I cross my arms, feeling defensive. He’s poked at something raw, and I don’t like what it says about me more than what it says about him.
“Been practicing your clove hitch?”
I make my sourest face. “I can do that knot in my sleep. I don’t know why I suddenly decided to make a mess of it.”
“Different with an audience of your peers. You think I was too hard on you?”
“No, not at all. I’ve got to get it right. People depend on me getting it right.”
His nod is approving and it makes me warm all over. I try to imagine not ever craving that and it gives me pause.
“And I realize I shouldn’t have questioned your decision to take me off the run.”
That surprises him. “Okay, glad you see it that way.”
“And the silver lining is that now I know the inside of the bathrooms like the back of my hand. Have you heard that you can call someone nicknamed ‘Baby Thor’ for a good time and that Satin Rules?”
“Satin?”
“Satan’s spelling-challenged cousin.”
He wants to grin. The fight is playing out on his lips. “In the women’s bathroom? Because I haven’t seen those in the men’s.”
“Yeah, I soon learned that Baby Thor is Gage Simpson, so now I’m really confused. Maybe he wrote it himself.”
“Right. Actually now I recall it’s also in the men’s bathroom because Baby Thor is nothing if not a shameless self-promoter.”
I grin and it does the trick. His expression transforms from resting prick face to something I can work with.
Who am I kidding? I can work with the entire Rossi repertoire.
“If it makes you happy, you did a great job,” he murmurs. “Could see my face in those toilet bowls.”
I take a mock bow. “At your service, my liege.”
That draws a low-graveled chuckle, my intention and hope. There I go again, craving his admiration.
His expression turns grave again. “Also, you didn’t start your day well and if we’re worrying about you being sick on a call, it distracts from business.”
“Who would worry?” His grimace tells the story. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“I worry about all the candidates but especially about ones who start their days puking their guts up and then forget how to tie a clove hitch. You’ll get out there, but when I say you’re ready.”
Yet again, I’m aroused by his command of the situation. He’s the boss and that dynamic is doing strange things to my insides. I wonder what happened between him and my father—probably two bull-headed idiots locking horns—but I don’t want to bring up Chuck Sullivan. Not now or ever.
I search for something else to say, anything to distract from the pleasurable tingle racing through my veins.
“Looks like your date showed up.” That should do it.
He looks momentarily baffled. “Madison? That’s no date.”
“It’s a space station?”
He appreciates the Star Wars reference. His eyes go all crinkly and my heart crinkles with it. Not good.
“She’s a friend of Kinsey, Almeida’s wife. I’ve never met her before and believe me when I say I am not in the market for dating right now.”
“Giving up so soon, Lieutenant? Your sister won’t like that.”
“My sister will have to deal. Almeida and Kinsey, too.” He leans against the wall, which in any other universe would look like he’s settling in to chat. “It seems no one’s happy until everyone’s as miserable as they are.”
That’s a pretty cynical take. “Sounds like a tale.”
“Not really. Just …” He waves a hand to fill in the rest, and a touch of color spots his cheeks.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.”
“Just left some baggage in New York. Or trying to.”
The divorce. We all have pasts to forget, no reason to let it define us. Not that it makes a blind bit of difference here. The lieutenant and I would not be unpacking our luggage.
So I really shouldn’t have asked, “Bad divorce?”
“You could say that.”
“Sorry to be nosy.” And then because I’m more curious than sorry, I add, “Your daughter lives with you?”
“She does.”
His face goes all soft at the mention of her, and then I go all soft. Which is bad news for me because I need to harden every part of my being around this man.
He’s here in a bar, out on a school night. Carousing, if you will, so maybe not Dad of the Year. I hold on to that to fortify my loins against the onslaught of incredibly hot alpha daddy male.
A door opens farther on down the corridor and Gage Simpson walks out. I have a good vibe from him—and he clearly has some sort of vibe from whatever is happening in this corridor. He flashes that famous hot stuff grin and passes us by.
Roman mutters something.
“What’s that?”
“I said that’s all I need.” He seems to shake himself awake. “We good here?”
“Uh, you bumped into me and started drilling me.”
“Drilling you?” Said as if I don’t know the meaning of the word—or all it’s possible meanings.
“Questions. Talking. I should get going.” I gesture toward the bar, but then I say the dumbest thing. It comes out of nowhere, or somewhere deep and dangerous where secret dreams are stashed away. “Would you have called me?”
“Called you?” He frowns as awareness dawns. “After the diner?”
The moment is suspended, an asteroid hurtling toward the earth, and I’m waiting for someone to blow it to fragments.
“Probably not,” he finally responds.
Wow. I did not expect that to hurt so much. Don’t ask if you’re not going to be happy with the answer.
With a curt nod, he’s gone, and I realize he’s taken a little piece of my stupid heart with him.
Eleven
Roman
I pick up the pace, pounding the lakeshore path to slough off some of this negative energy. I shouldn’t feel this way. I’ve been doing just fine for the last few months, not thinking about my ex, devoting all my time to my job and my family. I didn’t need anything else.
Then I ran into her at that diner and now it feels like all I need.
If it was just sex, it should be easy enough to come by. Now that some pathway in my brain has opened up to the possibility, and I recognize that I won’t be getting it with the first woman I’ve been attracted to in years, I should be able to take the next step.
Fire up the apps, right? Because I sure as shit am not relying on Luke or Chiara to get me a woman. I need to go with one of those hookup sites, the ones that encourage you to declare your intentions up front. No dating, just fucking.
I want to think I can do that. That my identity as a dad, a family man, a leader of men and women, doesn’t change the fundamentals of need. I should be able to hook up, get my kicks, and move on.
I run faster, wondering if I’m trying to outpace the part of me that doesn’t want that. That wants to eat pie with a certain redhead and talk silly stuff that wriggles inside to the deep stuff. The other night I actually shared some of drama with her in Dempseys’. Two minutes in her presence and I want to tell her things I don’t speak of with anyone else.