Page 36 of Sinful Escape

No more champagne for me.

At least now I knew that he had indeed noticed my breasts. Maybe Roman was normal after all.

Our eyes locked and the tiny flecks of gold around his honey irises twinkled like he was analyzing me, trying to read my brain. I hoped not. In the last twenty-four hours, I’d focused on more tits and dicks than I had in my lifetime. And then there was Pierre and that kiss. A hot flush flamed my neck and I swiveled on my stool, searching for an air vent. I grabbed a napkin from the small black box on the bar and fanned myself instead.

“May I buy you a drink?”

I waved my hand. “I’m fine, thank?—”

“Come on, Red. One drink won’t hurt.”

“Actually, I’ve already had two champagnes.”

“Really? Good for you. Then I’ll make it three.” Without further discussion, he caught the bartender’s attention and ordered a champagne for me and another light beer for himself.

“So, tell me,” he said, “how’d an Aussie wind up being a tour guide in Europe?”

I rolled my gaze to him. “You don’t want to hear that boring story.”

“Yes, I do. I bet it’s interesting.”

“Trust me, it’s not interesting. I left Australia and got lucky—that’s all.”

“Okay. But why’d you leave? There must be a reason.”

“Not really.” Lies upon lies. My churning stomach curled some more. “I just wanted a change.”

He huffed. “What about your family? Don’t they miss you?”

My drink arrived and I strangled the stem of the glass as I took a gulp. “Nope.”

His expression grew dark. “God. If my mamma didn’t talk to my sisters at least once a day, she’d break out into hives.”

I sipped my drink, contemplating the difference between our mothers. From the day I’d left my mother, the only time I’d heard from her was when she wanted money. In her warped mind, I owed her that money on account of her giving birth to me. Thank God I didn’t have to worry about her anymore since she didn’t have my new number.

Roman turned to me with an inquisitive gaze. Anxiety crawled up my back. Was he about to ask me something I wouldn’t want to answer? I had to think of something to say, and quickly.

“Tell me about your childhood.” He cocked his head. “Where’d you grow up?”

Shit. Too slow. I swigged another mouthful, hoping the abundant bubbles would give me strength. Twirling the glass in my fingers, I pondered a response. But the longer I paused, the more insurmountable my reply became. There were infinite reasons why I didn’t discuss my childhood.

“We’ve got plenty of time before the group comes out.” His stunning eyes were a tease.

My heart fluttered and my girly bits zinged. Dammit. We are just co-workers. Nothing more. Calm down, Sista. Besides, Roman was way younger than me. And in a different league.

“Come on. Tell me.”

“Okaaayyyy.” I took another large sip. “Man, you’re bossy.”

Smirking, he rubbed his chin. “I’m not bossy. Just curious.”

Fighting the urge to fake nausea and dash for the restroom, I stared at the dancing bubbles in my champagne, wishing I could dive in and swim in all that loveliness.

He pushed my glass closer to me. “Come on. You’re stalling.”

I clutched the stem and heaved a sigh. “I don’t know where to start,” I grumbled.

“Okay then. I’ll ask the questions; you answer.”

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