Page 21 of For The Weekend
She and I play, deliberately not following the rules of the game. Instead, trying to outdo the other with silly ways to toss the beanbag. She cracks up when I spin around a few times and aim my throw between my legs.
I think I even earn a half smile from Roman on that one too. It’s nice to see how relaxed and happy he is with his daughter. And…maybe me.
Maybe, like she said, he does like me.
We stop for complimentary lemonade outside the furniture store that sells pieces way outside of my price range. But Roman easily agrees when Mazie asks to go inside and test out the couches.
“I like this one! Can we get it?”
Roman sits next to his daughter when she pats the thick purple chaise longue. It belongs on the cover of a romance novel, but Mazie loves it and folds her hands together. “Pleeeeaaaaase.”
“No, Maze. We’re not getting this. I’m not buying any new furniture until you stop walking all over what we have. So if you keep breaking the fuck—if you keep breaking the springs in our couches, you’ll have to sit on the floor to watch your cartoons.”
She growls like a tiny animal and takes off again toward the decorative birdcage. Then Roman tilts his head up to me, and for the first time ever, I’m taller than him.
It doesn’t last long because he points to the open spot next to him, and I close the space between us like I’m in a trance. He has his arm propped on the top of the chaise, and when I sit, I turn into an eighth grader with her crush’s arm around her shoulders.
Butterflies explode in my belly, and all my fingers tingle. I think I might need to run home to rid myself of this energy, but when I finally pull myself together, I face him, hoping my cheeks aren’t as pink as they feel. “You’ve got a really cute kid.”
“Sometimes,” he teases, watching her as she dances with a pillow.
It takes him a while to turn back to me, so I have enoughtime to admire the line of his aquiline nose, the mass of his hair, left loose and long over his shoulders that gives him a wild sort of look. Not to mention the tattoo on the back of his hand that’s next to my left shoulder, the way his thumb barely touches my upper arm.
When he does finally meet my gaze, it makes me sweat. “She’s really taken to you.” He licks his lips and readjusts his position, widening his legs and angling himself so his knee touches mine. “But she’s not the only one.”
I surreptitiously rub my damp palms on my pants, aiming for a joke. “Yeah, Kyle, he’s…something.”
Roman doesn’t like that, and his hand fully lands on my shoulder like a weight threatening to take me under, buried in his heat and smell and size. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mazie beats him to it.
“Can we go nooooow?”
“Yeah,” he answers, gaze still on me. “We’ll head back.” Then he stands and holds out his hand to me like a gentleman, guiding me up. His fingers linger on mine, until Mazie runs between us and out the door.
On our way back, we stop to pet a dog that Mazie tries to hug, so Roman puts her on his shoulders, and I literally whimper when Roman sets his hand on my lower back, guiding me to the sidewalk.
“We’ve got to get home,” he tells me. “But I’ll see you later?”
I nod and tug on Mazie’s tulle dress. “Thanks for letting me hang out with you today.”
“Can we do it again?” she asks, and I nod. “Absolutely.”
Roman agrees, wiggling her leg but talking to me. “Whenever you want.”
Chapter 7
Roman
Iwipe the sweat from my brow before reaching over to adjust the volume of the stereo playing Rage Against the Machine. It’s hot as balls in here. I need to have the air looked at, but I’m trying to keep overhead low, and since I only opened a few weeks ago, I’m not flush with cash to pay somebody to fix it.
After swiping my palm down my pants, I adjust my hold on the wrench and finish tightening up bolts. The owner of this Volkswagen Beetle wanted it restored to its former glory, including a new cherry-red paint job, updated suspension system, and a souped-up engine that would make this bug zip along faster than originally intended.
While Stone Auto Repair is mainly a collision center, I’ve booked out a few restoration jobs over the coming months. Working on vintage cars requires a special knowledge that is hard to come by, but I’ve made a name for myself in the industry, and since I’m closer to both Philadelphia and New York City now, I’ve been able to reach the East Coast population of car lovers.
I don’t have any personal social media accounts, but my professional one is filled with post after post of restorations. From Camaros to Corvettes, Vipers to a special 1963 Pontiac Tempest that the owner wanted me to paint so it matched that scene inMy Cousin Vinnywhen Marisa Tomei went off on the tangent to prove the kids’ innocence.
“Wow. Looks like it came off the sales floor.”
I spin around at my sister’s voice. “What are you doing here?”
