Page 46 of More Than Nothing
This is not a real date. This is make-believe.Perhaps if she kept telling herself that, it would save her from making a fool of herself.
Roman slid a drink in front of her. “One gin and tonic.”
“Thank you so much.” Elenie, desperate for something to do with her hands, picked it straight up and took a gulp. She shivered as the tart iciness slid over her tongue.
“There’ll be quite a crowd in tonight. There’s a band playing soon,” he said. “Should work in our favor.”
Elenie let herself be reassured by his steady confidence. She gave a jerky nod. “Yes, it’ll be fine.”
But she wasn’t sure she believed it.
Chapter 22
Roman
If only subtlety was a language Frank Dax understood, they wouldn’t be going through with this farce.
Every time he thought about putting Elenie in danger, Roman’s stomach plunged and rolled, cement-mixer style. His objectivity was shot. The only thing stopping him from shutting down this whole plan—forcefully, instantly, permanently—was the hope he’d seen on her face.
It absolutely killed him.
How could he know how it felt to go home every night to that house? To a mother who had treated the care system like a crèche and chosen Dax over her daughter. To a man who mocked her, ignored her, or hurt her.
Thea kept sweet popcorn in her cupboard for him when she and Luke only liked salty. Florence left him a voice message every Halloween, singing a ridiculous song about witches they’d found funny when they were kids. His parents had sent regular care packages of food and books to the city, as if he hadn’t had access to any shops himself. It was something he’d taken for granted. Even laughed about.
Elenie had no one. He’d seen the hunger in her eyes at his parents’ house.
If Frank was at all suspicious that Elenie still had the ear of the local PD, there was no way she’d be able to gather the intel they needed. His default setting was mistrust; he was never going to simply take her word for it if she promised to keep her distance from Roman. There needed to be witnesses to an implosion that left no doubt.
Men like Dax dealt solely in things that wentboom. Fingers crossed, this performance should solve that.
They needed a brutal, public face-off to shatter any question of an ongoing link. But to do that, they had to confirm the connection first. It was this part that had the potential to blow up in Elenie’s face if they didn’t play it right.
Roman hooked a second bar stool and pulled it closer to Elenie’s, settling in behind her and drawing her back to sit between his thighs. His stomach muscles rippled. Her hair smelled heavenly, like sugar and ice cream. He fought the urge to wind the soft waves between his fingers and press another kiss to her temple. God, how he wanted to.
She was temptation with a ramrod-straight backbone.
This whole charade was fucking dangerous. And half of that danger had nothing to do with Frank Dax.
“Is this OK?” Roman murmured next to Elenie’s ear.
Her nod was a firm jerk of her head. “Yes. It’s good. People are looking.”
The band members appeared to raucous applause. They cut through the patrons and took up their instruments, jumping straight into a fast-paced country song that got the audience clapping and stamping. The reverberations thrummed through the floorboards. Gathering his professional control around him as tightly as he could, Roman rested his hands on Elenie’s waist, tryinghis best to make it look intimate but feel unthreatening. He ran a deceptively casual eye around the bar.
He’d had a couple of evenings in the Barrel with Milo and Luke since his return, knocking back any flirty encounters with closed body language and a reserved smile. It wasn’t usually as busy as this but he’d chosen a good position. Their location at the bar left them wide open to the attention of others. He tried to assess how much interest they were getting. A group of women nearby threw glances their way, before turning back to gossip among themselves. Roman was pretty sure they were the subject of it.
“See anyone you know?” he asked Elenie, his mouth close to her ear. She gave a tiny shiver; his fingers flexed on her waist.
“Uh, Craig Perry’s sitting in a booth near the corner. He’s with a couple of friends.”
“Describe him.”
She screwed up her nose. “Navy tweed jacket, mustard-colored t-shirt and jeans. Medium height, sandy hair. Stupid, punchable face.” Roman flicked a glance in the direction she mentioned and identified him in seconds. “He’s in our house too often for comfort these days and he likes to brush past me in doorways so he can touch my breasts.”
Roman struggled to keep his face impassive. “D’you know the guys he’s with?”
“Yeah. The meathead with curly hair is Vince Detler. He hangs around with Tyson, too. I wouldn’t trust him to babysit a dog.”
