My fingers itch to check my email, and it takes an incredible amount of self-control to stay in my seat instead of, say, bolting to the kitchen to steal Roman’s phone and checkhisemail.
I look around for my medal in willpower, but it does not appear. Pity.
Eventually, Roman finishes his food and I finish enough to have earned a cookie, so he retrieves them from the kitchen, where he has them stored on the tippy top of the cornermost cabinet, a place I have no hope of reaching unless I do some serious—and perilous—climbing.
Hmph.
When he returns to the table, it’s with two of the mostadorable gingerbread cookies I’ve ever seen in mylife. They’re matching, but different, decked out in oranges and purples reminiscent of autumn. I assume these cookies are part of the test batch for the fall pastry rollout next month at Sweet & Salty.
“These look incredible,” I tell Roman honestly, taking in the meticulous little belt buckles on the gingerbread men’s waists. They wear vintage-style suits, the dapperest little guys there ever were. He’s even piped tiny little handlebar mustaches on their cutie-pie round faces.
“Which one do you want?” he asks, presenting my options.
I choose the one with a mostly purple suit with orange accents, and Roman takes the one with a mostly orange suit with purple accents.
I hold my breath before biting into mine, preparing myself for the delight I’m about to experience. Even Roman’s first testers are better than most people’s final products.
Ginger hits my tongue, quickly followed by a comforting wave of cinnamon and cloves. He’s put just enough icing on it to sweeten up the spices, but not so much as to pang my mildly abused sweet tooth. It’s the best gingerbread man I’ve ever beheaded.
“Needs more cinnamon,” Roman grumbles, inspecting the crumb pattern from a leg of his gingerbread man, which he’s broken off and is nibbling on thoughtfully. “Maybe more molasses too.”
Sure, because it’s not absolutely perfect as it is.
My eyes roll. I do not need to be here for his scientific breakdown of gingerbread goodness.
“I’m finishing this in my room,” I say, scooping up my headless man and holding my hand out to Roman. I wiggle my fingers. “My phone.”
He retrieves it for me as he continues his inspection of the cookie, and I snag it before he changes his mind. A quick pit stopin the kitchen to take care of my dishes, then I’m passing by his form, hunched over his plate and muttering, on my way to the stairs and, ultimately, my bedroom.
The cookie doesn’t make it past the stairs.
Wiping the crumbs from my hands, I collapse onto my bed, and the puffs of my quilt cradle me as I sigh.
I should really open my phone, read my emails, and finish my maid of honor duties for the day. Barring that, I should go to my desk, pull out my laptop, and work on the assignment I have due in two days. Barringthat, I should call Lyra or Sol or Ruby and get back to being the type of person who is there for her people, even if they live far away or have abandoned her for a better life without her.
Cough.
Not that I’m a bitter, jealous, sucky loser or anything.
I close my eyes, letting my arm fall across my forehead as a headache builds behind it. I should do all of those things and more, but will I?
No.
Not today. Not right now. Not with the weight of my responsibilities coming down hard on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I think, instead, that I will just…
Sleep.
Precious, beautiful sleep.
As I fade away from my worries and stresses, the weight on my chest squirms, burrowing into my bones and stealing all restfulness from my sleep, leaving me only a hazy, burdened intermission from my worries.
Chapter Fifteen
Can I put the eyes emoji as a chapter title? Because I’d really like to put the eyes emoji as a chapter title.
Roman
