Page 23 of Romero and Juliette

My heart is slamming itself against my chest. Pound, pound, pound. I wait until we’re enclosed in the elevator.

“I don’t get a say in what I want?” I jab a finger into his chest, feeling the solid warmth beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. “Don’t you dare tell me I’m too young to know what I want.”

He towers over me. His hand is still tight around my wrist. “I’ll probably die before you even have gray hair.”

I scoff. “Good! I’ll still be hot for my second husband.”

His jaw flexes. “Second husband? I don’t fucking think so.”

“You don’t want me, you don’t get a say in who gets me,” I shoot back, voice trembling—not with fear, but fury.

“I never said I didn’t want you,” he growls. “Only that I shouldn’t want you.”

The hallway smells faintly of old wood and lemon cleaner. The carpet muffles our steps, but not the silence stretching between us.

Inside our room, the door clicks shut behind us. The low lamplight paints him in amber and shadows. He turns, rakes a hand through his hair again, and exhales hard.

“This,” he says, “is exactly why I didn’t want to start something.”

I cross my arms. “Then why did you?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. His eyes move over me—frustration, hunger, regret, all tangled up.

“Say it,” I whisper.

He swallows. “Because you make me forget how to be careful.”

My heart stutters. “Then stop pretending you don’t want me.”

He takes one step forward. Then another. When he’s close enough that I can smell the faint salt of his skin and the citrus of his soap, I look up at him and say quietly, “You called me Buttercup.”

His lips twitch. “Old habits.”

“Bad ones,” I murmur.

He nods slowly. “The worst.”

And still, neither of us moves away.

“Why Buttercup?”

“You reminded me of Princess Buttercup the first time I saw you.” He fingers a strand of my blonde hair. He shrugs. “When I found out your name, I just couldn’t make myself use it.”

“As far as nicknames go, Buttercup is a nice one. Shall I call you Farm Boy?”

He chuffs a laugh. “As you wish.”

The space between us is all pulse and static.

He’s close enough that the air feels warmer, the hotel air conditioning humming uselessly behind him.

“We shouldn’t do this,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

“Do what, exactly?” I wait.

His eyes search my face, land on my lips. He gives a quiet, helpless laugh. “You have no idea how much I want you.”

“You could show me.”