Page 58 of For The Weekend
Another squeeze of his arm. “So don’t.”
“I can’t be late. I’m sure I’ll get shit about last night.”
“Well then, come on.” He pats my thighs and hops out of bed, absently adjusting himself before digging through his duffel to pull out a pair of athletic shorts. When he catches me watching him, he raises his brow in question.
“What are you doing?” I ask, still in bed.
“Getting dressed.” He pulls on a T-shirt. “You have to be down there in half an hour, right?” When I nod, he shrugs. “I’m goin’ with you.”
“For your makeup?”
“You think I need it?” he deadpans, and I crawl to the edge of the bed.
“No. I think you’re beautiful the way you are.”
He meets me, pushing my rat’s nest back from my face, holding me so I’m peering up at him, me on my knees, him looming over me. I like it. I like feeling how big he is, strong yet tender, embracing me so softly. Better yet, I know he can be rough.
He shows me again by gripping my hair, tugging tightly. “Don’t let the sons of bitches get you down.”
I stifle a laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay,” he repeats and presses a kiss to my mouth before releasing me so I can take a quick shower and throw on someclothes. Once we’re both dressed and brushed, we head down to the salon hand in hand, and it fills me with giddy joy to see all the bridesmaids’ eyes become dinner plates when we enter the room.
The man can make an entrance.
“Roman,” Aunt Beverly says with a barely concealed grimace. “Nice to see you again.”
He answers with a grunt then turns to me, yanking me close to lay a kiss on me.
With tongue.
The squeeze to my ass earns a few murmurs, and I can feel them all watching when he brushes his lips over my ear. “You don’t owe anybody anything. Not your smile and definitely not your tears.”
I nod and realize I have to uncurl my fists from his T-shirt so he can leave. When I do, he pinches my chin. “Text me if you need anything.”
“Okay,” I croak, dying inside. I have to lean against the wall as all 6’5” of him stalks out of the overtly feminine salon like he owns the place.
“Well done,” one of the bridesmaids whispers to me as she fills up a champagne flute with a mimosa mixture to pass to me.
I gulp it down before finally replying, “Thanks. He’s pretty great.”
The morning is a flurry of brushes and wands, steam and curlers, but my aunt stays away, mostly fussing over Lily. I don’t even see my mother until we’re all dressed for pictures. Besides a curt, “Hello, Eloise,” she stays quiet.
All because Roman stood up for me last night, and while my first instinct is to apologize, I remind myself of what he said.
You don’t owe anybody anything. Not your smile and definitely not your tears.
I don’t need to feel bad about anything. I don’t need to slapon a smile when I don’t want to, and I certainly don’t need to apologize when I never did anything wrong. My mother is the one who owesmean apology.
The ceremony is held outside with a backdrop of fall foliage and white linen, and I immediately spot Roman, seated on one of the chairs toward the back. He’s in head to toe black, but I don’t get a good look at him until I’m positioned with the other bridesmaids at the makeshift dais. That’s when I notice he has his hair slicked back in a bun, a newly trimmed beard, and the top few buttons on his shirt undone.
I’m toast.
But it’s his unshakable gaze that truly does me in. My anchor amid this sea of floral prints and forced joy. It’s the way his eyes soften when he looks at me and how his mouth quirks to the side. His weird little smile that’s only for me.
The moment the ceremony wraps, I practically run to him and his waiting arms. But he doesn’t pull me to him as he’s been doing since we arrived yesterday. Instead, he holds me out, inspecting me from the top of my breezy curls to my heels. He whistles, and it’s as ridiculous as it is thrilling, and I bat at his chest. He responds by wrapping his arms around my waist and kissing my throat. “You’re beautiful.”
“I’m the swamp thing.”
