Page 90 of A Little Broken

Snapping back to our conversation instead of the reminder of home, I say, “Nothing.”

“Pretty little liar,” he muses. “Tell me what made you smile.”

“Who said I smiled?”

“Not blind, Birthday Girl.”

No, he definitely isn’t. Honestly, I feel like his eyesight is a little too good, considering how much he picks up from my body language despite how well I try to hide it.

“Fine. Your breath smells like cinnamon.” I lift a shoulder. “My mom loves cinnamon.”

Understanding sparks in his gaze. “And you?”

Pretty sure he could taste like broccoli and I’d still crave him. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

“Did you just vape or something?” I ask, trying to appear unaffected. “Is that where the smell comes from?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t vape.”

“Ah.” I nod. “I remember. You prefer the real thing, right?”

“Don’t smoke anymore, either,” he admits.

My brows pull. “What?”

“Promised a pretty girl on her birthday I’d quit,” he explains. “Haven’t had a cigarette since.”

Something twists in my chest, and for some reason I literally cannot explain, it almost makes me want to cry. Maybe it’s the time of year. Maybe I’m close to my period. But the idea of this…untouchable rockstar quitting something for a girl he never planned on seeing ever again threatens to make me want to melt. I used to justify it. My attraction to him. The way I couldn’t get him out of my head. Realizing the feeling was mutual duringour years apart is…a hell of a lot more terrifying than I’d like to admit.

I need to get out of here.

As if he can taste my fight or flight instincts taking over, he pushes, “Come to the party.”

“Can’t. Sorry.”

“Why? Because you’ll be with your cowboy?”

My eyes fall to his lips, and I hate how fucking appealing they look. How tempting they are. “I think we both know this has nothing to do with Cowboy who went back to Georgia?—”

“Texas,” he corrects me.

“Texas,” I mutter, “so you can stop pretending you’re jealous.”

“Who says I’m pretending?”

I scoff. “You’re jealous?”

“Of Cowboy? No. Roman?” He hesitates, bringing his hand to touch my cheek, and for some insane reason, I let him. Liquid heat brands the side of my face as he runs his thumb back and forth across my cheekbone. “I wanted to strangle him, and he didn’t even touch you.”

“Plenty of men have touched me.”

“Come to the party,” he repeats.

So stubborn.

“Your stylist did a good job.” I lift my hand and brush his hair away from his face. “Although, I think I miss the green.”

He grabs my wrist, keeping my touch hostage as he pins me with his stare. “Come to the party.”

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