Roman (Cold Fury Hockey #7)(27)
“Take your coat off and get comfortable,” I tell Roman.
I glance at him as I bend over to unlace my Dr. Martens—this time shoes rather than boots—and toe them off. Roman does a casual perusal of the little apartment Georgia rents to me.
She originally had it built for her son after he dropped out of college. Sadly, Craig Mack fell far short of Georgia’s expectations for her only son, seemingly preferring to spend time in his room playing video games rather than attend classes at North Carolina State where he had been accepted into their school of engineering. He was incredibly bright, but lacked motivation or ambition, something that puzzles me greatly, as his mother has both of those qualities in abundance.
After Craig dropped out of school, Georgia told him he’d have to start paying rent, albeit at a discounted rate. After he lost job after job, and couldn’t pay the rent three months in a row, she employed tough love and evicted him. It broke her heart to do so, because he ultimately drifted out west with other shiftless friends and hasn’t come back to visit her since then.
The benefit to me when I applied for a job at The Grind was that the apartment had just been vacated a few weeks earlier and Georgia was eager to rent it to someone responsible. While she ultimately learned I was indeed a responsible person and paid my bills, she didn’t know it when she offered it to me, but that only goes to show the size of her heart. Georgia Mack is one to take chances on people because she’s just generous that way.
“I like it,” Roman observes about my small abode.
My eyes drift over the roughly six hundred square feet of space. There’s not much to it, but it’s nicely laid out and more than what I actually need. The front door enters into the living room, with the small efficiency kitchen just behind it, separated by a counter. The only seating for the kitchen is two barstools on the living room side. To the left of the front door is my bedroom, which is actually on the spacious side relative to the overall size of the apartment, and on the opposite side of that, bordering the kitchen, is a small bathroom that barely holds the shower, tub, toilet, and sink.
It’s cozy, and Georgia had furnished and decorated it nicely but eclectically, which is her signature style. While it’s not as outlandish as The Grind, it’s funky enough with vintage furniture, brightly colored throw pillows, and tassel lamps.
“What do you want to drink?” I ask as I head into the kitchen and Roman peels off his coat. “I’ve got some water, Diet Coke, and even some beer if you’re interested.”
“Let’s get drunk and lose our inhibitions,” he suggests, and I look over my shoulder at him to find him sitting on my couch and unlacing his shoes, which are more like low boots and clearly more expensive than mine.
“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again.” I laugh as I pull two bottles of beer out of my fridge. “You are so bad.”
“And yet you’re handing me ammunition,” he says as he nods toward the beers.
“Well,” I offer with a sly smile as I set one beer on the counter and twist the top off the other. “I’m actually bad too.”
“How bad?” he asks as he pulls his shoes off and drops them carelessly to the floor. He stands from the couch and walks toward me, but stops on the other side of the counter.
I reach out and hand him the beer, turning to grab mine from the counter and opening it. I hold my bottle out to his and we tap the necks against each other.
“Not bad enough to sleep with you tonight,” I say before I take a sip. After I swallow, I add, “But totally bad enough I might get frisky with you.”
He gives a mock groan and looks up to the ceiling. “A tease. I’ve saddled myself with a tease tonight.”
Laughing, I set my beer down and take two bowls out of my cabinet above the sink. “I’m not a tease, but I do sort of go with the flow. If I’m feeling it, I’m feeling it. If I don’t, I don’t.”
“That’s what I like about you,” Roman says, and I know he’s pulling a stool out because I can hear the slide of it across the tile that extends from the kitchen to just past the counter to where Berber carpeting covers the living room. “I’ve figured out you sort of march to the beat of your own drums.”
“How’d you guess that?” I ask as I smile to myself and ladle piping hot chili into the bowls.
“You followed your heart, not norms after high school when you traveled, and you approached a multimillion-dollar CEO to let him know you were his daughter, and you chose the ukulele, when most everyone would have chosen the piano.”
“You’re reading an awful lot into just a few actions,” I say in deflection as I turn to set the bowls on the counter before him, then grab spoons out of a drawer.
“I’m reading the situation just fine,” he says with a laugh. “And I’m completely okay if you choose not to sleep with me tonight.”
I give him a quick look as I grab my beer and round the counter to sit down beside him. As I plop down, I ask him, “So seriously, why do you get in so much trouble? Not that I don’t appreciate your spirit, but seems like you’re always courting trouble.”
“Not really,” he says as he takes a spoon from me and stirs it around in the hot chili. “I’ve just sort of been on my own for a really long time and not used to answering to anyone. I like playing by my own rules.”