Page 32 of For The Weekend
With a single arch of his brow, I’m silent. And apparently on the verge of tears, by the sting in my eyes and nose.
“I’m embarrassed,” I say eventually, and he exhales a long breath, jaw tight under his beard. He’s angry, and I’m already so exposed, unable to pretend it’s funny anymore, that any negative reaction will send me over the edge. So I do the thing I’m used to when I upset someone. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I don’t know. You look…”
“I’m pissed,” he says, hands between us like he wants to touch me, but he curls his fingers into fists and drops them to his sides. “Not at you. I…I don’t like that you’re hurting.”
Isniff and clear my throat, but it doesn’t do anything to help my blurry vision, and I blink a few times, hoping to stem the tears. “I’m fine. Don’t get worked up for me.”
“You’re not fine, and I’m already fucking worked up,” he grates out then grips my wrist, his hand engulfing it. I’m not a small woman, but he makes me feel like I am. Like he could snap my bones as if I were not more than flimsy tissue paper, but he holds me like I’m delicate porcelain, tugging me to him until my hand rests against his chest and my head is tilted back.
“You don’t deserve to be bullied by anyone, let alone a parent. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you need to pretend to be anything other than yourself. You’re perfect the way you are.”
And I could cry for a whole other reason.
Because I’ve been trained to hide my eccentricities or apologize for them, I don’t know what to do with this man who wants to protect them. Protectme.
“I’m used to it,” I say, and his voice sinks even lower.
“You shouldn’t be.”
With his fingers still curled around my wrist, I twist my hand and flatten out my palm on his chest, hard like granite yet moving with every breath he takes, and I don’t feel like letting go yet. Except Jaybird sails down the street on a skateboard, calling out to us. “Heyyoooooo!”
Roman and I each take a small step back, putting a few inches between us. I force a smile. He frowns. I’m about to apologize again out of habit, but he lifts his hand. “Don’t do it.”
I smile for real, watery as it may be. “I won’t.”
“Good.”
Jaybird kicks his board up, catching it. “Uncle, what’s up? You meeting Dad or something?”
Roman shakes his head in answer, his focus still on me.
Jay obviously catches on to whatever it is that’s happeningbetween Roman and me and whistles low. “Anywayyyyy. You two have fun out here staring broodily at each other.”
I bite back a smile. “I should get back to work.”
Before Roman can answer, I speed back to my bakery, where I studiously complete a dozen bakes, locked in on sugar and flour, keeping out my mother’s voice and the simmering rage on my behalf in Roman’s eyes.
By the time I finish for the day, I realize I missed my lunch and chow down on the cheese sticks and trail mix I packed myself, before stuffing a still-warm mini apple tart into my mouth. I didn’t earn these hips and thighs fromnot eatingwhat I make.
I check in with Morgan on my way out, stalling at the door because of the rain coming down outside. My bike is safely tucked away under the awning, but I don’t want it to rust, and I don’t especially feel like getting drenched today.
With a sigh, I cross my bag over my body and open the door, angling myself away from the raindrops to unlock my bike. As I place my hands on the bars, intent on wheeling it out onto the sidewalk, a car horn beeps, and I lift my head.
A huge black SUV is stopped on the street in front of me, blinkers flashing. A moment later, Roman strolls around the back of the vehicle, uncaring about the raindrops darkening his T-shirt or jeans. “You need a ride?”
I shake my head. “Nah, it’s only a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”
He props his hands on his hips. “You’re not riding your bike in the rain.”
“I literally live eight blocks away.”
“I will literally drive you eight blocks home.”
“You don’t?—”
