Page 53 of The Cuddle Clause
“The recipe says one and a half teaspoons of vanilla,” he said carefully, voice low. “But you can round up, if you want.”
“You’re letting me round?”
His mouth twitched. “Just a little.”
He held out a wooden spoon. A silent offering to let me stir.
My fingers brushed his as I took it. I stared down at the bowl like it might lunge at me.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asked, not looking directly at me. “Your nightmare?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. “Okay. Then I’ll talk.”
He cracked eggs with one hand like a show-off. One of them landed a little crooked, yolk sliding down his fingers, but he didn’t stop.
“Whatever it was, it doesn’t get to own your night,” he said. “You’re awesome, Mags. Like, aggressively awesome. Ten out of ten. Highly recommend. Would roommate again.”
I rolled my eyes, but my chest ached.
“You’re smart. You’re quick. You’re terrifying when you’re hangry, but it’s kind of sexy,” he continued. “You’re good and kind. You make space for people. You remember things, little things. You saved that stray cat last week even though it scratched the hell out of you.”
“That cat was a demon.”
“And you still cared.”
I looked down at the bowl as I stirred. The butter and sugar slowly folded together into something better than either were on their own. Roman kept going like he hadn’t just said something that made me want to cry.
“You’re funny. You make my weird feel normal,” he said, glancing at me. “And you’re cute as hell when you’re half asleep and glaring at your coffee like it betrayed you.”
“I’m not cute,” I mumbled.
“You’re adorable when you lie, too.”
One of the eggs cracked wrong in his hand and spilled down his arm with a wet plop.
“Ugh, gross,” he muttered. “That’s it.”
He peeled his sweatshirt off with theatrical drama, like he was accepting an Oscar for Best Flour-Dusted Torso. He folded the top and placed it on the table. My brain promptly stalled.
“That’s unfair,” I said, glaring at his chest like it owed me an apology.
Roman arched a brow. “What is?”
“You. Shirtless and saying nice things. It’s manipulative.”
He grinned. “You think I’m emotionally manipulating you with my delts?”
“I think you’re a menace.”
“I think you’re deflecting.”
Before I could come up with a suitable comeback, he reached into the bag of flour and flicked some at me.
“Don’t—” I warned.
He did it again.
