LOL: Laugh Out Loud (After Oscar, #2)(50)

He clicked off and chucked his phone down on the counter like it was on fire before shoving his hands into his hair. “I swear that man,” he grumbled.

“Did you ask him where that spa is?” I asked, handing him the beer. “Because you could probably use a massage, to be honest.”

He snorted and reached for my waist, drawing me closer and pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “No. And if I need a massage, I have someone right here with magic fingers.”

Even though the move felt nice and boyfriendy, Oscar’s call had reinforced my earlier thoughts of just how bad things could go for Roman if the media found out about me shacking up with him. And the idea of there being anything other than shacking up involved was… ludicrous. The man was a movie star for god’s sake. No, I was going to lie super low and enjoy the little time I had in this dream bubble until it burst.

“Do you need some help with dinner?” I asked him, eyeing the half-prepped ingredients scattered across the countertop.

He laughed. “Unless you like poison chicken, yes I do. Turns out I’m just as bad at playing a chef in real life as I am in video games.”

I pulled away from him, frowning. “Wait, I thought you knew how to cook. The two meals you’ve made for me so far have been delicious.”

His cheeks turned pink, and he dipped his head, glancing away. “Yeah, those are the only two recipes I actually know how to cook. I kinda learned them to impress dates.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Seriously? Like you need to cook to impress people. You’re kind of impressive all on your own, you know. Though why pancakes and pasta—seems like an odd combo?”

If possible his cheeks burned brighter. He cleared his throat and shifted his feet. “One for dinner, and if it’s successful enough…” He shrugged.

It took me a minute to follow, and I started laughing. “The other for breakfast. Oh my god, you whore.”

“Hey, it worked for you, didn’t it?” He grinned and ran his fingers over my ribs, tickling me. “You ate my pasta and ended up in my bed.”

I swatted his hands away, trying to dance out of reach. “It wasn’t your pasta that got me into your bed, trust me,” I said, winking.

He caught me and pulled me against him, pressing a kiss to the tip of my nose and then to my lips. “Well, whatever got you into my bed, I’m glad.”

For a beat the air seemed charged between us, the playfulness of the moment before turned serious. I was suddenly afraid where it might lead—to conversations of us sleeping together and where that might lead, and since I already knew the answer, I didn’t want to risk having to hear it out loud.

“We should get started with dinner,” I said.

He paused for a beat before nodding, and we turned to the task of prepping the meal, quickly slipping into the now-familiar cadence of working together in the kitchen. Even though we’d barely known each other a couple of days, being together was comfortable in a way I hadn’t felt with someone else in a long time. The closest friend I had was a carriage driver named Ardi. He was from Albania, so the language barrier was sometimes a problem, but the man was hilarious and sweet. Since he lived in the same area of Queens I did, most days we found each other on the same bus and train. He’d even offered to have me stay over at his place when I got kicked out of my rented room, but his brother was homophobic as hell. Since they lived together, that was a no-go.

“You got quiet all of a sudden,” Roman said. “Cat got your tongue?”

“I was just thinking… This is nice. I’ve never really done this, like… fixed a big meal with all this fresh stuff. We—my mom and I—usually made meals out of boxes or cans. I mean, don’t get me wrong. We cooked chicken and vegetables, but never like this. I don’t know how to explain it. It just feels so normal.”

Roman kept his eyes down on the frying pan where he was sautéing chicken pieces in olive oil. “Yeah, I feel the same way. You were right before, when you accused me of having meals brought in. I do, normally, but it’s not really for the reason you think. When I’m filming, I tend to work long days and come home exhausted. What do you eat when you’re too tired to get off the sofa?”

“Chips and beer?” I teased.

“Yep. And delivery takeout like pizza and burgers.”

“Mm, pizza and burgers…” I groaned. “Now you’re making me hungry.”

“Well, directors don’t take kindly to lead actors ballooning up in weight during filming. So when I was able to afford it, I had healthy meals delivered to force me to eat well. It made a huge difference to my energy level on set.”

He set the spoon down and took a sip of his beer before looking back at me with a grin. “So I don’t get a chance to cook anymore. And I kind of like it. It’s nice having someone else to cook for. It’s no fun to cook for one person.”

“Very true,” I said. “I’m the king of frozen dinners. It’s depressing as hell. Nothing makes you feel more single than those little plastic trays stacking up in your recycling bin.”

Roman set down his beer and stepped toward me, cupping my cheeks in his hands which he seemed to like to do often. “Why are you single?”

It wasn’t at all a question I’d been expecting, and I was caught a little off guard. It didn’t help that his eyes were laser focused on me, causing my stomach to flip in all kinds of delicious ways. “I told you,” I said, trying not to stammer. “About Ian, the guy I dated in high school. It kind of put me off relationships.”