unable to close the gap between Roman and I.
Roman swung the fridge door shut and turned to me, hooking an arm around my waist and drawing me to him. “Her ex seems....charitable.”
“We’ll see if that’s true when he gets the bill."
“It sounds like there’s a story there," he said.
I tried to focus on our conversation, but with him this close I was having a hard time concentrating. “There is.”
“Will Cassie be okay if you leave her?” he asked me.
“Probably. I think she's suffering more from a broken heart than alcohol." But even as I said it, I remembered that I needed to check on her.
"Sounds like she's trying to drink it off," he said.
"Yeah. He royally fucked up." Guilt started to filter through my post-orgasmic haze. Poor Cassie was in the next room, trying to heal her wounded heart and I was nailing Roman. In the last five years I’d had one bad break-up. It was years ago, but even thinking about it turned my stomach over. I wasn’t going to be winning any friend of the year awards.
Roman’s head tilted and he regarded me in a thoughtful way. “I’m starving. Your best friend is drunk. I have no choice but to procure food.”
“You don’t have to do that. I’ve totally got this,” I said quickly, embarrassed that he felt the need to take care of me. I could see where he’d gotten the idea that I needed help. So far I’d been robbed at the airport and been blackmailed into paying off a street vendor. I really could take care of myself and Cassie. I just hadn’t had the chance to yet.
He raised an eyebrow, a smile dancing in his eyes. “I know you’re a strong, independent woman. Which is why I’m offering to go to the market and get right back to being barefoot in the kitchen.”
“Where you belong?” My lips twitched at the idea of Roman cooking for me.
“Mi bella—” Roman leaned forward and trailed a finger along my jaw—“I cook better than I screw.”
Oh. Holy. Fuck.
“Y-y-yeah,” I stammered. “Groceries would be great.”
A smug grin took up residence on Roman’s face as he pulled his shirt on and buttoned it. It was like the exact opposite of Christmas morning, as if he was rewrapping my presents and taking them away, and it left me feeling flustered and anxious and disappointed. But after he slipped on his sandals he caught my hand and drew me to him. Roman pressed his lips to mine, lingering long enough that my mouth parted in welcome to him. His tongue flicked across the bow of my upper lip, but then he pulled back, leaving me breathless.
“Una semana,” he whispered before he disappeared out the patio door.
I didn’t need a translation. It wasn’t simply a reminder though, it was a promise. A promise that we didn’t have to rush. That we didn’t have to hold back. That there was more to come. At least, for one week.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he beach behind our villa was fairly deserted the next afternoon, which meant it was quiet enough for me to read. If I could get lost in a textbook maybe I could forget what had happened with Roman last night. A few hours of sleep had cleared my head, reminding me that starting something with him was a terrible idea. First, he was a teacher. Second, I had just broken up with Brett. Third, he was a teacher!
I told myself to chill, but while that command usually worked on Jills and Cassie, I couldn’t swallow it myself. We were both consenting adults. We’d gone to bed together. We weren’t hurting anyone.
Yet.
This whole thing had heartbreak written all over it, which is why it would be better if una semana turned into una noche . We’d had one spectacular night together, why ruin it by dragging things out for a week?
“Why are you smiling?” Cassie asked, a
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