Page 13 of Hate to Crave You
“You were young,” he replied, circling the rim of his wineglass with his fingertip. “Five, maybe six. I think it was about eighteen years ago.” His brow furrowed as he contemplated the number, finally nodding. “Yes. It was when I was still playing soccer and that was the last year I played. So, eighteen years ago.”
“When and how did we meet?”
A rueful grin curled his lips and he shook his head. “I can’t believe you don’t remember any of it.” With a lavish sigh, he straightened up in the seat and leaned forward, smiling at her. “You were in the hospital because of your asthma. I had gotten my head hit pretty hard and had a concussion. They wanted me in for observation for a few days because the headaches were so severe. Unfortunately,” he started, and paused, his face softening. Then he added, “Or maybe fortunately for me, there was a bad problem with a strep outbreak. You and I had to share a room for a few days.”
“Why would they put me with you?” She looked confused.
“The strep outbreak,” he said patiently. “Besides, we were kids. I was eleven. You were six. It wasn’t like we were going to tell these adults no. And our parents hadn’t gotten to Europe yet.”
“Man.” She rolled her eyes. “I bet Papa freaked out over that.”
“Not as much as my father did.” He lapsed into silence for a moment and she studied him, wondering about the muscle that jerked in his jaw and the shadows that fell across his eyes.
He stirred finally and shrugged. “Anyway, those first few days, we talked a lot. I read you books, told you stories. You liked my stories.”
Some blurry memory tried to come into focus. “Somebody at the hospital taught me to play solitaire,” she murmured, thinking of the boy she could only vaguely remember. A dark mop of hair and bright, pale blue eyes. “Was that you?”
“Ah, see?” Roman wagged a finger at her. “You do remember me.”
“I don’t know if you can call what I have in my head amemory,” she said lightly. Then she shrugged. “I imagine it hurts your ego thinking a girl might have forgotten you.”
He stared at her for a moment and then to her surprise, he started to laugh.
“Perhaps that’s true,” he said once the laughter faded. “I’ve always thought myself to be rather…unforgettable.”
She imagined so. Those eyes, his hands…her gaze strayed involuntarily toward his mouth just as he went to take a sip of his wine.
He noticed too. He didn’t put the wine back down. Instead, he took a drink and when he lowered the glass, there was a drop of the rich red liquid clinging to his lower lip.
She felt a pang in her lower belly as he caught it with his tongue. “I have to say, Julianna,” he murmured. “You’re quite unforgettable yourself.”
The magnetic pull she felt toward him was indescribable and when he reached out to brush his fingers across the back of her hand, she would have sworn she felt that touch in parts of her body not connected to her hand.
Heat sparked inside and she tried to banish it, but it wasn’t going away.
She was saved momentarily, the tension of the moment melting away as their server passed out their plates.
She almost sagged her shoulders in relief.
* * *
The respite broughton by the arrival of dinner was brief.
The conversation between them had gone from friendly to…something else entirely in practically the blink of an eye. She couldn’t even really put her finger on what had caused the change.
Even something as simple as eating one of the breadsticks that had been served with her dinner seemed to be laden with a sexual charge that heated her flesh and shortened her breath.
As she closed her lips around the crusty end of the bread, Roman’s lids drooped and a heavy breath escaped him. She noticed that he hadn’t eaten much of his meal and as she put down the breadstick, she gestured to his plate. After dabbing the crumbs from her mouth, she commented, “Don’t you like the fettuccine?”
“I’m finding myself hungry for…something,” Roman said, his voice lower, rougher.
The heat inside her threatened to explode, and she reached for her glass of wine, only to find it empty.
“Let me.”
She looked up as Roman reached for the bottle of wine—it was the second one they’d had opened and she was probably on her third or fourth glass now, but she didn’t think that was why her head was spinning. It had more to do with the way he was watching her, more to do with the heat pulsing inside her.
She sipped her wine, lingering over the ripe, fruity taste before letting it slide down her throat.
