Page 52 of Worth the Trouble

It’s blunt like he is whenever he mentions his past. But it’s also something I sense he doesn’t share with many people, so every time he does, I’m thankful he trusts me enough to let me hear it.

“Well, I’m not complaining, seeing as I can barely fry an egg.” I pick at my thumbnail. “The downside to having my meals prepped and delivered most of my life. Never had to learn my way around a kitchen.”

It’s rare I eat anything that isn’t weighed, measured, and part of a specifically laid out plan. Food has always been for necessity, not enjoyment. Not that I admit that bit to him.

“No worries, I’ve got you.” He winks.

A small, insignificant thing he probably throws around like compliments and nicknames, but Ifeelit. All the way in my bones. He shatters a shield I didn’t realize I was holding. Those dark eyes take bites out of my carefully built barriers. Just like his tattooed hands make me lose all sense of control.

In Rome’s presence, I’m lost, and I’m not sure I ever want to be found.

I shift in my seat, changing the subject before he notices what’s running through my head. “Your house is almost spotless. You can barely tell there was a party last night.”

A cleaning crew showed up first thing and ushered away anyone who was lingering before getting started. Which I get the impression is a regular thing.

“Barely?” Rome scoffs at the word, then smiles wide. “Guess I need to pay them more then.”

I almost roll my eyes but catch myself, and Rome shakes his head.

“What?” I cross my arms over my chest.

“It’s cute how you try to pretend you’re never affected.”

How is it I’m always so transparent to him?

“Cute?”

He shrugs a shoulder, going back to stirring the sausage in the pan.

I watch him move around the kitchen, grabbing things out of the refrigerator and cabinets, pouring me coffee. His face neutral, calm, relaxed. His muscles flexing with every movement. It’s illicit, while also completely innocent, mirroring how being around him makes me feel.

Rome finishes cooking, sliding a plate in front of me. The food looks like it could be on the cover of a cooking magazine and smells to die for. Dropping into the chair across from me, he watches me pick up my fork and slide the food around my plate.

It might look incredible, but I’m also aware it’s at least four times the amount of food I’m normally allowed to eat in one sitting. I can only imagine the butter, oil, and calories. Pushing it around, I try to focus on the vegetables and eggs, hoping he doesn’t notice.

But when my eyes meet his, there’s the faintest frown on his face as he watches me between his own bites.

“It’s delicious,” I say with a smile, trying to reassure him because it’s not his fault I can’t look at food without seeing numbers.

Besides, it really is amazing. The balance of spice, flavor, and heat is overwhelming in the best way.

“Really,” I say, taking another bite. “This is incredible. You’re so bad for me.”

That at least makes him smile as he goes back to focusing on his own plate.

We eat in silence, but it doesn’t take long before my stomach starts to ache. At least, I think it’s my stomach. It might just be the idea of food filling me up, and knowing I can’t allow it.

Setting down my fork, I push my plate away and lean back.

“Not going to eat more?” He leans back and kicks an ankle up on his opposite knee, planting his hands on the back of his head, watching me.

His question catches me off guard. In my line of work, food isn’t something we talk about. There’s an unspoken understanding that we’re all starving for our dreams. And it’s perfectly acceptable to watch people waste away physically and mentally in the process—even if it’s also entirely fucked up.

But like Rome does with everything, he forces the question in front of me and makes me face the reality head on.

“Show prep. It’s exhausting, but you have to do what you have to do, right?”

He nods, not looking amused, but not pushing the subject either. He unlaces his hands from the back of his head and leans forward.

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