Page 22 of Romero and Juliette

“Maybe not,” he admits, his voice low, rough. “But your brother has made it very clear that you’re off-limits.”

That earns a bitter laugh from me. “That might’ve worked in his favor a couple of years ago. But I’ve been an adult for a while now. He just doesn’t want to admit it.”

Something flickers in his expression—something that looks dangerously like want, desire… need. Then it’s gone.

“Why don’t you ever call me by my first name?” I ask the question before I can stop it.

His jaw tightens. “Because then I have to admit there’s something here. Something between us.”

“Because every Romeo needs his Juliette?”

He huffs a breath, shaking his head. “Something like that.”

I lean in, my voice soft but sharp. “I would not have taken you for a coward.”

His eyes lift to mine, slow and deliberate. “This isn’t about fear.”

I cock a brow. “Isn’t it, though?”

“No,” he says, too calm. “It’s about right and wrong.”

His words stab at my tender heart. “You think it’s wrong to want to be with me?”

“I’m old enough to be your father.”

I roll my eyes. “You are not my father.”

“I’m very well aware of that. But our age difference is significant.”

“Is that all you’ve got? Clinging to the age argument?”

“It matters,” he insists.

“To whom? Not me. The only person it matters to is you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “What about Jude?”

“What about him?” I shoot back. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a grown woman.”

“Trust me,” he says, voice dipping an octave, “that hasn’t escaped my attention.” His eyes flick for just a second to my cleavage.

The way he says it sends a pulse of heat through my chest. My fingers twitch on the table. “Then give me one actual reason. One real reason you don’t want to be with me.”

“Juliette—”

“No, I’m serious. You don’t like my personality? You hate that I usually have grease under my fingernails? You think my ass is too big? My hair too long? My taste in music too basic?”

“Fuck, Buttercup—” His voice cracks. “There’s nothing wrong with you. This is all about me.”

The nickname slams into me, both familiar and forbidden.

“So you get to just make the decision for both of us?” I hiss. I stand, and he follows me.

The air crackles. People at nearby tables glance over. The server hesitates by the bar. My face burns.

“Come on,” he mutters. “Let’s not do this here.”

Before I can say anything else, he drops bills on the table, grabs the roses and my wrist, and pulls me out of the restaurant. He says something to the waitress on the way out.