Page 34 of Sweet & Salty
“You’re policing my food again,” I observe.
“I made gingerbread cookies for dessert,” he says. “I put them up super high so you can only have one if I get it for you. Which I’m only doing if you eat some of your dinner. Phone and a cookie, Elodie, or throwing a petty fit?”
I drop my hand. “Well,” I sniff. “You didn’t mention the cookies.”
He grunts in response, eyeing me as I scoop a bite of mashed potatoes into my mouth, followed quickly by a forkful of meatloaf.
“You don’t get the cookie faster if you eat faster,” he informs me. “You get the cookie when I get mine, which is when I’m finished eating.”
Oh. Well then.
I slow down, averting my eyes from his reluctantly amused twitch of the lips. “Are you sure you’re still good to handle the catering and the cakeandbest man duties?” I ask, because picking a fight is better than sitting in the ensuing silence.
“I’ve got it,” he says. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about you.”
I sigh. Truly, I know he does have it. He showed me the menu he prepared, and he’s scheduled to do a cake tasting with Ruby and Will soon. He’s shown zero signs of stress or regret about his decision to take on these extra duties. What I should do is let the weight of worrying about it fall off my shoulders, place it firmly on his, and be done with it.
What Iwilldo is let the weight of worrying about it fall off my shoulders, place it firmly on his, and be done with it. Frankly, I can’t afford to carry that worry on top of all my others, and I know that Roman would rather jump in front of a moving train than disappoint anyone—least of all Ruby and Will—when itcomes to food.
I roll my shoulders, a physical representation of me passing the metaphorical torch, then grunt when the weight of all my other responsibilities burrow in to fill the empty space.
I so, so desperately wish I could take a break. But the wedding planning won’t last forever, and neither will the school semester. Work will always be work, of course, but this time of stress and obligation won’t last forever, and at the end of it, it’ll only be good things. Happy things. I just have to focus on that light and goodness while I’m in the not-finished-yet portion of things.
“Is your cousin faring okay with her crime-loving husband?” Roman asks, apropos of nothing.
I blink. “Of course,” I answer. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Because of the crime-loving husband?” he replies, one eyebrow raised while he pokes at a green bean. “And the fact that you told me they burned down someone’s property? For all I know, they could be in jail right now.”
I snort. “Not likely. Jove’s not stupid enough to get caught.”
“He’s stupid enough to commit regular crimes,” he replies.
“You take that back,” I gasp. “He only commits crimes against thedeserving. He’s not stupid. He’s a hero.”
“That’s called vigilantism,” he says. “And it’s illegal in every state.”
“So is jaywalking, and I’ve seen you do that.”
“Jaywalking is not at all on the same level as destruction of property. The man burns down buildings and slashes people’s tires, Sweet. That’s not jaywalking.”
I huff. “You’re saying that if someone was mean toyourwife oryoursister you wouldn’t at all, even a little bit, consider slashing their tires?”
He goes quiet, jaw working as his eyes slide to the ceiling.
Uh huh. That’s what I thought.
“Jove’s not a monster,” I say. “He’s just a guy taking care of his family in the way he feels he needs to.”
Roman’s eyes fall to me, sky blue hitting my hair and lingering before meeting my blue. “That’s an awful lot of understanding for Jove, Sweet,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you have a little left for the man across from you, who is also just a guy taking care of his family in the way he feels he needs to.” His eyes flit to my plate, then back up, and I find myself, inexplicably, blushing.
Rather than address his words—and him calling me family—I choose the coward's way out of the conversation. “Are you done eating yet?” I ask. “I would love to gnaw the head off a gingerbread cookie.”
His eyes linger on me for a moment longer, frustration settling into his face before he sighs, shakes his head, and answers, “Take a few more bites, El. I’ll get the cookies in a minute.”
I pout, just a little, as I scoop a bite of potatoes onto my spoon. “I’ll eat more,” I say. “But I want it noted that it’s under duress.”
“So noted,” he mumbles as both of our phones ding.
