When Roman texted me to tell me he’d be at my place around seven, I decided I had time to get a quick workout in at the gym in our building.
I’d been a mess since his admission yesterday. How could someone as powerful and handsome as Roman be attracted to me—like so attracted to me that he felt out of control from it? It didn’t feel real.
I ran on the treadmill for thirty minutes, trying to make sense of it all.
I make it up to my apartment just minutes before a knock sounds on my door.
My heart flutters. “Cool it, Eva. You’ve established this already. Friends, nothing more.”
I open the door to find several men holding long pieces of wood and tools.
“Delivery for Eva Harlow,” one of them states.
“Oh, yes, of course. Follow me.”
I lead them to my office, where they proceed to stack the wood and set down what looks like a handsaw and other tools I’m not familiar with.
As we walk back to the front door, Roman walks in with a tool chest, sporting old, ripped jeans and a cutoff white shirt with a backward gray hat.
If it were possible to have an orgasm from just looking at someone, I think I would.
He turns to the guys and thanks them as they all pile out of my apartment, then closes the door. When he turns, his eyes twinkle with a gleam of interest as they move along my body. I realize I’m still in my purple sports bra and black shorts.
He puts one of his hands in his pockets and then winces. It almost looked like he pinched himself.
“Hi, Eva,” he says with a smile.
“Hi, Roman,” I respond softly.
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you I was having everything delivered.”
He walks past me toward my office, and I catch the familiar scent of his cologne. It’s woodsy and strong, taking up the space, just like his presence does.
There’s something about the scent of a man. Sometimes, I feel like my sense of smell is directly connected to my vagina.
I roll my eyes at myself. I’m like a fucking nympho now. I’ve never thought about sex this much.
I follow him into the room, where he is standing along the wall, taking measurements with his measuring tape. His biceps flex, and I see his chest and abs through the holes on the side of his cutoff shirt.
Alright. Deep breath. I need to get over this—we’re building a friendship, and that’s what matters.
I take a seat on the floor off to the right as I watch him.
“Do you need any help?” I ask.
He chuckles as he continues. “Do you know how to use a circular saw?”
“No.”
“Do you know how to use a drill to screw the wood to the studs?”
“No,” I repeat.
“I think you can just sit your butt right there and watch.”
I laugh. “Just trying to be nice.”
“I appreciate the offer.”