Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(13)

Once back outside, I pulled out my chair, propped my legs up on the table, and fought my conflicted feelings. I couldn’t get the idea of inviting her here on the balcony out of my head, but I knew I should leave it and not give in to my want.

I have ten months left, I reminded myself again. I couldn’t let anything f*ck that up, not even pretty English girls with the innate ability to harden my cock on sight.

Resolute to just let my interest in her go, I settled back, once again watching the crowd below. I chuckled as I watched Jimmy-Don get hit on by the female equivalent of him: big, loud, and country to the core. The girl walked straight up to him, hooked her arm around his neck, and planted a wet one right on his shocked lips. Jimmy-f*cking-Don, the best guy I knew: kind, funny, and loyal to a fault. I was happy he was finally getting some, even if the girl, from up here, looked as scary as shit.

My ears pricked when I caught the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut, and I had a decision to make: let Molly slip away, no harm done, or seize the day and get her out here with me, actually find out her deal.

Insanity won out and before I could stop myself, I quickly shouted, “Mol?”

But there was only silence from the bedroom. My feet slammed to the ground and my head whipped in the direction of the doors. “Mol?” Had she left already?

“Yeah?” a timid voice finally sounded from inside.

Exhaling in relief and putting all my worries aside, I asked, “You wanna hang out here for a while… with me?”

“Yeah… okay.”



We’d been sitting out on the balcony, just talking. I don’t think I’d ever been alone with a chick that long before without getting naked. Girls came to me for one thing: a good f*ck. But this was different. I kinda wanted to get to know this girl beyond the bedroom.

After watching her almost down her bottle of Bud, she asked, “So why are you up here hiding out?”

“Don’t feel it tonight.”

She dropped her hand to her chest and gasped, “Mr. All-star Quarterback doesn’t want to mix with his adoring fans?”

Every ounce of me froze. She’d found out I played football—perfect.

I ripped off the label of my beer; it was that or launch the brown glass at the wall. “Well, that didn’t take long. Who told you?”

“Lexi and Cass.”

“Who?” I asked in a far-from-friendly tone.

Her eyes dropped and she fiddled with her hands again. “My roommates, they told me after we… erm, after we… you know…”

“Kissed?”

“Erm… yeah.”

“So what did they say about me?” I pushed.

“That you were the Romeo Prince, quarterback extraordinaire for the Crimson Wave and that you were the Prince William of college football, yada, yada, yada…”

“What?” she asked, taking in my blank face.

“The Tide,” I corrected, the anger lifting and complete f*cking hilarity taking its place.

“Huh?” she asked again, completely confused, her expression making that more than clear. It was probably the first time in years that her genius ass had felt at a loss.

“It’s the Crimson Tide. Not wave.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed, stomach tightening, uncontrollably bursting out laughing. Wasn’t “the crimson wave” code for a chick being on the rag or something? Christ, she’d be lynched around here talking like that about the beloved national champs.

“Whatever. Tomayto tomarto,” she dismissed with a casual wave of her hand.

“Well, we’d better keep that between us. It’s not tomayto tomarto around here. It’s… everything. It’s life and death.” And wasn’t that just the friggin’ truth? Sometimes the pressure to be perfect was insane.

I could feel her stare, her inquisitive mind working overtime. “So, Romeo, eh?” She finally asked after minutes of silence, and I froze.

“It’s Rome,” I corrected immediately. I was “Rome” to everyone but my f*cking parents, and I hated any reminder that I was actually named after a *-whipped, poison-drinking *.

Her face lit with amusement, and she half danced, half shuffled on the spot. “Ah-ah! It’s Romeo. I’ve been reliably informed.”

“No one calls me that, Mol.” I tried to be as polite as possible because f*ck, she didn’t know, but that name had me wanting to snap someone’s neck.

“Just like no one calls me Mol,” she immediately snapped back, not taking any of my moody shit.

At that burst of confidence, I wanted nothing more than to close in and kiss that impressive scowl off her face. “Touché, Molly…?” I waited for her finish, relaxing some at the new turn in conversation. Fuck me, I was having fun. Actually having fun. Alert the friggin’ media: Rome Prince had cracked a little!

“Molly Shakespeare.”

Okay, call off the press. I was back to being f*cked off.

“What?” I asked, edging in closer.

“Shakespeare. Molly Shakespeare,” she answered with a shaky voice and a slight tremble to her hands.

Someone had to be setting me up. Maybe Michaels? That f*cker would give anything to screw me over. “Are you trying to be funny?” I asked bitterly.

“Nope. Romeo, I’m a Shakespeare—born and bred.” Hell, she was telling the truth. Shakespeare. Her f*cking name was Shakespeare! This couldn’t be happening.