Page 5 of Run, Run, Roommates
I head back to the table with a tray of drinks—hot toddies, mint martinis, and for someone less in the holiday spirit, whiskey on the rocks. When I get back, Eva’s talking to someone at the bar, and my stupid little heart lights up in happiness at the sight of my roommate.
I walk behind the bar to hear her telling the story of the wayward arancini to him. Of course, she tells it better than I would, making the story hilarious and pantomiming her quick fingers.
Marco’s smiling at her across the bar, and I get a pang of jealousy in my chest. They’re both New Yorkers, and sometimes it feels like they bond over my quaint, Appalachian mannerisms.
This stupid crush on him has got to stop.
I take a minute to grab a clean glass and the soda gun, filling it with Diet Coke. I slide it over to him as Eva wraps up the story. Marco smiles at me, and I take him in—fitted suit still immaculate, but tired eyes and rumpled hair.
“That’s how I saved Brin’s job today,” she finishes. She smiles at me, teasingly, and I bump her hip with mine.
Eva did save my bacon. Just like Marco, who has given me a safe space to live. Where would I be without these two saving me from all my stupid decisions?
Eva’s my best friend. She’s been here a lot longer than I have—she trained me when I started. She also has a friend group that she organizes to get together for brunch once a week at another restaurant owned by the same management company, which means we get an employee discount.
Most of the friends we go out with are Eva’s friends from school. I’m getting to know them, but since I see Eva almost every day, we’re much closer.
“You should get out of here; you’ve got your hot date,” I tell her.
“True.” She squeezes me goodbye and waves to Marco before sauntering off.
I tilt my head at him. “What are you doing here?”
“Walking you home.”
Marco does this occasionally, when he’s out as late as I’m working. I look down to hide my smile. In the bar sink there’s a few dirty glasses, so I grab them and run them through the sudsy water and the brush.
“I still have a table.” I jut my chin at the twenty-top on the far side of the restaurant.
“I’ll wait.”
Fifteen minutes later the group finally wraps up, and they leave behind a generous tip. I hand most of it over to my manager for the tip pool, since the back-of-house staff deserve a cut and then the rest goes to Eva. I run through closing, and Marco and I are some of the last people to leave.
It’s chilly out, but I’m still warm from hustling around the restaurant, so I keep my coat open for now, and when Marco and I turn left on the sidewalk I tip my chin up and puff out a breath of cold air like a dragon.
“I have an ulterior motive,” he starts.
“What?” I gasp in mock horror. “You didn’t come to walk me home just because you’re a nice guy?”
He gives me side-eye. “I’m not a nice guy.”
“Of course you are,” I argue back. Marco is nice . . . to me. “Besides, you know what all the bad guys say, right?” I swerve to bump him. “They call themselves nice guys. It’s like the bad guy pledge.” I hold up one hand like I’m being sworn in. “I, Chad E. Villain—the E stands for evil, by the way—do solemnly swear that I’m a nice guy.”
I joke, but there’s a lot of truth behind the humor. The worst of the men smile at you, play nice, until you see the horns hidden in their perfectly combed hair.
Speaking of actually nice guys, Marco slings his arm around my shoulder. My heart goes pitter-patter because he’s so warm and solid and he tugs me close enough to feel the press of his body?—
That’s when I hear footsteps coming from behind us. Fast footsteps.
I grip my purse harder and Marco’s arm tightens around my shoulders. It’s late, and even though the streets of New York are lit up with all the stoplights and bar signs, there’s not as many people walking around as I’d like. A yawning opens in my stomach.
All that takes a split second to register, and then we’re being passed by a person running. They’re not wearing normal workout gear, so I doubt they’re jogging for the exercise.
Marco and I relax slightly. His arm still stays around me though, so I lean into him more.
What would I have done if that person had bad intentions? What if Marco wasn’t walking me home? He’s so protective of me—so much that I worry he thinks of me as a little sister. I can’t blame him, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.
But still, it stings. Marco is so attractive, so put together. Even now, with his tired eyes and slightly crumpled suit, he’s got an aura of control around him.
