Page 53 of Lease to Love

I grabbed my clutch, took one last look at myself, and decided there was nothing left to do but go downstairs and face whatever fresh hell I'd signed myself up for.

Roman's Bentley was parked directly in front of the building.

That was the first surprise.

The second was Roman himself.

He was leaning against the passenger side door, one ankle crossed over the other, hands loose at his sides like he'd been waiting for me without the slightest concern that I might have taken too long. The burgundy suit he was wearing was tailored so precisely it bordered on offensive. The color was rich against his dark skin, his shirt crisp, his jacket sitting perfectly across his broad shoulders. His fade was fresh. His beard was lined. He looked like money with a pulse.

And then his eyes landed on me.

The easy posture disappeared.

Not completely. Just enough.

His gaze moved from my face to the dress and slowly down my body before returning to my eyes. There was nothing subtle about it. Nothing accidental.

My heart gave one stupid little kick.

"The dress fits," he said.

It wasn't a question.

I recovered enough to lift one eyebrow. "Yes. Well. Suspiciously well."

His mouth twitched.

I narrowed my eyes. "Should I be scared or flattered that you know my exact dress and shoe size?"

"Neither." He pushed away from the car and turned around to open the passenger door. "I just pay attention to things."

He gestured toward the open door. "Get in."

I stared at him.

"'Get in'?" I repeated. "Aren’t you supposed to be my boyfriend? How about ask me nicely, rude ass?"

He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose like I was already giving him a headache.

"Sunshine," he started, and that Brooklyn rasp came out almost syrupy sweet, "please get your ass in the car before I double your rent and leave you on this sidewalk."

I flipped him off as I climbed inside. "With pleasure, honey."

He shut the door behind me.

I buckled my seat belt and tried very hard to pretend I didn't notice that Roman was looking at me. I failed.

I glanced over, and he was staring.

Not at the dress. At my face.

His eyes moved slowly over it, that same calculating look I'd come to recognize whenever he was deciding whether something was worth his attention.

"What?" I asked, nervously tucking one of the curls I’d left hanging behind my ear.

His gaze settled on my cheeks.

"Your freckles."