Breaking Roman (The Moran Family Book 3)

by Alexis James

  She’s a puzzle all right, and one I look forward to putting together, one little piece at a time. Sabrina may not be ready for a relationship, and she may not at all be ready for someone like me, but I’m not about to walk away without at least attempting to get her to see me the real me, not the Romeo I have been, not the coworker I still am, but just me … simple, easy going, and extremely smitten Roman Moran.

  Guilt is something I know very well. I’ve carried major guilt around since the day I pushed Emmy out into this world and realized I’d robbed her of a father. Granted, Will Leavy was not exactly father material. He wasn’t exactly boyfriend material either, but he said all the right things and charmed me so expertly I didn’t even realize until it was over that it was all a game to him. Throw some sweet words my way, a few compliments here and there, and before you know it I’m knocked up and he’s pretending like he doesn’t even know who I am.

  So yes, I’ve felt guilty about letting him off so easily and not even putting his name on Emmy’s birth certificate—or better yet for not pursuing child support after she was born. I’ve felt guilty that she spent the first ten years of her life in abject poverty, sharing a tiny room with her mother and being shuffled between grandparents so they could care for her while I was at work or at school. I had my chance to end the pregnancy, and even though I’m a firm believer in women’s rights, the choice simply wasn’t mine to make. Something in my head, or maybe it was my heart, told me to have the baby and deal with consequences as they happened. There are days I even feel guilty about that, for taking the selfish way out and subjecting my child to a life less than what she deserves. But you know what? Even with all that, I’d do it over again. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me and even though I’ve had no life of my own since discovering I was pregnant with her, I wouldn’t trade one day of my life with her to see if the grass really is greener on the other side.

  I believe in the power of a mother’s intuition. I also believe our kids are born knowing we feel guilty about … well, everything. Nothing will ever be good enough, we can never spend enough time with them, and even though we pad all the sharp edges and mutter “be careful” a thousand times a day, bad things will still happen.

  Thankfully, Emmy’s remained rather unscathed in her short life. She endured a broken arm at age seven, a simple slip and fall that resulted in a cast for four weeks. She’s grown up happy and well-rounded, fully knowing about her father even though the decision to tell her the truth has—yes, you guessed it—caused me some major guilt.

  Because I’m so, so good at this guilt thing, I’ve somehow convinced myself that the theft from yesterday is solely and completely my fault. I’ve lost sleep over this guilt, can’t eat because of it either. It’s my responsibility to vet perspective new hires, but because I was rattled by all of the attention from Roman, I sloughed it off to my assistant. Granted, in reviewing the file for the fiftieth time, I see that she did everything by the book. We certainly have no control over the fact that this guy got his references to lie for him.

  Still, I should have known something was up. He was almost too perfect on paper, and since I never actually laid eyes on the guy I have no idea if my mommy-meter would have gone off or not. Assuming it would have, I could have found some reason to deny him and moved on, saving me the heartache and guilt and saving my company thousands of dollars to replace the equipment and investigate the theft.

  By the time the clock rolls past six and I’m still sitting at my desk contemplating all the things I could and should have done, I’m rummy with overthinking. Deciding I need a late in the day soda pick-me-up, I head to the breakroom and feed my dollar bill into the machine. Fully-leaded Coke in hand, I move on auto-pilot, down two flights of stairs until I reach the construction floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of his office, knocking on the closed door. I assume he’s not in and just as I turn to leave the door is yanked open, I’m staring directly into those mesmerizing mocha eyes.

  He smiles wide, showing off a row of perfect white teeth and tantalizing dimples on either cheek. “Hey, Sabrina. Come on in.”

  A quick glance at his office tells me he’s nothing like his older brothers, not one bit. There’s nothing flashy about this space, just a simple desk, a few chairs, and a drafting table. There are no pictures on the wall, nothing personal at all actually, the utilitarian space somehow fitting for this blue-collar guy.

  However, Roman Moran is anything but blue collar. He comes from money, a lot of money, but I get the distinct impression that playing down his wealth is something he’s perfected. And I must say, I not only admire that, I respect it—and him.

  He gestures to one of the chairs flanking his desk then takes his seat. “How are you today?”

  His question throws me, though in all honesty it really shouldn’t. We shared a sandwich not twenty-four hours ago; a simple greeting should be common place. “I’m fine.” The moment I utter the words I want to call them back. I’m not fine. I feel terrible, horrible … and like I need to be reprimanded for allowing the theft to happen.

  Roman cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes. “Huh. You don’t seem fine. Is something bothering you?”

  “It’s my fault,” I blurt out.

  “What’s your fault?”

  Letting go a shaky breath, I swallow down the pathetic tears that try to push forward and murmur, “The theft. That guy. It’s all my fault.”

  His eyes warm to the color of hot chocolate and a small smile lifts one corner of his mouth. “I highly doubt that.” Leaning forward across the desk, he says, “Why do you think it’s your fault?”

  “It was my responsibility to vet him properly, but I shoved him off on Cynthia because … um … because …”

  Roman smirks. “… Because you wanted to get as far away from me as possible?”

  My face heats with embarrassment as I nod. “Yes. And it’s no excuse. I’m a grown woman, and I have no business letting something, um, personal affect my job.” With another heavy sigh, I finally look directly at him. “I’m the one to blame for this.”

  He shakes his head. “No you’re not. Get that crazy thought out of your head right this minute.” Rising, he comes around the desk and perches his butt on the edge facing me. “That guy was a master manipulator. I doubt even Cruz could have seen the truth. You and Cynthia did everything correctly. There’s nothing to feel guilty about, okay?”

  I nod but the weight of it all still resides directly on my shoulders. “Yeah, okay.”

  Roman leans forward and with one finger lifts my chin until we’re looking right at one another. “You did nothing wrong, Sabrina. I know that, Cruz knows that. Hell, even the cops know that.”

  “Really?”

  He grins broadly. “Yes, really.”

  When he pulls his hand away, I practically whimper with regret, and I have to ask myself where the hell all this is coming from? I’ve never reacted to any other man like I do to him, hesitant and unsure and equal parts needy and overheated. No man I’ve ever met or been attracted to has felt so untouchable and yet so incredibly tempting at the same time. It probably doesn’t help that his crotch is less than two feet away, directly in my line of sight, conjuring up all sorts of ideas in my very unsexed brain. That thick bulge right there might cause me to tingle in places that have been dormant for years but it’s also every reason I need to get up and walk away.

  Swallowing back the nerves, I ask, “Was there anything else you needed from my department?”

  Roman chuckles and thankfully retakes his seat behind the desk. “Not that I can think of. But I’ll be sure to keep you posted on the investigation.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  Just like the day before, the moment we look at one another, everything else fades away. There’s no more ratty metal desk or uncomfortable office chair, no more awkward words spoken and weird touches. It’s just me and him and everything in between. I suppose if I knew what the in between was, I
’d probably leave and never return. I’m transfixed by this man and even though I believe that he’s wrong for me in every way, I still can’t help being wildly attracted to him. Maybe Jack is right after all. Maybe I do need to start living my life just for me. That won’t mean I’m a bad mother, and it sure as heck won’t mean I’m a bad person, but it will do a whole lot in reminding me that I’m a woman. Something I seem to have forgotten since the day I opened that pregnancy test and my life took a detour.

  He licks his lips and leans across the desk again, murmuring, “You need to stop looking at me like that, otherwise I might get the wrong idea.”

  “Looking at you how?” I whisper, admittedly distracted by his wet lips.

  “Like you want me to lock the door, strip off your clothes, and lay you down across my desk.” His voice is a mixture of honey and spice, a sweet sizzling burn that rolls effortlessly off his tongue.

  My heart pounds wildly and for a brief moment I worry that he can read my mind. “Uh, so what happens after I’m on the desk?”

  Roman’s eyes close briefly and the sigh he exhales is fraught with tension. “Jesus, Sabrina, don’t tempt me.”

  “Tempt you how?”

  Before he can answer, before he can make one move and take full advantage of the fact that I’m literally handing myself to him, the office door swings open and his brother Marco steps inside. “Hey, man. Oh … sorry … didn’t realize you were in a meeting.”

  Roman’s jaw ticks with irritation and with one more very heated look in my direction, he schools his expression and turns his attention toward his brother. “What do you want?”

  I’ve never spent much time around this middle Moran brother but like all women who work here, I’m very aware of his reputation as a player—that is before he decided to take the plunge a few months ago and is head over heels in love. Still, playboy or not, he exudes cocky arrogance with every step, every sweep of his eyes over me and my body, drawling, “Miss Morris.”

  “I’m gonna … I’m gonna go …” I stammer, rising to my feet and ignoring both of the incredibly hot males who are currently glaring at one another.

  “Sabrina, hold on a minute,” Roman says, moving toward me as I reach the outer hallway. He takes my arm lightly in his grasp and gently moves me down the hall, away from the prying eyes of his brother. The moment our feet stop moving he lets me go then takes a step back to put a little distance between us. “So, no guilt about this. Okay?”

  My eyes shoot to his. “What?”

  He grins down at me. “No guilt. About the guy we hired.”

  I can feel my face heat as I realize he wasn’t talking about our less than professional verbal exchange but rather what drew me to his office in the first place. “Um … yeah … of course … no guilt. Promise.”

  “Good.” His eyes drift over my face, centering directly on my lips, before he leans just a bit closer and whispers, “By the way, you asked what happens when you’re on the desk. My answer is to let me show you.”

  My mouth drops open in shock, though truly I only have myself to blame. I allowed that inappropriate conversation to happen in the first place, so I certainly can’t blame him for continuing it. “Um … right … okay. Have a good evening.” I scurry down the hall before he can respond, tear through the stairwell door and run up the stairs like I’m training for a marathon. I don’t stop until I reach my office, slamming and locking the door behind me and plunking my butt down on the carpet.

  Burying my face in my hands, I start to snicker. The snicker rolls into a full-blown laugh and before I know it, I’m like this crazy woman, sitting on the floor in the middle of her office cackling like an idiot. The laughter feels … good. It feels real good. But then so did all the very improper flirting I just did with Roman. Every part of my body ignites, flaring to life like I’ve been sleep walking all these years and have finally, just at this moment, opened my eyes. Of course it’s frustrating as hell, especially when I can only imagine what might have happened had his brother not waltzed in uninvited. And honestly, to my dormant imagination, the ideas are endless.

  It’s not until I’m lying in bed later that night that I fully comprehend our exchange. Who was that woman, blatantly asking questions simply to ratchet up the heat factor? Who the hell was he, falling right into the game with the ease of … sigh … with the ease of the Romeo he is? He’s probably had countless exchanges with women like that, exchanges that have resulted in a lot of bare skin and a whole lot of satisfaction. I’m not anything new to him and neither are my juvenile flirting techniques. Why the hell would I ever believe I could stack up to someone like him and hold my own when he turns on the charm? I have no idea what I’m doing half the time anyway then throw in a completely beautiful, charming, sexy, and unattainable man, and somehow I have this weird belief that he’d actually be attracted to me—the boring, thirty-something mother he just so happens to work with.

  Then I think about the look on his face, the intense, direct look that told me without words all I had to do was blink and he’d make me his. I shiver just thinking about it. And the thought alone is frustrating as all get-out.

  Scurrying off the bed, I yank the closet door wide, pull down the suitcase from up above, and snap the locks open. Inside the case, the nondescript white box is nestled beneath the few heavy sweaters I keep on hand for when I take a trip to California to see my parents. Box in hand, I tear it open as I move back toward the bed, extracting the apparatus once I’m under the covers. After a moment of mental pep talk, I push the button and it flares to life, the low hum and slow rotation doing a whole lot for my imagination.

  Shutting it off, I wrap my fingers around the girth and close my eyes. So maybe it’s not the real thing, but it’s the closest thing to a real thing I’ve had in years. And damn … I never knew how much I missed it. Until today. Until earlier, when a few sultry remarks and a whole lot of knowing glances reminded me that I’m a hot-blooded female even though I’ve done everything to ignore that fact for a very, very long time.

  Lying back on the pillow, I click the lamp off, wriggle out of my panties, and take a deep breath, pulling up images in my head of the tantalizing man who has suddenly rocked my world. Yeah, this might not be the real deal, but it’s the closest I’ll get, for now. Fantasizing about Roman Moran … I’m all in … hook, line, and sinker.

  Steel. Iron. There’s no other way to describe the state my cock has been in since that surprising exchange with Sabrina. Though my need may have been tempered while I dealt with Marco, by the time I arrived home a few hours ago it was back with a vengeance.

  Jesus, who would have thought she and I would go there so quickly. Granted, I have lusted after her for quite a few years now, so I suppose there’s nothing quick about it, but a few weeks ago she was ignoring me and now all of a sudden we’re discussing things I might do to her on my desk. No big surprise that I’m hard as a fucking rock, stiff as iron and steel. After years of pining, she’s giving me the green light to go after what I want. I think even a monk would be turned on by that exchange.

  I spend a few minutes contemplating what might have happened if my damn brother hadn’t stormed in there and interrupted us. I’d love to say I’m enough of a gentleman to hold back but considering the state of things below my waist, I doubt I would have been anything more than a hot, horny male.

  Taking a long pull on my beer, I stare out at the Miami skyline. From my spot on the balcony that runs the entire length of my apartment, I can see mostly high rises. Still, the view is spectacular. One day I hope to have an ocean view like Marco but until that time this place suits me fine. I’ve changed very little since moving into this apartment, adding only a larger bed and a wide screen TV to the bits and pieces of furniture I’ve purchased over the years. It’s not pricey like Cruz’s place or sleek like Marco’s, but it’s mine and I like living here. It’s right in the heart of the city, affording me close proximity to restaurants and bars, and I’m not far from the office either, wh
ich is convenient.

  I can’t see Sabrina living in a place like this, though. She seems more refined, less inclined to get sucked into the whole Miami swanky apartment living thing. I can see her setting down roots in a classy little condo, something with a lot of light, maybe some soft leather furniture. Or maybe her home is a small bungalow a few minutes outside of the city, something with wicker furnishings and plants throughout.

  Rolling my eyes at myself, I toss back the rest of the beer and pad into the kitchen for another. Thinking about where she lives is waste of my time, as is questioning where all those flirty come-hither looks came from. If the past is any gauge, chances are by the next time I see her she’ll be back to ignoring me and once again referring to me as Mr. Moran.

  A knock sounds at my door, and I take a quick glance at the clock. It’s past ten, not late by my standards, but I’m not exactly feeling like I want to entertain. What I want is to down this beer, hit the shower, take care of this perpetual hard-on, and get some sleep.

  The knock sounds again and with a muttered curse, I fling the door open. Marco is standing there with a wide grin, holding up a full bottle of tequila. “Hey, little brother.”

  “What the hell are you doing at my door at this time of night?”

  He chuckles and steps inside the door, dropping the bottle down on the counter. “What’s the matter, Romeo, need to get your beauty sleep?”

  “Shut up.” Giving the door a slam, I retrieve a couple of glasses and gesture for him to take a seat on the couch. “What do you want, other than to get me drunk on tequila?”