Page 94 of Holiday Friend Zones
ChapterEight
WILLOW
Tip 1: Find common ground.
Which would be decent advice if the man in question wasn’t Roman Tate—the boy who has known me since my scraped-knees-and-braided-pigtails days.The man who has seen me ugly cry, vomit tequila, and lose my shit over printer toner.We don’t need common ground.We are common ground.
But I try anyway.
“Read anything new or interesting lately?”I ask during a slow weekday shift, aiming for breezy, casual, definitely-not-a-flirting-attempt.
Roman shrugs, hopping up onto the counter like he owns the place.“Tried Watership Down the other day.Less maritime than I was expecting ...more rabbit-y.”
I stare at him, working very hard to keep my face neutral.“Really.Wow.”
He smirks.“What’s that look?Is this Saint Willow judging me for getting duped by a book?”
“Books couldn’t trick you if you bothered to read the synopses occasionally.”My tone is sharp enough to cut, but it’s that or laugh in his face.
“Where’s the fun in that?”Roman kicks his heel against the counter like he’s ten again.“Besides, you’ll just tell me what I really want to read.Just like you did withThe Sun Also Rises?—”
“Still not a western,” I cut in.
“OrThe Art of War?—”
“War.Literally in the title.”
He leans closer, eyes glinting.“Or howPride and Prejudicewasn’t a nonfiction guidebook.Which, honestly, is a shame.I could’ve used the tutorial.”
I narrow my eyes.“You’re messing with me.”
“I would never.”His grin says otherwise, smug and devastating.
And just like that, Tip one dies a quick death.Common ground doesn’t exist when every conversation between us spirals into him making me want to kiss him and strangle him at the same time.
ChapterNine
WILLOW
Tip 2: Give genuine compliments.Don’t stop at physical appearance; dig deeper.
Easy enough, I thought.Roman is one of the kindest, most thoughtful people I’ve ever met.He gives more of himself than he needs to, and he does so without ever asking for recognition.The problem isn’t finding something to compliment—it’s surviving the way his eyes look at me after I say it.
“You’re very ...steadfast,” I manage the following afternoon.
Roman doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.
“Fancy word there, Princess,” he says, voice warm, distracted, like the wires matter more than me unraveling beside him.“Care to elaborate?”
“You’re ...you know.Loyal.Reliable.A good friend.”
The words taste wrong in my mouth.Too small, too clumsy.They don’t cover half of what I mean, and he deserves more than this fumbling wreck of a sentence.My throat is burning like I’m choking on spit, and I actually wish the ceiling would cave in and rescue me.
“Aw, Wills.”He finally glances at me, grin tilting just enough to gut me.“What’s next?You gonna get down on one knee and propose?”
My pulse stumbles.Rule number one with Roman Tate: deny, deny, deny.Compliments bounce off him like rubber bullets.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, moment ruined, cheeks hot enough to toast chestnuts on.
