Roman Holiday

chapter Nine

A knock raps against the door. At first, I think it’s the TV, but Nick Lively is doing a special on Jason Dallas's new BLACKHEARTED tour and how it's taking over Roman Holiday's gig at the Garden. With his swoony black guyliner and tricky crooked smile, I figure he's already sold the place out.

When the knock comes again, I finally roll off the couch.

“Coming…” I mutter, annoyed, and reach up on my tiptoes to peek through the peephole. It’s dark, which means some a*shole has their finger over the eye. It’s probably Chuck, since he’s as mature as a two-year old. I twist open the lock and poke my head outside. "You know, there's a reason God invented peepholes—"

Orange hair. Suspenders. Game of Thrones t-shirt, a pair of cut-off jeans, and blazingly red Vans. Definitely not Chuck. He gives a timid wave. “Uh, hi.”

“You.”

“Yep...me.” He hesitates in the doorway, pulling at his earlobe. “Listen, I just want to talk to you about last night...”

My hand grips the doorknob tightly, because I sort of figured this would happen. He's famous, and I'm just a girl from rural North Carolina. Girls like me are never with guys like him—not that I ever entertained the idea...outside of my dreams, anyway. Stupid dreams—why can't I ever dream about good things? Wholesome things? Things that will not send my mind straight into the gutter or to the half-naked poster of him on Maggie's wall? “Yeah, no, it’s fine. Don't worry, my lips are sealed. I don't even have a Twitter account, so you are super safe—”

He hesitates, running his thumbs up and down his suspenders. “That's not what I meant.”

“It's not like anything happened, you know," I add dismissively. "We're fine. It's fine.” But it's not fine, because my heart hammers in my ribcage at the sight of him. “Don’t worry, we all have our dirty little secrets.”

I'm just more familiar with them than most people.

His eyes widen. "Dirty little...no, that's definitely not what I meant. Last night was—it wasn't..." He's having a hard time finding the right words, which means he's a good guy. Guess the tabloids were wrong, or perhaps people change.

People can change, right? Isn't that the whole human condition? A playboy rock star turning into a golden-hearted hipster?

Maybe in my dreams.

I wave it off. “Really, don’t worry about it. We're cool. I had...fun last night.”

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck, a little defeated. “Yeah, okay. Okay. So, that's really all..."

"Yeah, it's fine."

"Okay." Slowly, he steps back, and then another step, pulling his hands into his pockets to try and make himself shrink into the scenery. He did that last night, too, when we were walking home, as if he wanted to be invisible. That must be awfully lonely, even with Boaz.

"But," I add, and he stops in his tracks. "If you're not busy...I could use some company for dinner?."

"And why would you think I'd be busy?"

"Being an AWOL rock star and all."

He walks back to the door and leans against the doorframe, an amused look charming his face. "I might can squeeze in a desert too, if you're not too busy."

I mock-gasp. "And why would you think I'd be busy?"

"Oh, you know," he retorts, "going to dinner with an AWOL rock star and all." Then he rakes his emerald gaze down the length of my body, and I blush. I knew I should've gotten dressed before four. "You have a very charming fashion sense. Is that vintage Stones?"

I nod sheepishly. "And my pajamas. Give me thirty?" I ask.

He flicks his wrist toward himself to check his non-existent watch. "You have ten minutes."

I don't move. "You can't be serious."

"Seven…"

"I thought you said ten!"

"Nine, then."

"That's funny."

"Eight…"

And what would I wear? My Roman Holiday underwear and...what? The floral dress Maggie begged me to pack because it was "simply adorbs" on me? I look like a walking flower garden in it.

"Five…"

Oh, what the hell.

"Give me twenty!" I start for the bathroom door, but on second thought, I spin around and jab my finger into his face. "No more running into dumpsters, got it?"

"Dumpsters?" He looks positively horrified. There's a slight bruise on the bridge of his nose where he bodychecked the one from last night. "Oh, God, they're after me again?!"

"Drama queen." I roll my eyes and close myself into the bathroom. Twenty-seven minutes later as I straighten the last of my hair, the bathroom door flies open. Roman unplugs my straightener. I squawk in protest. "Hey, I'm not—"

"You are so done."

"It's only been like—"

"Thirty minutes. You look beautiful. Let's go." He wraps his arms around my middle and picks me up, carrying me out the door. I'm so stunned, I simply let him. He called me beautiful.

Roman Montgomery, probably the sexiest, strangest man at the beach, called me beautiful.

And he doesn't tell me to keep it a secret.