Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Hmm. “That’s fine. Your bed is comfortable, I can crash there—if you don’t mind.”
I yawn as I wait for his reply.
It comes in the form of a “Yeah, that works.”
I smile, content. And not just because of the warm leftover lasagna and garlic bread at my feet. It’s knowing I’m going back to Roman’s place instead of home to deal with Kyle.
* * *
“Roman, are you awake?”
I can tell by his breathing that he is, but just in case, I whisper it low into the pitch-black room.
“Psst.”
Wow. I am really obnoxious.
Like a child sharing a bedroom with a friend for the first time. Or a young girl at her first sleepover.
After we arrived home tonight—his home, not mine—I made quick work of removing my makeup, borrowing clean leggings and a sweatshirt from Eliza (who still isn’t home), and climbing into Roman’s comfortably big bed.
Clean sheets. Down comforter. Fuzzy blanket.
Plenty of room for the two of us. We don’t even have to touch.
It’s like sleeping on a cloud in heaven.
The bed I sleep in at my place is a twin and came with the house, so there isn’t a lot of room to roll around, especially if I have company. No one wants to sleep in a twin bed when they’re part of a couple, so I got used to not spending much time in it while I was dating Kyle.
Roman’s big bed envelops me, and I hunker down, loving how cozy it feels.
“I’m awake,” he finally admits into the dark. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep.”
“Oh. I’m sorry—was I snoring?”
His chuckle is low. “I would never admit it.”
I roll to my side, propping my chin up in my hands. “You wouldn’t tell me if I was snoring?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“You’d be embarrassed.”
True. “But I want to know if I was snoring.”
“Do you actually?” His quiet question drifts out of the dark.
“Yes.” Hmm. “No.”
He laughs, low and gravelly. It’s a different laugh and a different sound than the one he makes when he’s wide awake. He must be more tired than he realizes because the timbre is deeper.
“I didn’t wake you up, did I?”
“No,” he says. “I was actually lying here staring up at the ceiling I can’t see in the dark. Sometimes it’s hard for me to fall asleep because I can’t shut my brain off. Is that weird?”
“No, that’s not weird—sounds totally normal. I think sometimes the only reason I’m able to sleep is because I dance and cheer so hard and we work out in practice so much I’m just so crazy exhausted my body can’t stay awake at night. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t be able to shut my brain off either.”
Especially now, not lately.
“I bet you’re exhausted a lot, eh? I haven’t worked out since I got back from being abroad—I’ve totally let that fall to the wayside. I need to get back into the gym.”
“I would probably let it slide too if it weren’t, like, my job.”
“Do you consider it a job?”
I would shrug, but I’m lying on the bed. “Yes, I actually do. I have to perform and cheer in order to earn my scholarship. No performing, no money for school.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like with an academic scholarship. I’m lucky enough that my parents can pay for most of my school because an academic scholarship doesn’t cover very much. Not everyone is that lucky.”
I roll over on the bed, fluffing the pillow to get more comfortable, turning in his direction. Toward his voice. “I think part of it has a lot to do with the fact that my mother controls me through cheer. She thinks I’m helpless and wouldn’t have any other options if it weren’t for my scholarships. It’s almost as if she doesn’t think I’m capable of working a job and going to school at the same time.”
I’m babbling and thinking out loud; I can’t believe I admitted that last part to him—I’ve never told anybody that is how my mom views me. As a little bit helpless and totally dependent.
Yawning, I tuck my hands under my chin.
This is my comfy spot; I found the place on the pillow that might actually get me to sleep, temperature is perfect, Roman’s presence is a calming, soothing change.
He’s giving me my space, hasn’t made a single overture—not that I was expecting him to, but with guys you never know. Ordinarily I wouldn’t volunteer to spend the night at the house of a guy I’ve only just met, but Eliza and Jack live here too. There is safety in knowing that.
Besides, Roman is my friend.
He has no designs on me, and I doubt sincerely that he’s even attracted to me romantically.
He doesn’t even flirt.
To be fair, I don’t flirt with him either.
To be honest, I’m a terrible flirt regardless of who I’m trying to flirt with—really the only thing I have going for me is the color of my hair and the size of my boobs; otherwise I’m hopeless. Guys have to come right out and tell me they’re interested before I get the hint.