Page 126 of The Cuddle Clause
“I swear to God,” I muttered, kicking off the blanket and yanking the top sheet around my body like a toga. “If this is a religious zealot, I’m going to convert to something spiteful.”
Roman chuckled, voice thick with satisfaction. “Want me to answer it?”
“You’re naked.”
“So are you.”
“Yeah, but I’m the one with better neighborly instincts.”
I padded down the hallway, pulling the sheet tighter just in case it was, in fact, an aggressive cult recruiter. When I opened the door, Doris stood on the other side in her usual outfit—patterned slacks, button-up cardigan, hair teased like she had a vendetta against humidity.
We locked eyes. I didn’t even try to hide my exasperation.
“We really have to stop meeting like this,” I said dryly.
Doris looked me up and down. Her gaze hit the sheet. Then the flushed cheeks. Then—unfortunately—the hickey blooming on my collarbone.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
“Well, I just wanted to say,” she began, arms crossed over her clipboard, “that Ihopeyou got yours.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re glowing. I say, go get it, honey. You tell that man of yours he can stay.”
My mouth fell open.
“But…” She held up a finger. “If he breaks your heart, he’s evicted. On the spot. I won’t even give him thirty days. I’ll haul his furry little ass out with my own two hands.”
I barked out a laugh. I couldn’t help it. She said it with all the fiery conviction of a woman who once got dumped by a man named Harold in 1979 and swore vengeance on an entire gender.
“I’ll tell him,” I said, trying to contain my grin. “Thank you, Doris.”
She nodded. “And… next time, maybe wait until after business hours before doingwhateverit is you two were doing. The walls are thin, sweetheart.”
My entire face flamed. Doris turned and shuffled off down the hall like she hadn’t just delivered a sexual TED Talk at my front door.
I closed it slowly behind me, resting my forehead against the wood for a second, trying to recover. When I turned back around, Roman was leaning casually in the doorway to the bedroom, one hand resting on the frame, a towel slung dangerously low on his hips.
His brow arched. “Everything okay?”
“Doris says you can stay.”
His eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. “Really?”
“But,” I said, walking toward him and poking his bare chest with one finger, “if you break my heart, she’ll personally evict you.”
He laughed under his breath and pulled me into him. “That woman is terrifying.”
“I know. It’s why I trust her judgment.”
Roman kissed my forehead, then rested his own against it. “I won’t break your heart.”
I believed him. Not because he said it perfectly, or because it was the romantic thing to say. But because he’d shown me. Over and over again. In the smallest ways. And now, in the biggest.
He hadn’t chosen comfort or safety. He hadn’t chosen obligation or power. He’d chosen me.
Us.
