Page 29 of Now You're Mine

He pulls me out of his bedroom, into the hallway, and down the back stairs. In the kitchen, there are a couple of people sitting in the breakfast nook, eating cereal. I recognize them as members of the Burning Crown, but I don’t know their names.

“He’s kidnapping me,” I yelp as we breeze by.

But the fucking assholes justwatchas Roman drags me across the kitchen and out the back door. What the fuck is wrong with people? Seriously.

Roman’s car is sitting in the driveway, and he opens the passenger-side door, shoving me inside. When he slams the door shut and walks around to the driver’s side, I contemplate escaping, but he slides into the driver’s seat before I can even reach up and grab the door handle.

The engine roars to life, and we head straight to the main highway.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

His arm is slung over the steering wheel, and he twists his head to look at me. “Somewhere safe.”

I laugh under my breath. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the last couple of years it’s that safety is just an illusion. It’s a fantasy we comfort ourselves with, but really, it doesn't exist.

We’re on the road for about fifteen minutes before we pull into a familiar parking lot. Exeter House’s twin towers loom ahead, framed by palm trees, the Pacific Ocean stretched out in the background.

Roman pulls under the canopied entrance and pops out of the car, dropping his keys into a valet’s hand. Someone opens my car door and helps me out. As soon as my feet hit the pavement, Roman is by my side, taking my hand.

Inside the lobby, Roman walks up to the reception desk and addresses the woman behind the counter. “I need a suite. You can charge it to the Rush tab.”

The receptionist’s questioning gaze slides to me briefly before settling on the computer screen in front of her. Why do I feel like that look was filled with judgment? She types something, then looks up at Roman, eyelashes fluttering. “Of course, Mr. Rush. We have something available on the third floor. Would that be acceptable?”

“Sure,” Roman says quickly, glancing around. It’s almost like he expects James to jump right out of the potted palms or something.

She hands him the key card with a flirtatious smile, and he takes it, pulling me toward the elevators. I’m not even trying to escape him at this point, because his obvious paranoia is starting to freak me out. And if James really is out there wandering around, it probably is smart to hole up somewhere off campus.

As much as I hate to admit it, Roman might have been right about that one, single, solitary thing.

When we get to the suite, relief swamps me. It’shugewith a living room, dining room, kitchen, and two full bedrooms.

Awesome. I can just pick a bedroom, and shut myself inside for as long as we have to be here. With any luck, I won’t have to interact with Roman at all.

Roman shuts the door, and bolts it, then turns back to face me with a sigh. “I’ll ask the guys to bring our stuff later. You hungry? I can have groceries delivered.”

I wander into the living room area. There are a pair of French doors that open out onto a balcony with an ocean view. The water is so close, we’re practically on top of it. I unlock one of the doors and open it to let in the fresh ocean breeze, then I turn to glance at Roman. “Youare going to cook?”

I’ve never seen Roman cook. I can’t even picture it in my mind. Anything we’ve eaten over the last few weeks has been ordered from a restaurant and delivered.

He shrugs. “It can’t be that hard.”

It’d be easier to order room service, but watching Roman try to cook might be entertaining. We can always order food later if his culinary experiment ends up being inedible.

I shrug casually. “I could eat.”

I’m starving, actually, and I’m starting to feel nauseous, but for some reason, I feel like I need to underplay that fact. I guess I’m just uneasy about telling him anything he could use to his advantage.

Roman makes a quick call down to reception, and it only takes about twenty minutes for someone to deliver the groceries to our room. There’s no way they had time to run to the grocery store, so they must have pulled it all from Isca, the restaurant downstairs. The bellhop puts everything away, and even washesthe fruit and vegetables, then sets them out to dry on the counter. When he’s done, he ducks out of the suite silently.

As soon as the bellhop leaves, I follow Roman into the open-concept kitchen. The countertops are a gorgeous white marble and all the chrome appliances gleam. Inside the fridge, there’s everything from milk to butter, eggs, cheese, fruit, vegetables, and bread. Pretty much anything we might need to make a basic meal.

Roman purses those tempting lips, looking everything over, then glances at me. “I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich.”

My stomach grumbles. “Okay.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I lean against the counter and watch Roman get to work. He scrambles around the kitchen, opening drawers, and looking for all the things he’ll need. It’s pretty amusing, actually.

As he’s grilling the first sandwich, he’s so stressed out that sweat starts beading on his temples. “Damn, it’s hot in here,” he says, pulling his t-shirt off, and tossing it aside, exposing his tanned, muscular back to me. Andfuck me,but seeing him stress out over my grilled cheese sandwich is so damn endearing.

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