Page 38 of For The Weekend
Been thinking about naming the new bike Betsy. What’s your opinion? Also, does that make you the father?
If you want to, we can have a big, dramatic breakup at the wedding. I think it would piss-off and delight to my mother because I can’t be DRAMA, but I’d also steal the spotlight away from Lily.
What are your thoughts on wedding cakes that are not cake? Like imagine nine tiers of cinnamon rolls or three layers of pie.
But I didn’t want him to think I was a total weirdo and keptthose questions to myself. Even if I was still desperate to know his answers.
Now, I check myself over in the mirror, aiming for cute but not over the top. Sure, I have the hots for him, but I don’t want him assuming I’m thinking of him every day. Even if it’s the truth.
Wearing my most flattering jeans, white tank top, and a cute cardigan with flowers all over it, I loop my purse over my shoulder and head outside. Roman’s beast of a car rolls up right as I step onto the sidewalk, and I’m there before he’s even closed his door.
“Wait.” He huffs, rounding the hood. “Woman, will you wait? Goddamn it.”
“What?”
He doesn’t think it’s funny like I do and shoots me a glare as he opens the passenger side door for me.
“Such a gentleman,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes.
“Wait for me next time.”
I salute him and buckle myself in as he stalks back over to the driver’s side and settles in his seat.
“I made reservations at Tabby Cat,” he says. “Hope that’s okay.”
“We could have walked there after work. Probably would’ve been easier for you.”
Tabby Cat is right across the street from my bakery and only a few blocks from his shop. He didn’t need to drive to my house to pick me up, but he shrugs.
“I wanted to.”
“Like a real date,” I say absent-mindedly then feel my cheeks flush, though he either didn’t hear or doesn’t care. He merely looks me over, from top to bottom, his eyes stumbling on my chest, before pulling out onto the road.
He clears his throat. “You look good.”
“Thanks. So do you.” His dark hair is pulled back in a bun at the nape of his neck, and his usual black T-shirt has been replaced by a black button-down, rolled up his forearms. His muscles test the stitching, and I can’t help but drag my finger over the seam on his shoulder. “So, are you a body builder or what?”
He glances at me, that hesitant quirk to his lips—like he’s still trying to remember how to smile—lifting the corner of his mouth. “Not a body builder.”
“But you’re massive.”
He doesn’t disagree with me. He also doesn’t reply.
“You’re a gym rat, huh?”
“A bit,” he says, and fifteen questions immediately come to mind.
“How many push-ups can you do?”
I swear he’s about to laugh, but he rubs his hand over his mouth and beard. “I don’t know. A lot. I usually do sets to failure.”
“What’s your squat?”
He exhales audibly. “Heaviest I ever squatted was four-ten.”
“Four-ten,” I repeat, amazed. “I think my heaviest squat was about two hundred.”
“You a gym rat too?”
