by Ellis, Aven
“Yes,” I say eagerly. “Take me to flat number five.”
Chapter 6
Christmas Cake and a Glass of Port
Roman escorts me to the passenger door. Like a true gentleman, he opens it for me, and I reluctantly release my grip on his arm so I can slip inside. While he is walking around to the driver’s side, I take a deep breath and try to calm myself.
Oh, screw it, I think as he opens his door. I’ve never been so excited to be on a date in my life, and I want the nerves and butterflies.
The second Roman is in the car with me, I drink in the scent on his skin again, the familiar smell of sandalwood soap. Oh, that’s sexy. I study his profile as he starts the car, and I notice he’s shaved. I fold my hands in my lap to resist the urge to lay my hand against his cheek to feel his smooth skin.
“You look lovely, Liz,” he says, interrupting my thoughts. He shifts his attention to me as the car idles. “This is surreal. I can’t stop staring at you for fear that you’ll dissolve the second I touch you. Not because of your last name or because I’m in Kensington Palace, but because you’re the girl from the greenhouse today. You’re Liz, the girl I thought of for so long but never dreamt could be anything more.”
Emotions swell within me. Roman has connected with me in the way I hoped.
With the real me.
“I promise I won’t disappear if you touch me again,” I say softly.
Roman’s eyes spark. Even in the darkness, I know the golden flecks have grown brighter with my words. I hold my breath as he slowly lifts his hand and hovers it over mine, which is still folded in my lap. He picks up my right hand, and I stifle a gasp as he slowly, deliberately, pushes the edge of my jacket sleeve up so his fingertips can slide to my wrist. He begins stroking my skin, carefully, as if his fingers are imprinting the feel of it to memory.
Heat ignites inside me as he draws his fingertips oh-so-slowly from my wrist to my hand, continuing to rub his calloused fingertips back and forth across my skin. They travel with a slow, tortured speed towards my knuckles, where he slowly skims each one as he stares deeply into my eyes.
Roman’s fingertips travel up to my fingers now, moving over them and making me go mad with desire as he caresses each one up to the fingertip, gazing into my eyes as he touches each one. I have never had a man touch me like this, with such sensual deliberation. It makes me wonder how he kisses.
I shiver as he draws my hand to his mouth. I suck in a breath of anticipation, desperate to feel those warm lips against my flesh. My pulse ignites the second I feel his breath hit my skin. Roman turns my hand over and slowly, reverently, places his warm, soft lips against my knuckles.
It’s the sexiest, most romantic kiss I’ve ever had.
I’m trembling all over as he turns my hand over again and rubs his thumb along the inside of my wrist, down to where my pulse is beating furiously. He draws my wrist closer to him, and I yearn for the next kiss. Roman replaces his thumb with his lips, pressing another gentle kiss onto my skin.
The desire to kiss him becomes more acute.
It’s now a need.
“I’m real,” I whisper to him.
“I know,” Roman says, his deep voice low. “Believe me, I know.”
He lowers my hand and places it back on my lap, and I feel a pang in my heart when he releases his hand from mine.
He clears his throat. “I hope you’re hungry,” he says as he shifts the car into first gear.
“I hope you’re cooking a lot, because I’m famished,” I tease.
We talk as we head out of the protected gates of Kensington Palace and into the city. The conversation between us is as easy as it was in the greenhouse, which makes me happy.
“Do you like living in London?” I ask as Roman drives in the direction of the neighbourhood where he lives. “With your love of gardening, it almost seems like you’d be happier out in the country.”
“Oh, no, not so,” he insists. “Don’t get me wrong, I love the country for the beauty of it, but I actually find a lot of visual inspiration in the city for what I do in the garden. Like I’ll see a sign with interesting colours put together, and I’ll get an idea of how to replicate that with flowers. Painting with nature, so to speak.”
“But do you enjoy city life?” I ask.
Roman grins, and my heart flutters at the full smile. “It doesn’t matter where I live because, most of the time, I’m in the garden or at my flat. With the outside possibility of going to a Spurs game with Darcy or maybe to the pub for a pint.”
I smile, now knowing Roman’s favourite football team is Tottenham Hotspur.
“That sounds like the confession of a hermit who is lured out if there are tickets on match day.”
“Not true. If you offered me Man United tickets, I’d say no, unless they were playing the Spurs.”
“What about pub quiz nights?”
Roman groans. “Oh, God, no. Darcy loves them, but I hate pub quiz nights. I find trivia games boring.”
“You must be bad at trivia then,” I tease.
His smile broadens. “No, I’m not, but sitting still and answering questions for hours is not my idea of fun.”
I feel like I’m colouring now, starting to add contrast and shading to fill in the blank spaces. I see Roman as someone who gets antsy sitting still for long periods. He needs to be active, outdoors, and doing something with his hands.
I get a flash of his fingertips exploring my hand in that sensual way. Yes, Roman is exceptionally gifted with his hands.
“How do you spend your nights in London? You aren’t a regular on the Mayfair scene,” he says, interrupting my thoughts.
“How would you know?”
“Google.”
“And when did you Google me?” I ask, laughing so he knows I’m not mad but intrigued by this development.
“After I rode away from you this summer.”
Zing, zing, zing!
My heart dances from this revelation.
“What did you discover?” I ask.
“That you work incredibly hard. All the time. You aren’t snapped at the clubs. Most of the pictures, outside of work ones, were of you getting a coffee or shopping on Oxford Street,” he says.
I grimace. The press loves to go after me when I buy clothing or things for my home. “But none of me pushing a trolley while doing the shopping?” I ask. “Those exist. Try ‘Princess Liz plus trolley’ for your search.”
Roman chuckles, and God, his deep voice makes that an intoxicating sound to my ears. “I will, but you are evading the question. What do you do for fun? Besides colouring.”
“I love decorating my home. That’s why I’m out shopping quite a bit. I’m always searching for things that will make my house a home. It’s not like I have a list, per se, but when I see something, I know if it belongs in Wren House. I can spend hours even on the little things, right down to the tea towels that hang in my kitchen.”
“That’s how I am about gardening tools and seeds,” Roman says. “I can spend hours studying seed catalogues. I love finding heirloom seeds and incorporating them into the garden.” He groans. “I’m talking about seeds. What is wrong with me? I sound like all I do is live in a garden.”
“Well, don’t you?” I tease.
“No,” he insists. “I cook. And I like woodworking. I’m working on some bookshelves now.”
Again, always busy with his hands.
“You don’t like idle hands, do you?” I ask.
Roman chuckles again. “No, I don’t. I’ve never been good at it.”
“My brain is always operating like that. It won’t stop. I’m learning things to calm my mind, which is usually operating five steps ahead. I think it stems from my work. I have to prepare the day before. I study all the people I’m going to meet, learn who they are and what they do. I study current news articles about the charity or organisation. I get an agenda from my assistant that breaks down how everything will be timed. If I have to speak, I practice
my speech several times. My outfit is selected and catalogued. If I have multiple events that day, I refresh in the car between them, studying my notes. Then if I have an appearance at night, I go through the same preparation and do an outfit change.”
I take a breath. I never realised how much I go and go and go until I said all of this out loud to Roman.
“You have a hard time shutting work off, don’t you?” he asks as we enter Shepherd’s Bush.
“I do. I’m trying to be better, though. I made myself sick in the beginning because I couldn’t sleep at night. My brain wouldn’t shut off. So, I began searching for solutions. I picked up an interesting book on self-care, and that is something that I’m working on. I mindfully try to do things that ease my stress. Colouring is one. Yoga is another. I try to eat better, but that one is harder for me because I crave pastries when I’m tired or stressed.”
“Lemon curd tarts?” Roman says, a slow smile spreading across his face as he turns down a residential road.
“No, sir, you are incorrect,” I say emphatically. “Lemon bars. A cup of tea and a stack of lemon bars. With extra icing sugar.”
He laughs. My heart flutters.
“The Christmas season is upon us now. Do you ditch the lemon bars for this occasion?”
“What madness do you speak of? ‘Ditch the lemon bars?’ No! I always have lemon bars. Though I do love a good slice of Christmas cake.”
As I talk about the cake, I suddenly get an urge for it, all studded with fruit and topped with marzipan and royal icing. So. Good.
“My Grandmother used to make Christmas cake,” Roman says, turning down another road. “We haven’t had one since she became ill. I think it used to make everyone sad, you know, as a reminder of her, but I miss them. I think it would be a lovely tribute to her to have a slice in her honour every year.”
Sentimental, I think, my pulse skipping a beat. Roman is sentimental when it comes to his family.
“I think that’s a lovely idea,” I say softly.
“We changed to brandy butter on Christmas pudding,” Roman says. “But I do miss Grandmother’s cake. She always had it with a glass of port. I can still see her in the kitchen, making her cake and drinking port at the same time. Sometimes, that resulted in some… interesting décor on the cake, like lopsided Christmas trees. One famous year, we celebrated a ‘Hapyp Chrismas.’”
I laugh. “No!”
“Yes. That was classic. Grandmother was so embarrassed. Obviously, she hit the port harder that year.”
I smile, my heart warmed by the fact that Roman treasures these little memories of his past.
“Do you know what I’ve never done?” I say as he draws to a stop near a vacant parking spot on the street.
“Misspelled ‘Happy Christmas’ on a cake because you were too deep into the port glass?”
I laugh. “No. I’ve never decorated a Christmas tree.”
Roman’s brows knit together as he manoeuvres the car into the spot. “What? Never? Not even as a little girl?”
My cheeks pool with heat. “No. My parents always let the staff at St. James’s Palace do that. Wait. I’m lying. The staff would leave out a small box of decorations, and Bella, Victoria, and I would each take one and put it on one of the trees. That was our version of decorating.”
Roman frowns. “I’m sure the trees at St. James’s Palace are incredible, but that seems wrong. Your parents didn’t even have a family tree?”
“No,” I admit. “It’s funny. As a kid, you see things as ordinary because you don’t know any better. But as an adult, you look back and think, ‘that would have been a nice thing for them to do for us as children.’ It would have made our Christmases more… normal.”
Roman finally has the car in the spot and turns off the engine. He faces me, his hazel eyes shining in earnest.
“But it’s something you can change for yourself. You can have that tree, Liz.”
“Like you can have Christmas cake and port.”
He stares at me. “Yeah, like that.”
Our eyes remain locked, and suddenly, I have a vision of decorating my first tree with this man. I imagine us also attempting to decorate our own cake and drinking port and toasting his Grandmother as we each have a slice.
Crazy, right? The fact that that thought slid so easily into my head?
Roman clears his throat, and I’m grateful he can’t see the picture of Christmas bliss I had coloured of us. Otherwise, he’d be turning the engine right back on and speeding back to my place so he could throw me out in front of the gates of Kensington Palace.
“Well, this is it,” he says, inclining his head towards my window. “We’re on the ground floor. It’s not much, but it’s where I live.”
I study the Edwardian-style building, one of many identical ones up and down the street he lives on. I’m about to say something about it, but Roman has already opened his car door and is dashing around to my side to open mine for me.
Once again, his thoughtful side shines through.
“You don’t have to always open my door, Roman,” I say, smiling at him as I exit the car. “While I appreciate it, and I do thank you, I can get it myself.”
“I know you can,” he says as he offers me his arm again.
Gentleman. Gallant. Thoughtful. Sentimental.
I am the luckiest woman in all of England, and it has nothing to do with palaces or titles or spending Christmas at Sandringham.
But I hesitate to take his arm in public.
“Liz?” he asks, his brow knitting together.
“I shouldn’t take your arm in public, even though I want to,” I say gently. “If someone takes a picture, we’ll have no privacy to get to know each other.”
Recognition dawns in his eyes. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. And I’ll gladly take your arm the second we are inside.”
We stroll up the path to the front door.
“You caused quite a stir in the media this summer when you shut your own door going to an event,” Roman says.
I laugh as we walk. “I had no idea closing my own door was such a big deal.”
“I didn’t even have to Google that one,” he says.
“No?” I ask. Then I grin. “Did Google alert you to Princess Liz breaking news? That she—gasp!—opens her own doors?”
“No,” he says slowly, stopping as we reach the door. “That was on the telly during breakfast. I couldn’t avoid you, even when my brain told me I should.”
Bam! My heart slams against my ribs with force.
“Why did your head want to avoid me?” I ask, staring up at him.
Roman swallows before answering. “Because this was a fantasy. You’re Princess Liz. I saw you once; I knew I’d never see you again. There was no way a woman like you would have thought for a second about a man like me.”
Roman unlocks the door and we step inside the small hallway. As soon as the door is shut behind us, he reaches for my hand again, this time turning it over in his as if it’s a newly treasured object he can’t believe is his but has had the good fortune to have found. His thumb caresses the top of my hand, and I break out into goosebumps.
“I thought about you for many seconds, feeling like you were just as elusive to me,” I admit.
He draws my hand to his lips again, and tingles run through every inch of me as his warm lips graze my knuckles.
“This is crazy, me inviting you here. Crazy to cook for you, to think I can impress you in some way when your life is so—”
I take my fingertips and press them against his lips, causing his eyes to flip wide open in surprise.
“I’m here because I want to be. There’s nowhere else I want to be right now than in your flat, getting to know you.”
Roman takes my hand again. “I have a feeling it’s going to be hard to say no to anything you ever ask me to do.”
“Good. Now let’s go inside.”
He grins and opens the door for
me, and as I enter his world, I know I will never be the same as I was before this moment.
And I have a good feeling about what this evening will bring.
Chapter 7
A Cosy Dinner for Two
“You don’t have to stand in the corner,” Roman teases as he chops up some veg. “Although standing in the corner in this flat means you are only three steps away.”
I take a sip of my chardonnay and smile. His kitchen, while fully refurbished with white cupboards and marble worktops, is impossibly tiny. I feel as though Roman’s massive frame needs all the room he can get as he works at the short worktop crammed with ingredients. When I was next to him, he kept bumping into me as he tried to prepare everything in the small space, so I decided to give him some room by backing up a few spaces and parking myself against the door that leads to the garden.
“I don’t want to be in the way of you creating a culinary masterpiece,” I say.
Roman smiles as he dumps parsnips in a bowl. “I’m just hoping it won’t be burnt. I’m not used to being distracted when I cook.”
“By talking?” I ask. Because from the second we entered his flat, that’s all we’ve done as he has prepared dinner for us.
Roman turns his head to face me. “No. By the beautiful woman who has agreed to dine with me this evening. It’s distracting knowing you are a few feet away from me.”
My heart does another zigzag from his compliment, and my stomach does a summersault from the way he’s gazing at me.
He shifts his attention back to the chopping board, and I notice the flush has returned to his neck. Swoon. If this were my great-great-great-so-many-greats Grandmother Victoria’s time, I’d be on the verge of needing smelling salts.
“I assume parsnips and kale are in season right now?” I ask.
Roman nods. “Yes. I grew all the produce we’re having tonight. All in season for December.”
“I love that you are so passionate about eating food in season,” I say.
“Food tastes so much better when it’s fresh from the garden,” Roman says, discarding a kale stem. “I’m picky about that.”
