Page 17 of For The Weekend
He insisted he take a look then hoisted the thing up to hisshoulder like it was nothing. I protested—after I wiped the drool from my face—but he told me I’d have it back by the time I finished working.
And there it was. My bike, waiting for me when I stepped outside Sweet Cheeks, chain fixed and back in place.
With his quiet nature and steady gaze, Roman isenthralling. Not to mention, he looks like a goddamn Greek god. His long hair is as dark as his brown eyes that don’t give anything away, but I’ve noticed the way they crinkle when he’s amused, in that weird estimation of a smile I can’t get enough of. He’s naturally tanned, darker than me, like he spends all his days out in the sunshine—as Greek gods do—though he’s always cooped up in his garage. Quite frankly, I don’t know how he does it, ducking all eighteen feet of him down to fix cars, holding itty-bitty wrenches in those oven-mitt hands of his. Of course, there are the tattoos scrawled all over his arms, even on his hands, letters of his daughter’s name on his right knuckles and Stone on his left. I’m sure he’s inked other places that I’ve fantasized about only a few dozen times, so I don’t have a clear mental picture.
But then he went and fixed my bike like some kind of superhero.
I never stood a chance.
And that’s how I found myself marching into Stone Auto Repair a few days ago with a big box of pastries as payment.
“It was nothing,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, so I once again forcibly set my gift of gratitude in his bear paws, ignoring the curious stares of the other workers.
As I walked out the door, I heard one of them say, “What’dya got in there?”
To which Roman groused, “Nothing for you.”
And I liked him all rough and growly, hoarding my pastries to himself.
Now, it’s the last weekend of September, and all of Aster Street is shut down for the fall festival. Every business has its doors open, booths set out front, displaying products or playing games in hopes of finding new customers. People are able to pick up a card from the West Chester Community Association, and if they have it punched by all sixteen businesses, they will be entered into a drawing for something or other.
It’s supposed to kick off soon, but of course I’m late getting ready, because of the text reminder from my aunt about the RSVP still sitting on my kitchen counter causing a teensy anxiety spiral. I nearly threw the stupid paper invitation into the recycling bin. I didn’t think people sent paper invites in the mail anymore. Let alone any with foil Cinderella shoes on them over the scriptShe’s found her prince!
I imagine lighting the damn thing on fire to calm my nerves and concentrate on laying out free samples of the cinnamon buns and pumpkin scones. Humming to myself, I step back to take in my booth, not noticing the hulking figure planted there until I smack right into him.
Strong hands grip my arms, and I look up, way up, at Roman “the refrigerator” Stone. And for a moment, I’m stunned. “Hi.”
His chest rises on an inhale, and I catch a whiff of his scent that I imagine on his bedsheets, and suddenly, I’m on his mattress in my mind. I hop away from him, cheeks heating. “Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
I playfully whack at him. “Guess you need something much bigger than me to move you, huh?”
His dark gaze tracks down the length of me, slow and delicious. He finally meets my eyes again and huffs a sort of offended sound. “Girl, I could throw you over my shoulder like yoursacks of flour.”
I choke out a laugh with how my throat’s suddenly drier than a box of saltines.
“Daddy?”
The name has my focus lowering to the little girl standing next to Roman, her hair braided in two pigtails, her dress full of multicolored tulle with a rainbow across her chest. She has the same brown eyes as Roman, but hers sparkle as brightly as her clothes, a dimple in the center of her right cheek. Adorable.
“Who’s this?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Eloise, this is Mazie,” he says, his hand on the top of her head, and I wonder if he did her hair. My ovaries weep at the thought of his thick fingers plaiting section over section, taking her shopping for those pink glitter shoes, giving her piggyback rides.
Gah!
“Hi!” Mazie bounces on her toes. “Is this your store?” she asks, pointing to Sweet Cheeks behind me.
I nod. “I heard you like my cinnamon rolls.”
“Ilovethem,” she says, hands out and full of sass.
“Do you want one right now?”
Mazie’s head bobs, and I glance to Roman for permission before handing her one from the tray. She accepts it but stops with it halfway to her mouth. “What about Daddy?”
I don’t let my smile falter and tip my head in his direction. “What about you,Daddy? You want one of my buns?”
