Page 40 of For The Weekend
When Roman doesn’t say anything else, Nate smiles, nodding along like he expected as much. “Well, I’ll let you two enjoy your dinner.”
I wave as he retreats then turn to Roman. “You two know each other?”
“In passing.”
Nate co-owns Tabby Cat with the chef, but he ran a bar for a long time, a neighborhood spot I used to love going to. Now, he’s married with a kid, and Tabby, his wife, often stops into Sweet Cheeks with the baby. So I know them pretty well, but I have no idea how Roman does. I wait for him to explain, and when he doesn’t, I shake my head. “Like pulling teeth with you. How’d you meet in passing?”
“I don’t know,” he says almost defensively. “We see each other around, and Mazie and I went to check out some place with…dress-up or something. He was there with a bunch of other dads.”
“Oh yeah.” I tap my fingers on the table, remembering Nate and his best friends are all dads. “You should hook up with them, set up some playdates.”
“I don’t know if you could tell, but I’m not exactly a playdate kinda guy.”
“You went out with Sloane and her kids.”
“That’s different.” He focuses on the menu, as if that’ll make me drop this line of questioning.
“How?”
“I know her.”
I snort. “You know Nate.”
“Not like I know Sloane.”
“Yeah, but if you hung out with him, you’d get to know him better.”
He sighs, slowly drawing his eyes up to mine. “I have five friends. I don’t want any more.”
I bite back a smile. “Five? That’s it?”
He nods seriously.
“Am I one of them?”
He stares at me for a long moment, his tongue poking out to wet his lower lip before he finally answers, “Yeah.”
I press my hand to my heart. “I’m touched.”
His focus follows and lingers on my cleavage. My boobs are huge. No matter what I wear, I can’t hide them, so I’ve learned to ignore the stares. But IwantRoman to stare at me.
I want him to lick his bottom lip again as his pupils expand. I want his shoulders to lift on a deep breath like he’s controlling himself, and I want him to like what he sees so much, it makes him uncomfortable.
All those things happen, and when he shifts in his seat, I can’t help but smile. I check out the long list of wines, specialty cocktails, and few beers on draft. “What are you going to get to drink?”
“I’m good with water.”
I tip my head up. “Just water? You don’t look like a wine guy, but thisisa wine bar.”
He scrubs his hand over his head, messing up his hair further then tugs on his shirt, eyes skirting around the place behind me. “I don’t drink.”
Of course he doesn’t. I’d heard the rumors, but it’s impossible to know what’s true and what’s not.
He sets his elbows on the table, hands clasped together, and doesn’t equivocate when he says, “I’ve had some addiction issues in the past. I’m sober for about seven years.”
I imagine he must have had to have this conversation a few times before—maybe more than a few, from how he’s so calm—but I’m embarrassed. Not for him, but because I feel sostupid for teasing him about the wine. I don’t know what to say.
“It’s fine, though,” he says quickly, leaning forward to place his hand over mine. “Order whatever you want.”
