You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me!
India stands in the entryway, her name-brand purse on the floor by her feet, and her arms crossed against her plastic chest. If looks could kill, I’d be so f*****g dead—but so would she, because Roman looks like he might literally kill her right now.
“India. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” Roman asks slowly.
“I…I…well, you didn’t call me after our talk,” she sputters before smirking at me.
My stomach bottoms out as the jealousy starts swimming through my veins. I struggle to remove myself from his body, but he squeezes me once. I look into his eyes and see a silent request to listen. I nod, but I still climb out of his arms to stand at his side.
It’s now that I realize I’m standing here in nothing but one of Roman’s hockey shirts and a pair of fuzzy
