Page 14 of For The Weekend
She motions for me to follow her inside. “You can set it down on the counter.”
The kitchen is entirely stainless steel, while the walls are plastered with laminated recipes and stickers, like the one of Strawberry Shortcake and another that could either be a smiling mushroom or a penis. It’s hard to tell. After examining it all for a few moments, enjoying the delicious scents coming from the ovens, I pivot to find her wiping her face with a wet cloth at the sink. When she finishes, she turns to me, and I can finally see her clearly.
Her blond hair is pulled up into a ponytail with a stretchy headband, keeping loose strands back from her temples and the nape of her neck. Her cheeks are round and, with a slight turn-up of her nose, she’s like something out of a storybook. A princess from a children’s fairy tale, and I rock back on my heels, absently catching myself with a hand on the cool metal counter.
She steps toward me, all golden skin and sunshine wrapped in a cute-as-pie package even as her body screamsfuck me.
“I’m Eloise, by the way,” she says, extending her hand.
“Roman.” My hand engulfs hers when I shake it, our fingers lingering for a long time. I don’t feel like pulling away.
I guess she doesn’t either.
She cocks her head in this flirtatious way that I don’t think is on purpose, her pink lips pursing in a secretive smile. “Roman Stone. I’ve heard about you.”
I want to tell her that I’ve heard of her too, and now that she’s in front of me, my interest has only piqued.
Her eyes flick over me once again, and I fucking love how she steps closer to me, her head tipping back to meet my gaze. I wouldn’t be able to stop looking at her even if horses dragged me away. “What have you heard?”
“You’re the prodigal brother returned.”
I can’t deny it and wag my head side to side.
“You’re the mechanic who’s eighteen feet tall with the little girl who can’t stop cursing but everyone loves.”
I draw an imaginary line from the top of my head, measuring myself. “Not quite eighteen feet.”
“How tall are you?”
“Six five.”
Her eyes brighten at that. “And the little girl?”
“Mazie. She’s six, curses like a motherfucker, and everyone loves her more than me. As they should.”
Eloise’s flirty, closed lips open, revealing a smile that’s all teeth and crinkles her nose. It’s fucking cute.
She’s fucking cute.
And she probably has things to do, but she’s not moving. Doesn’t care about the destroyed bag of flour sitting two feet away from us.
“I’ve been in here,” I tell her. “But I’ve never seen you.”
She gestures, as if to encompass the room. “I’m usually in the kitchen. I get super focused when I bake.”
“My daughter loves your cinnamon rolls.”
Eloise crosses her arms, pushing her tits up, practically offering them on a platter for my ogling. I try not to. “Yeah, they’re my thing. I make a lot of other pastries, but the buns are what keep the lights on. I had a few videos blow up on social media two years ago, and a regional magazine did an article on me, so people come from all over to buy them. Before that, it was kind of a struggle to survive. But the community’s really supportive, you know? We all help each other out. I’m sure youknow that. You grew up here. And your family is amazing. I’m always popping in next door. I love Ian and all the guys. Sloane said your kids are going to hang out together, and that’s really nice because—I’m sorry.”
I lean down, shrinking a bit. “What?”
She flails her hands as if wiping down a whiteboard. “You were smiling…weirdly. I’m sorry, that’s really rude of me to say. But it was like you wanted me to stop talking, and I have a tendency to ramble on, sometimes about things people don’t care about and?—”
“I’m out of practice.”
“What?”
“Smiling.” I motion to my face. “I don’t do it a lot. Maybe that’s why it looked weird.”
