Breaking Roman (The Moran Family Book 3)

by Alexis James

  “Good lord no! I told you, I hardly know him.” Knowing that Jack will be relentless with his questioning, I give him a brief rundown of the weird exchange in my office that day, followed by the dinner invitation and my less than friendly email. “I hate that I had to send it, but it was for the best.”

  He gives me a hard look, eyes narrowing. “Really? Whose best? Yours? I beg to differ.”

  “Meaning what exactly?”

  “Sweetheart, you haven’t had a man in your life for many, many years. Don’t you think it’s time you put yourself first for a change?”

  Jack and I have had many conversations like this in the past. Sometimes I end up crying, sometimes I end up yelling, and every single time he remains steadfast in his belief that I need a life of my own and not just that of a single mother with a teenage daughter. “No, actually I don’t.”

  He pulls away, scoots to the opposite end of the couch, and leans forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Let me ask you something, do you think it’s wise to give Em the impression that if one has children, one must sign their life away over for said children?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Well, honey, that’s exactly what you’re doing.”

  My eyes dart to his, and I snap, “I’m not parading a variety of men around my teenage daughter, Jack. That’s just dumb.”

  Running his fingers through his slightly wavy hair, he shrugs. “So … You can still date once in a while. Maybe get your freak on too, though I’m sure it’s all dried up down there.”

  Laughing, I reply, “I’ll thank you not to mention the state of my vagina.”

  Jack shudders, as if the idea of a women’s private parts repel him, which chances are do. “Honey, at least tell me that you use the gift I gave you? I’d hate to think you’re going without some kind of pleasure.”

  My cheeks blaze as I recall the extra-large vibrator he gave to me at Christmas. Two months after the fact and it’s still sitting in the packaging, tucked away deep inside my closet in one of my old suitcases. Just the idea of holding it in my hand freaks me out. I can’t even imagine doing anything else with it. “Uh … sure … of course I am.”

  He grins, shaking his head and reaching for the bowl of popcorn. “You lie like a dog.”

  “Can we please change the subject?”

  “No, we cannot. I want you to give me a well thought out, detailed list of reasons why you cannot pursue this hunky guy at work. And leave off the crap about being a single mom.”

  Pulling my knees against my chest, I murmur, “But how can I do that, Jack? I’m a mother above all else.”

  Intense blue eyes meet mine. “Just try. Go.” He holds up his hand like he’s going to tick off each excuse, one by one.

  Okay, I can do this. It’s not like I haven’t done this silently in my own head a few dozen times. “We work together.” Jack shoots me an annoyed look and shakes his head once. “Uh, we have nothing in common.”

  “And how do you know that? You said yourself that you barely know the man.”

  “Well, yeah, but his family owns the company I work for, and he’s the president of the commercial construction department. I’m just some woman who runs HR.”

  “Try again.” Three fingers are down now, leaving me two more chances to convince him this is a bad idea.

  “He’s younger than I am.”

  Thank goodness he actually stops to consider this statement. “By how much?”

  I shrug. “I have no idea. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s in his twenties.”

  That comment earns me an eye roll and an exasperated sigh. “Big deal. You’re in your thirties. That could mean five, six years tops.”

  What Jack doesn’t understand is that it’s less about the age difference between us and more about the fact that a twenty-something man would have nothing in common with a mother of a teenage daughter. “Let’s change the subject. Or better yet, let’s watch the movie.”

  “Let’s not.” He moves close once again and pulls me against his chest. “You know how much I love you, right?” I nod. “So I say this with all the love in the world … Get your own life for crying out loud. Emmy will be off to college in a few years and then what will you have? Nothing. A whole lot of nothing.”

  “I’ll have you.”

  He drops a quick kiss on my lips like he always does when things get intense between us and whispers, “Always. But darlin’, even I know I’m not enough man for you. You need to be loved properly, worshiped and adored for the beautiful, generous person you are. You should not be wasting your life watching movies with your gay best friend while you stand watch over your kid. You deserve more than that.”

  The idea of even pursuing a friendship with Roman scares me to death. I know nothing about men, except the few things I’ve learned from Jack. The short amount of time I spent with Emmy’s father Will and the few boyfriends I had in high school certainly give me no insight into what makes a man tick. Not to mention, I’ve never even really dated, not in the true sense of the word. I don’t know what it’s like to get all dressed up and go out. Hell, I barely know how to socialize. The most I’ve done is at the business lunches or the one Christmas party I attended when I first came to work for The Moran Group.

  How would a woman like me ever compete with all the beautiful, confident, self-assured women in Miami? I’m like a teenager for God’s sake, unsure about everything and second guessing every thought in my head. I’d never be able to exist in a world with someone like Roman Moran, someone so sure of himself and what he wants. Even though I know Jack has my best interests at heart, I simply can’t think of myself as anything other than a mother. Maybe its conditioning, or I suppose it could simply be fear. Opening myself up to him would be a huge risk, one I’m not certain I’m willing to take.

  There are days I love my job. There are days I also despise it. I suppose all jobs are like that, good and bad parts, and good and bad days. And even though I’m a fairly easy-going guy, and I try like hell to have a good relationship with the people who work for me, there’s still a lot of shit I have to deal with. There’s the usual stuff: people who don’t show up for work, people who continually arrive to the job site late, or my favorite … those who arrive hungover from the night before. I’ve trained my foremen well, but even those instances will earn an employee a beat down from the big boss—namely me.

  For the record, this is the part of the job I despise. I’m a nice guy, so acting all pissed off and in-your-face is somewhat out of my comfort zone. I suppose if I had my choice, I’d have someone else do the dirty work. But if I did, that would make me a less-effective boss. And besides, Cruz places a lot of trust in me to ensure the safety of all involved—not only the tenants who will eventually move in, but the workers who build the high rises.

  Cruz and I have mended fences, though it took a whole lot of interfering from Mia to make it happen. I’m thankful he’s not one to beat a dead horse, and after a brief mention that I’m to remain far, far away from Miss Morris, he hasn’t mentioned her to me since. Not that it matters actually, because in the month since I received her “Dear John” email, I’ve not seen or heard from her. Pretty ironic actually, since for the past few years I always managed to run into her in the parking garage at least a few days a week. Now, it’s like she’s disappeared completely.

  I guess that’s a good thing, considering my days are jam-packed with projects; the last thing I need is to be distracted by a pretty blonde. And now that I’m back to being Romeo again, I have all the distractions I need. My heart is not in it anymore. I wish I knew why. Sure, the women are still beautiful and sexy and even though my heart is among the missing, my body has no trouble taking the ride. But I simply cannot bring myself to drag these women to my parents’ house every Sunday, especially when I’m well aware, before we even get there, that the entire thing is hopeless.

  I’m getting questions, as you’d expect—mostly they’re from Marco, who loves to tease me about m
y lack of female companionship, or what he perceives to be a lack of. No one really knows about my escapades except me, and I’d like it to stay that way. I get the looks, the sad and worried looks from Mama, the curious and pitying ones from Mia and Amita, the questioning ones from my sister Isabella. Everyone seems to know exactly what I need, and yet the reality is that no one really knows me at all. They have no idea that this persona I’ve worn for so long now is nothing more than a nice way to occupy my time. I don’t enjoy feeding women lines of empty words, not like I used to anyway. I don’t enjoy filling their heads with promises that I never intend to keep. Hell, the only thing I do enjoy is the end game, and even that is getting old. Wouldn’t Marco just love to hear that?

  The phone on the corner of my desk rings loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls at this early hour of the morning. I grab the receiver and bark a greeting, scrolling through emails as I listen to the foreman’s exasperated words.

  “Shit is missing, Roman. All the tools out of the shed and one of the generators. It’s a fucking mess.”

  Christ … like we really need this now. “I’m on my way.”

  As I tear out of the parking garage, I consider the long-term outcome of this. Chances are it’s a routine theft by some dudes trying to sell the shit on EBay to pay for their drug habit. But on the off chance that it’s not, there are practices I’ve put in place to prevent something like this from happening. Or in this case, to help us catch who did it. There are multiple hidden cameras around the jobsite that no one but me knows about, cameras I pay an expert to review on a daily basis. So while I drive, I place a quick call instructing him to look through the reels and meet me at the site once he’s finished. Until this is resolved and I’ve got things fully under control, I’m telling as few as people as necessary. Sadly, there’s always a chance that this inside job could involve more than a few employees.

  What I see when I get to the jobsite turns my blood cold. There’s more than just a generator and some tools missing. Every machine that can be hauled off by one or two people is gone. Every single tool, nail, and drafting pencil is gone too. The only thing left are the plans tacked up on the wall and an empty water bottle someone left behind.

  “Have you called the police?” I ask the foreman.

  “Just did. They’re on the way.”

  Many long hours later, I’m back in my truck and seeing red. The fucker who did this was one of the new guys I hired, caught red-handed stealing all our stuff with his buddy late last night. He’s currently in lockup but as of now everything is still unaccounted for. Cruz has hired an investigator to sort it all out and hopefully get some answers but as it stands now, the job is on hold until the foreman can get everything replaced.

  I can’t believe this asshole played me. He came across as a decent dude and according to Cynthia, all his references gave glowing recommendations. Still, something doesn’t smell right to me and without thinking twice about it, I head directly to the floor above mine, stomping down the hallway toward Sabrina’s office.

  The room is vacant when I step inside, which only increases the rage I’ve been tempering since I first arrived on the jobsite earlier today. I have no time to dick around with this or with her. I need answers or at least something I can take to the investigator. I need anything at this point to help clue me in as to why this happened in the first place.

  Just as I turn to leave and try to locate her, she steps into the room, blue eyes wide with shock. “Mr. Moran. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Did you hear about what happened?”

  She nods and moves behind her desk, setting a stack of papers on one corner. “I did. How can I help?”

  I give her door a shove, which results in it slamming closed with a bang. This is not the day for formalities or to stand on pretense, so I step up to her desk and lean my hands on the edge, snapping, “I need everything you have on this fucker. Every call Cynthia made, any drug tests or shit that you usually do for a new hire. Every single goddamn record of this guy.”

  She looks slightly taken back at my tone but nods and reaches for the file in the middle of her desk. “I’ve put everything together for you, and I’ve spoken at length with Cynthia about her exchanges with him. It’s all documented inside the file.”

  Her words take all the fight out of me as I slump down into a chair. Why the hell did I think taking my frustrations out on her would be a good idea? “Thank you. I’m sorry for barging in here.”

  Sabrina settles in her chair and folds her hands on the desk. “I understand. It’s been an upsetting day.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Thumbing through the file, I see that as usual she’s risen to the occasion. There are detailed notes from her conversations with Cynthia, relaying everything said and done during the course of the hiring process. There are copies of the application and other forms we require, copies of various tests we give, and right on top of the entire pile is a list of his emergency contacts and the five people that were contacted as references.

  “If there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”

  Lifting my head, our eyes meet, and I murmur, “I apologize for swearing.”

  Surprisingly, she smiles wide and snickers. “Please don’t apologize for that. I’ve heard my share of swear words before.”

  “Yes, but it’s not appropriate.”

  All the color fades from her face as her words from a month ago are thrown right back at her. When she finally speaks again, she stammers, “Um … t-that’s … um, that’s true.”

  Jesus, can nothing ever go right when I’m with this woman? Every time I turn around, I’m acting like a lunatic. No wonder she wants to distance herself from me. “Will you please just accept my apology, for the swearing, the stomping in here … For everything.”

  She nods once. “Yes, of course.”

  The slow thaw I felt that day a month ago is back, and for a brief moment I consider doing something completely foolish, like letting her see who I really am, but then she averts her eyes, nervously bites her lip, and I’m left believing things should remain as they are. Regardless of how much I might want to get to know her, it is not going to happen.

  I sit there like a dumbass, lost in my own thoughts, vaguely comprehending the fact that she’s talking to someone on the phone. My hands sift through the papers in front of me, words blurring until I finally snap the file closed and set it on the vacant chair to my left. Mental and physical exhaustion washes over me and with a tired sigh, I tear my hands through my hair and consider my next move. I’ve got calls to make. I’ve got to get the file to the investigator and at some point I’m meeting with Cruz. But the only thing I want right this moment is to sit here in her space and take a moment to breathe.

  While I lounge there contemplating my choices, Sabrina moves to the door, exchanges words with someone, and closes it once more. Then she’s in the chair next to me, her perfect heart-shaped ass plopped right down on top of the file, one hand holding out a water bottle under my nose.

  “Drink this. You look like you’re gonna pass out.” I take the bottle with a murmured thank you and while I guzzle, I watch her shove items on her desk aside then place a wrapped sandwich and napkin on the edge. “I had Cynthia get you something to eat. I hope you like turkey and Swiss.”

  Since I can’t remember the last meal I had, I’d probably eat the damn chair I’m sitting on if given half a chance. “Yeah, that’s fine. Thank you.” When she resumes her seat behind the desk, I unwrap the sandwich and hold out half toward her. “Have you eaten?” The slight hesitation is all the answer I need, so after I slide the portion her way, I sit back in my chair and take a monster-sized bite.

  We sit there in awkward silence, sharing the same space and a meal. Not until we’re both done and wiping our mouths does she finally speak. “Thanks for sharing with me.”

  “Of course. Anytime.” But I think we both know this one time is an anomaly. Sharing meals or conversations crosses that line into
what is appropriate and what isn’t and while I still couldn’t give a fuck about being appropriate, I know for her it’s a big, big deal.

  Tossing my trash aside, I retrieve the file and get to my feet but am stopped cold when she stands as well and our eyes immediately lock. There’s no hesitancy in the way she looks at me and if eyes could say words, hers would say plenty. Makes me want to ask her questions, lots of questions, like what she wants in life to what her favorite color is. I want to know what drives her, what scares her, what turns her on. I want to know her history, her hopes for the future, and whether or not she could consider seeing me in it.

  “You’ll let me know, if you need anything else.” Her words are spoken softly, barely above a whisper. My eyes skim her features, taking in the well-defined cheekbones, the small regal nose that turns slightly up at the end, and the soft, very kissable pink lips. Damn … this woman confounds me on every level, and I doubt she has one clue how affected I am by her.

  “Yes, of course I will.” Stepping toward the closed office door, I turn once more to face her. She’s moved out from behind her desk, one hand on the edge, the other fisting tightly next to her thigh. I may not know her well, or know her at all actually, but I fully recognize need when I see it. And sure, I could take two steps, pull her into my arms and enjoy a brief respite in the heaven of her body, but I’m not stupid enough to believe a woman like her would ever allow me to disrespect her like that, right here in the office just steps away from the other employees. Hell, I’m not stupid enough to believe that she wouldn’t shove me away the moment I touched her.

  “Thanks again for lunch.” She nods as I reach for the door and pull it open, resuming her seat once again and turning her gaze to the computer screen.

  What the ever-loving fuck was that all about? Kind words, lunch, a very hot look exchanged. Maybe Miss Morris doesn’t think I’m so inappropriate after all. Or maybe there’s an off, off chance that she’s finally willing to look at me and see not just the person she works with, but the red-blooded man beneath it all. As I tromp down the stairs and head toward my office, I begin to question why things have changed. Was it the month-long silence since the email? Has she had time to consider me as a person? Or is it nothing more than a sympathetic woman giving a desperate man a little break from the hell he’s been enduring?