Page 31 of Trapped with My Best Friend's Dad

“Really?” she whispers.

“Really.” I make my voice firm, somehow resisting the urge to lean across the table and smooth her rebellious hair from her face. “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’ve never cooked a meal before, for a… a boyfriend,” she murmurs. “Not that I’m saying that’s what we are. But...you know, you get the point.”

She’s fumbling to find words to mark what we are, what’s passed between us, and I can’t blame her. If I call her my girlfriend, that means we have to discuss telling Millie, and I can tell neither of us wants to venture into that potentially cataclysmic territory right now.

“It’s amazing,” I growl passionately. “Just like you.”

“You’re the amazing one,” she says, all bubbly again, the momentary darkness passed. “Watching you write today, Roman, it was a complete joy. I can’t believe how involved you get. It’s like the rest of the world drifted away.”

“That’s it exactly,” I say, excitement sparking in my voice. “And that’s why I couldn’t do it anymore. Only two things have ever made me feel that way. Writing and – and you, Rayla. I think I needed one to bring back the other.”

She blinks, nodding, as tears threaten to spill from her eyes. “I’m sorry. That’s just so nice. I’ve never felt, uh, needed like that before.”

She looks down as she speaks, as though afraid to meet my gaze.

“I need you more than I’ve ever needed anyone” I snarl, even if I know I shouldn’t be saying this, shouldn’t be saying anything even like this.

But the words spill out all by themselves, driven by something I can’t understand. It’s like there’s lightning crackling inside of me, prompting spiraling and forking tendrils of electricity, spreading through me until all I can think about is how perfect my woman– Rayla is.

What I should be thinking about is…

But I can’t let my mind summon Millie’s memory, because the pain it prompts is too severe, too cruel to address.

“Tell me about this play you’re writing.” I cut into the steak, savoring the juiciness of it with each bite. “Or about the play you’re acting in, for that matter.”

I chuckle.

“What?” she asks, her eyes widening for a fraction of a moment. “What’s funny?”

“It’s just strange how I can know I want you, how my need for you rushes around my body with more and more force each second, and yet I don’t even know that much about you. I know you’re going to make an incredible mother. I know you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on. I know all of that. But…”

“I want to write a play about a woman who quits her waitressing job and decides to work with animals instead. But that’s the only idea I have so far, and honestly, I’m not even sure if I want it to be a play.”

“What else would it be?”

“A book?” She shrugs, making her answer a question in itself. “A song? A freaking puzzle? I don’t know. It’s just an idea. I realize I’m probably making no sense right now.”

I smirk. “Angel, you’re talking to the man whose writing ability froze before you came along to warm it up again. You don’t need to worry about not making sense with me.”

She giggles, nodding. “Yeah, you’re probably right. That was like magic, the way you started writing. I couldn’t believe it was the first time in three years. The words were pouring out of you.”

I finish chewing my steak, nodding, as the taste moves through me. And there’s something else, the heat of belonging, the heat of knowing that this woman is always going to support me. In the same way, I’m going to support her.

Forever.

“It was bizarre. Usually, there’s this block inside of me, like all my writing ability has been plugged up, stoppered, but every time I felt that feeling, all I had to do was look across at you and it went away. You’ve changed me, angel. Or let me go back to the way I used to be.”

I aim my steak knife at her, as the candles glimmer all around the room. I laid them out while she was bringing in dinner, so they shimmer against the rain-clouded glass, dancing up and down the room. There’s something perfect about the way the light warps and flickers for us.

“But we weren’t talking about me. What about the other play – the one you’re acting in?”

“It’s just a small community thing in my hometown,” she murmurs. “Something to keep me busy over the summer. I play a woman grieving for her lost love, but then he returns as a ghost and tries to help her deal with the grief. It’s very experimental, and a little odd.”

“And that was the singing part? Longing for your lover?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a pause as I stare hard at her, as her unquestionable beauty washes over me. Every second is torture as I try to stop myself from consuming her with my eyes.

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