Page 32 of Illicit

Rocco is six feet, three inches, and two hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle.

At least he was when he played college football. I memorized his stats, because that’s what one does when they’re obsessed.

That’s a lot of real estate of a man to have to sleep in the corner of a sofa. He must have been exhausted. There’s not one thing on him that looks comfortable.

Other than his hand gripping my thigh.

It seems we battled for space during the night. My legs are stretched over his lap. One of his made its way onto the sofa and is tucked tight to me.

We’re all arms and legs and hands and angst. It makes me equally sad and anxious and petulant.

I’m basically living out every pop song that hits the top of the charts because it makes teenage girls all up in their feels as they listen on repeat until they’ve memorized every lyric, melody, and dramatic pause.

I used to be that girl.

But like I told Rocco last night, I’m not a girl any longer. I’m shocked he came the same realization when he agreed with me. Seeing me as anything other than the gangly eleven-year-old whose room was across the hall from his has never been on his radar. There was no doubt when he made that fact abundantly clear the moment he shattered my dreams.

And still, I don’t move.

All I can do is stare.

Rocco’s wide chiseled chest rises and falls with every even breath he takes. His thick lashes fan below his eyes and full lips are slightly parted.

I hate that he’s familiar.

I hate that he’s so tightly laced into my life, I can’t escape him.

But more than anything, I hate that I hate him.

He doesn’t deserve that.

There’s too much to love about Rocco Monroe. The fact he’s still single is a miracle. And it’s not from a lack of trying on Landyn’s part. Every time I’m home and hear her talk about it, it’s another twist of the rusty knife in my gut that slowly kills me from the inside out.

It’s time for me to accept the fact there’s no cure. Rocco isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be a part of my life forever, even if it’s not the way I want it to be. I can’t avoid him any longer since he’s moving back to Miami.

I miss my family. And as much of a shit show as Sammie is, I love her and want to be in her child’s life.

I’m going to be the best aunt on earth.

So, it’s time.

I’m so pathetic, I can’t even stand it. I need to get over myself.

It’s definitely time to get over Rocco Monroe.

Mind over matter, and all that jazz. If anything, I need to do it for Rocco. Even if I didn’t love him in my own secret, tragic romance, I’d love him the way the rest of my family does. There’s nothing not to love about Rocco.

But there’s no way I’ll be able to get over myself sleeping next to Rocco with his hand wrapped around my thigh.

This is just plain painful.

It’s also time to let him off the hook. This rift between us is crashing down on my shoulders.

No more pining.

No more dreaming.

Reality is a bitch and a dream killer.

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