“You going to tell me why you came back last night reeking of gasoline?”
Roman’s back tenses for a second, but I must be imagining it. Because the moment I blink, the tension is gone and he’s just flipping pancakes.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, his rough sleepy voice sending a shiver down my spine.
I must be ovulating.
When Roman returned from wherever the hell he went when he zoomed out of the house last night, he looked exactly the same as he did before he left. Sleeves rolled up, tie unknotted, hair disheveled, but I could smell the gasoline on him.
I was in the kitchen, but we didn’t speak to each other as he pulled open the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water and then went upstairs to his room.
And I didn’t ask. Because he didn’t look like someone who want
