Page 97 of Holiday Friend Zones
He smirks.“You already brag when you beat me at Uno.You really need more ammunition?”
“Yes.Now stop stalling, and get ready to lose.”
We start at the same time.He’s annoyingly efficient, reaching higher shelves easily, sliding each book in like he’s been training for this his whole life.I, on the other hand, manage to drop two titles before I’ve even cleared half my stack.
Roman laughs, that deep, warm sound that makes my chest ache.“You’re going down in flames, Princess.”
“Not yet,” I mutter, scrambling to jam books into place faster.My foot slips off the bottom rung of the ladder, and I shriek, catching myself on the shelf with all the grace of a baby giraffe.
Roman’s laugh explodes.“Friendly competition, huh?You mean competitive near-death experience?”
“Shut up, and keep shelving,” I snap, cheeks blazing.
But then, miracle of miracles, he fumbles one.A hardcover slips through his hands and thuds against the floor.I freeze, eyes wide.Then grin slowly and smugly.“Ohhh, look who’s not perfect after all.”
He shakes his head, climbing down with a rueful smile.“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet—winning,” I sing-song, shoving my last book onto the shelf with exaggerated flair.
Roman leans in close, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him, see the glint in his eyes.His voice dips low, teasing but weighted with something else.“If bragging rights mean that much to you, Princess, I’ll let you have them.”
I swallow hard, my victory suddenly feeling dangerous.“I ...I earned them.”
His grin is slow, wicked.“Sure you did.”
And just like that, my heart is a fucking fire hazard again.
ChapterFourteen
WILLOW
Tip 7: Listen actively.
Which sounds easy—just nod, ask a few questions, prove you’re paying attention.But with Roman, listening feels like standing at the edge of a cliff, because sometimes he lets things slip that tear me wide open.
It happens late one night as we’re closing up, the store bathed in twinkle lights and quiet.He’s restocking the high shelves, muscles taut as he stretches, while I tape up another shipping box.
Out of nowhere, he mutters, “You ever notice how everyone else seems to belong somewhere during the holidays?”
I pause, the tape gun sticking mid-swipe.“What do you mean?”
He hops down from the ladder, running a hand over the back of his neck.“It’s just ...for most people, Christmas means family.Traditions.Tables full of people who actually give a damn if you’re there.For me, it’s always been the opposite.A season that reminds me what’s missing.”His laugh is low, rough.“Not that it matters.Easier to bury myself in work anyway.”
My chest pulls tight.He rarely says things like this out loud.
“Roman ...”
He shrugs, trying to brush it off.“Don’t look at me like that.I’m fine.Always am.”
But I can hear it—the weariness threaded through his voice, the wayfinesounds like a word he doesn’t even believe himself.
I set the tape gun aside, stepping closer until we’re sharing the same pool of golden light.“You don’t have to be fine with me.”
His eyes lift to mine, guarded, searching.
“You’ve given so much of yourself to everyone else,” I say quietly.“To me.To this shop.To this whole town.But when do you ever let yourself ...rest?Let someone else carry some of it?”
The air feels thick between us for a second, like he might actually let me in.His jaw flexes, his hands clenching at his sides, and it looks like he’s fighting himself.
