by Alexis James
There are a few cars in the parking garage when I arrive. After a quick hello to the security guard, I head up the elevator to my floor and move quickly down the hall to my office. Cynthia has left me a nice organized stack right in the middle of my desk with a long note off to the side, detailing things I need to be aware of and some calls I need to return. At the bottom of the page is a tiny notation: “Mr. Moran stopped by …” but no indication which Moran brother she’s speaking of. Since my communications are mostly with the Cruz, I dismiss the thought and get right to work.
Two hours later, my sandals are off, music is playing softly from my computer, and my desk looks like the paper monster threw up all over it. My hair is in a messy ponytail and there’s a splotch of soda drying on the front of my white tank top. Hot mess doesn’t even begin to describe me at this point, but I’m making great headway and briefly consider that I might want to try coming in for a few hours each weekend. It would certainly alleviate some middle of the week stress, that’s for sure.
My phone rings from somewhere deep within my purse, and after scurrying out of my seat across the room to retrieve it, I answer breathlessly, “Yes, Jack?”
“Hello, gorgeous. You should come out with me and Alex tonight and get your groove on.”
“No thanks. I’m at the office.” Settling into my chair, I prop the phone up with my shoulder and tighten the band on my ponytail. “Is Alex the guy from earlier?”
Jack chuckles. “Yes, honey, he’s the guy sporting all the muscles and the big dick.”
My face warms. “Um, well, okay.”
“Come on, lady, you need to get out. Have some fun.”
“No thanks. I’m gonna finish up here and go home and watch a movie.”
He growls in frustration. “All right. But if you change your mind, text me and I’ll come pick you up.”
“Will do. Love you, Jack.”
“Love you too, gorgeous.”
The moment I disconnect and set the phone aside, my eyes widen in shock. Roman is standing in my doorway, leaning one broad shoulder against the frame, hands tucked into the front pocket of his jeans. He’s dressed casually, like usual, but this time it’s without all the added dirt and grime that he typically sports from being at the job site. He looks freshly showered, hair slightly damp and falling messily across his forehead, jaw sporting a fine line of whiskers to give him a menacing, intensely sexy look. My stomach dips low as he looks directly at me and his eyes roll over my disheveled appearance.
His face is a mask of nonemotion as he asks, “Feeling better?”
I shrug. “Um, I wasn’t really sick. I just … um … I had …”
“I know.” Shoving off of the doorjamb, he settles into a chair across from me and casually props one booted foot on the opposite knee. “So tell me, who is Jack?”
Surprised at his question, I frown. “Why do you ask?”
He ignores my question and asks one of his own. “He your boyfriend, husband maybe?”
Appalled that he would think I could behave like I did with him and still be emotionally tied to another man makes me reconsider the type of person Roman Moran really is. “Why do you want to know?”
Rising, he leans on the edge of the desk and looms over me. “Is the person on the phone your boyfriend or husband?”
A wicked part inside of me refuses to answer. Is he jealous? Curious maybe? Or simply a nosey person by nature? Either way, I flat-out refuse to answer him on the grounds that I like seeing him all ruffled. He might be drop-dead gorgeous when he’s trying to charm me, but get him a little hot under the collar and he’s downright smoldering. His jaw tenses with irritation as he waits patiently, looking me over and scorching me with his gaze. The defined muscles in his arms bulge as he leans over the desk, giving me a bird’s eye view of all the tanned, warm skin that hides beneath his dark blue T-shirt. And even though he may be a good five or six inches taller than I am, and probably outweighs me by about seventy-five pounds, I’m not about to be intimidated. I sit back in my chair, pull my arms across my chest, and force my chin up just a bit to let him know that I refuse to be bullied.
What I don’t expect is that he’ll counter my move with one of his, coming around to my side of the desk and gripping the arms of my chair, our faces mere inches apart as he growls, “Tell me. Tell me if I’m wasting my time here and stepping on another man’s toes. I need to know.”
Forcing my eyes to his and calm I don’t feel, I reply, “Why? It’s really none of your business.”
His lips lift in a slight smirk. “Oh, sweetness, it is if you and I are going to be talking about naked things we’re doing on desks.”
My mouth drops open and I swear I can feel myself shrink under his hot gaze. If I thought I was out of my league before, having him so close now and feeling the electricity jump from his skin to mine is enough to run for cover. What the hell was I thinking, trying to take on a man like him, thinking I could outsmart him with my sassy talk and avoidance? All I’ve done is stoke the fire and created one hell of a blaze.
Our chests move in tandem as we breathe in one another’s air and for a brief moment, I close my eyes and just allow myself to be surrounded by him. How could I have remained so alone all these years when I am so obviously desperate for a man’s touch? My body is literally screaming to let go, to give in and do as Jack suggested, to just allow this to happen. And I want to. I really, really want to. More than I want my next breath, more than anything I’ve wanted in my entire life. I want to let him wrap me up in those thickly muscled arms and simply allow him to comfort me. I want to share confidences and laugh together. I want …
“Tell me,” he whispers.
My eyelids flutter open, finding him inches closer than he was just a moment ago. A wave of sudden panic washes over me and the breath catches in my throat. What the hell am I doing? This needs to stop and it needs to stop right now. I’m a mother for crying out loud. I work with this man! The moment I take that step forward it’s practically a guarantee I’ll be looking for work. As much as I might want him, need him, need this, nothing I do is worth losing what keeps my daughter safe and secure.
“I … I … c-can’t. I can’t do this.”
He moves slightly back but still continues to keep me surrounded. “Why not? Because of him?”
Shaking my head, I reply, “No. He’s my friend.”
Relief slides over his face and for the first time since he entered the office, he smiles. “Then tell me why you can’t do this.”
Every single fiber in my body screams at me to change my mind, to take a chance with him and damn the consequences, but then I consider how being with him even once could change my entire existence. I just don’t know if anything is worth that heartache. The job loss aside, I’m simply not certain I’ll survive unscathed once I let him into my life. “It’s too much,” I whisper.
Disappointment slides over his face. With a sigh, he nods and stands upright, taking a step back and allowing me to breathe. “That’s too bad.”
What do I say to that? Yes it is? Do I tell him that I want nothing more than to throw myself into his arms and stay there for the foreseeable future? Do I tell him how scared I am that he’ll use me and cast me aside? Do I tell him that as much as I long to get to know him, I fear that by doing so, and thereby developing deeper feelings, I’ll be tarnished even more?
“You should go,” I state, turning my chair to face the desk and forcing my eyes to the work in front of me.
He leaves without saying another word, taking with him the tiny bit of hope I had that maybe my future wasn’t so set after all. I suppose I should be grateful that he’s such a gentleman. Other men would have pushed the issue more, or thrown their weight around or even tried to distract me with a few kisses. Roman did none of that and yet my heart feels pulverized by the fact that I let him walk away so easily.
I hate feeling sorry for myself as much as I despise feeling guilty about everything. But right here, right now, I want nothing more than to
be someone else, someone not burdened by responsibilities, someone free to make choices. The knowledge that I’ve never been that person and potentially never will be, leaves a hollow ache in my chest. As much as I might have told myself I deserved a bit of his time, the truth is that I don’t. One day, when I’m eventually free to make my own choices again, maybe there will be a man available who will ignite these same types of feelings in me that Roman has. Until that day comes, I need to be content with my life, work hard at this job I love, and enjoy the few years that I have left with my daughter before she starts her own life.
So why are my eyes teary again, and why does it feel like a softball has lodged itself in my throat? Blinking furiously, the stubborn tears work their way out and down my face, plopping one by one onto my desk. With a strangled sob, I put my head down onto my arms and start to cry.
When I walk through the door of my parents’ house Sunday afternoon, I’m still nursing a hangover from the night before. Getting the brushoff from a woman is never fun, but being on the receiving end of Sabrina’s take-a-hike feels different somehow, like my heart is sitting somewhere at the bottom of my stomach and is no longer beating as steadily as it should be in my chest.
I wish I knew what frightened her. Something obviously did. One minute she’s flushed and breathing fast, and I’m fully convinced she’s about to launch herself into my arms, then like a switch has been flicked, something changes—and I see fear in her eyes, hesitation and restraint on her face. I suppose I could be threatening to her somehow, but I can’t figure out why. I’ve always been cautious with her and even though we’ve stepped off that carefully chosen path a time a two and wandered into lusty waters, I knew just by the look on her face that I need to tread slowly. Very, very slowly.
Last night’s binge was certainly no solution and in the light of day, I’m regretting my impulsive choice to drown my sorrows in tequila. Details are still fuzzy, but I do recall spending time with some blonde and in my inebriated state, I had myself convinced she was Sabrina. It wasn’t until she was on her knees in front of me and looked up with a needy, desperate expression that I realized my mistake; I was too far gone at that point, rummy from alcohol and undeniable lust, so I simply closed my eyes and pretended it was her.
Back in the light of day, I’m literally wincing at the choices I made the night before. I know I have no reason to feel guilty, but I do. The answer to getting blown off by one woman is not to allow another one to blow you. I guess it just goes to show that I’m as shallow as I’m accused of being from time to time.
“Hello, Mama,” I murmur as I enter the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove, her usual post on Sundays, stirring something in one of the three pots in front of her.
She turns to face me, blue-green eyes dancing as I pull her into a hug. “Hello, my sweet boy.” I tower over her just as my brothers do, but there’s never any doubt about who runs the show in this house. My mother is a firecracker, a Spanish beauty who is passionate about her family, her food, and her faith. She’s a mini female version of Cruz and Marco with her thick black hair and eyes like the sea. Isabella is the only other sibling who resembles her, while my baby sister Sophia and I share Papa’s lighter coloring and brown eyes, something he loves to boast about from time to time.
“Smells good.” Pulling out of her arms, I peek inside each pot and sneak a few tastes before she’s slapping my hand away and shoving me toward the living room.
Papa is seated on the couch, watching some old western movie and nursing a glass of iced tea. We share a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then I drop down next to him with an exhausted sigh.
“Rough night?” he asks, grinning as if he knows the answer before I acknowledge it.
“Oh yeah.” My stomach gives a nice, hearty roll as a reminder and for a moment I consider that maybe I should forego eating altogether.
Papa glances over my shoulder. “No girlfriend today?”
I chuckle. “No, Papa. No girlfriend.”
His eyes meet mine. “Good. Finally coming to your senses, are you?”
Slightly shocked, I consider his question. My father is the strong, silent type and content to let Mama control most everything and allowing her to be the center of attention. He rarely gets involved in our lives but is always available to listen if need be. Funny, but I never considered that he might be irritated by all the strangers I’ve been bringing home over the years. I’ve never considered how it must look to my entire family. They all probably think I’m nuts or nothing more than a flighty guy who can’t make up his mind. Either way, I’ve paraded my indiscretions in front of them, time and time again, with no regard to how it may or may not have affected them.
“Yeah, Papa, I guess I am.”
My other siblings stroll in a short time later, first Marco and Amita, then Cruz and Mia, and finally Isabella comes flying in, apologizing profusely for being late. There’s a flurry of conversation, some in English, most in Spanish. Eventually each of them make their way toward us, and we exchange greetings.
“No companion today?” Amita smirks, plopping down next to me. I toss her a dark look and remain silent. I’m sure hers won’t be the last question today, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy having my bad decisions thrown in my face.
Isabella, who has gone by her shortened childhood nickname of Bella most of her life, strolls over and plops down on my lap, tossing one arm around my neck. “You look hungover.”
“Probably because I am.” Bella and I have always been very close and sadly she knows me better than I know myself. That’s not to say I’m not close with my other siblings, but the guys and I have always had this silent competition between us, and my baby sister Sophia has always been particularly close to Cruz. Bella and I have confided in one another since childhood, and yet I’ve never once talked with her about my infatuation with Sabrina—as if putting myself out there will only reinforce all the bad decisions I’ve made with women in the past decade or so. The thing is, Bella is the perfect confidant: never judgmental, always willing to hear me out completely, and only offering advice when asked.
With an exasperated sigh, I realize that there’s really no point in considering a potential conversation about Sabrina. Whatever brief amount of time I had with her is now gone. She made it abundantly clear yesterday that this—we - are not going to happen. And whether she’s stepping back because of fear, because of a commitment she’s made to someone else, or simply because I’m not the man for her, I have to respect her decision and move on.
“You okay?” Bella whispers in my ear, cautiously not allowing the other siblings to hear.
“Yeah.”
She shoots me a doubtful look. “No you’re not. Talk to me.”
Glancing around the room at the happy, smiling faces of my family, I consider for a moment how good I really have it. We’re so fortunate to have one another to rely on whenever life gets tough and in the last year or so that’s been put to the test more than once. Papa is finally on the road to good health but after nearly losing him to blocked arteries, and then a scare with a bout of pneumonia, it has certainly made us all reevaluate our own lives. I’m a lucky man to have all this, and even though I’ll be the first to admit that there are some gaping holes in my life, if this is all I’ll ever end up with then I know I can count myself as one of the lucky ones. Sure, my siblings and I might have our issues but at the end of the day if I need any one of them, they will drop everything and come running. Now, with the addition of Mia and Amita to our family, there are two more reasons for me to count my blessings.
Running my hand over Bella’s hair, I press my lips to her cheek and murmur, “I’m good. No need to worry.”
She will. She always does. And even though she’s two years younger than I am, she’s always been my protector. She’s repeatedly—and loudly—voiced her objections about the women I’ve brought around, telling me time and time again that empty, emotionless sex will eventually catch up with me. I hate to admit she’s right. I�
��m fucking exhausted by it all. I’m done with the Romeo bullshit, the fake charm, the meaningless hookups that only last a few weeks. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I not only mean it, I feel it in my bones … way down deep where it counts. At twenty-nine I’m ready to call it quits and concentrate on my career, my family, and the future. As far as my love life goes, well if yesterday is any indication, putting that on hold for a nice long time is probably a really good idea.
By the time we settle around the table to eat, I’m getting a variety of concerned and curious looks from most everyone. Marco, sitting across from me, gives me this devil-stare, as if he’s silently trying to pull information from my head. Because my relationship with Cruz is still slightly bruised from his threat to fire me, he won’t come right out and ask what’s bothering me. He does, however, spend a good amount of time darting concerned looks my way, ones I can only interpret as “I’m here if you need me.” I do appreciate their concern, but I don’t appreciate being the center of attention. This is the reason the Romeo façade worked so well. Everyone just assumed I was shallow and empty and because of that, they left me alone.
Ignoring the weird looks takes a strained effort but eventually the attention fades from me to other more important topics. As usual, Mama holds court at her end of the table, the queen on her throne, while Papa sits silently at the opposite end, head bowed while he wolfs down his meal. It’s the same as it’s always been and yet … not. Things are changing and whether or not I want to admit it, life is going on around me, but I’m still just as stagnate as I was five years ago. Before I know it I’ll have nieces and nephews running around. Soon Marco will convince Amita to marry him, and I’ll have added one more sister to this crazy mix. Even Bella, who tends to be cautious where men are concerned, has been holed up with her doctor friend Damian for the past few months. Though she’s remained tight lipped where he’s concerned, I can tell there’s a bit more to their relationship than she lets on.
With a heavy sigh, I set my fork down and reach for my wine glass. Alcohol is the last thing I need right now, but I simply can’t stomach food any longer. I wish I could say my unsettled stomach was the result of last night’s binge but the sad truth is that it’s nothing more than the result of a lot of self-evaluation. I’m looking inward and not liking what I’m seeing. I gotta admit that’s a real hard pill to swallow for someone like me, who has strolled through life wearing my confidence on my sleeve.
