Can't Stop Loving You

by Miranda Liasson

  Roman snorted. “You put yourself through school. You started your own practice. You dedicated yourself to raising your brother. How can he be anything but proud of you after all this time?”

  “I’m sure he is in his own way.”

  “Maybe you think he’s still disappointed because you’re still so hard on yourself.”

  She looked a little startled. “Thanks for that,” she said, looking like she didn’t quite believe his compliments. She hesitated before she spoke again, leveling her gaze directly on him. “Really, the gossip and the whispering were nothing compared to how sad it was without you.”

  Her words struck him. Surprised the hell out of him, too. It was the first really personal thing she’d told him. “I thought you were relieved to have me go. So you could start over.”

  “Turns out starting over without you wasn’t that great.”

  She looked for a moment like she was going to say more. But she didn’t, just stood there, her eyes filled with unspoken feeling.

  “You remember that time I ran into you and Ethan at the theater?” he asked.

  Her forehead creased, like it was an unpleasant memory. “You were with Reagan.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t really with Reagan. She’d seen me on the street that night and started walking with me.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I wanted you to think that, Bella, because I was hurt. I was jealous. You’d clearly moved on. Funny thing was, I’d come back to town that weekend to talk with you.”

  Her eyes filled with tears, but he kept talking. “I often thought I should have come back sooner. The way we left it wasn’t—right. We were both upset, and you had so many other responsibilities tying you here. I wasn’t—understanding. I let my hurt get in the way of everything else.”

  “Roman, I—it was complicated. The things I said—”

  He cut her off by lowering his head and kissing her. To tell her now without words how sorry he was that she’d had to face such a thing alone for all these years. And because he needed to touch her, needed to put his lips on hers.

  Her lips were soft and lush, and God, he remembered the feel of her. Her quiet sigh as their lips melded together, the warmth of her silky skin, the perfect way she fit in his arms. He’d meant the kiss to be quiet and tentative, or at least he thought for her sake it should be, but from the first touch, it burst into a flaming torch of a kiss, lips sliding together, tongues tangling in a hot, wet dance. He reached his hands up to thread through the thick mass of her hair, and curved them around her head, pulling her closer so their lips and bodies were flush. And still the kissing continued, deep and languorous and long, the hunger a decade in the making.

  The years melted away like rainwater gurgling down a gutter after a summer storm, whisked away like no time had passed, and all he could think of was how right this felt, how perfectly they fit together.

  “Bella,” Roman said, his voice a muffled groan. He readjusted his hold, pulled her even closer against him, breathed in her sweet scent, tasted the wine on her tongue. The tiny, dimly lit kitchen ceased to exist, and it was just her, only her, as it had been so long ago. For those few moments, it was as if all the pain of their years apart had vanished.

  She clutched at his back and stood on tiptoe to kiss him so softly and deeply he thought he might die. Her fingers tangled in his hair, and her breasts pushed against his chest, and he feared he might take her right on this ancient linoleum floor, but he was afraid to suggest moving, afraid to do anything to break this incredible spell.

  She surprised him by tugging on his T-shirt, which he yanked off in one quick swoop. Her hands roamed over his chest, warm and fluttering, inflaming his need for her. Without hesitation, he lifted her up and set her on the countertop, which set the coffeepot and some stray silverware to clattering. If her sweater hadn’t looked so expensive, he would’ve had it off of her without regard for the buttons, but he worked each one carefully, gritting his teeth for patience, until she finally shrugged it off and tossed it to the floor. Her white blouse promptly joined the sweater.

  Then, Saints Above, his breath snagged. She was sitting on that old yellow Formica countertop, in her skirt and heels and a delicate, lacy bra, her hair full and thick and tumbling about her beautiful face and shoulders, and he wished to God he could capture that image forever. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, stepping forward. Without hesitation, she wrapped her legs around his waist and tugged him against her.

  He picked her up and carried her to the living room, dragging his lips down her sweet neck as she angled to give him better access, threading her fingers through his hair, scraping them against his scalp.

  He set her down on the couch and stretched out over her. “You feel so good,” he growled against her skin. Her kisses were a drug, and he was getting lost in her, running his fingers over the lace of her bra, and at last, tugging away the lace and fitting his mouth over one pink nipple. She groaned and arched into him, her touches becoming frantic as they roamed over his back and tugged on his jeans.

  He’d just sucked her nipple into a taut, hard peak and begun doing the same to the other one when a phone rang. And rang. Hers. From somewhere. The kitchen.

  She lifted her head, but he kept kissing her, afraid to let go. But she murmured something against his lips that sounded like, I better get that, and pushed against him until he moved. She tumbled off the couch and ran to the kitchen, returning with the phone at her ear. He was disoriented, his breath coming in ragged pants, and the sight of her did not help one fricking bit. Her hair was wild, completely undone, her lips swollen, her chest blotchy from the scrape of his beard stubble, breasts spilling from the cups of her bra . . . basically she was every fantasy he’d ever had come to life.

  His entire body was on fire for her. Everything had felt so right, like something that’s been missed for so long, and when it’s finally found, you can rest and have peace. Home. His mind had felt it, and dammit, so had his soul in some basic, elemental way.

  “Sure, no problem,” she said into the phone. “No hard feelings, Bruno. Bye.”

  She threw her phone in her bag and looked at him. “Everything okay?” he asked, not really caring about Bruno. He wanted her on top of him, kissing him like that again. Judging by how hard he was right now, the rest of him did, too.

  “Bruno wanted to apologize. But he called my dad’s first, and he thinks my dad is worried because I’m not home yet. I should go.”

  He stood up and put his hands on her arms. “Don’t go. Stay.”

  She shook her head and stepped back. Reached up and touched his cheek.

  “That”—she nodded over to the couch—“shouldn’t have happened. It was a lapse of judgment. A mistake.” She was rubber-banding back her hair, pulling on her blouse, straightening her skirt, finding her shoes . . .

  He couldn’t let her leave. “It didn’t feel like a mistake, Bella.”

  She didn’t laugh, just began gathering her stuff. “I told my dad I wouldn’t be out too late. He still needs a bit of help getting ready for bed.” She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed to the door. She paused with one hand on the screen.

  He’d screwed up big time. Just when she’d finally let down her guard, finally started really talking to him, he’d violated the friend zone. He simply couldn’t help himself. Hell, she was no more his friend than unicorns pooped rainbows.

  “I—um.” He blew out a big breath, rubbing the back of his neck. Okay, he could do better than caveman talk. Just that most of his blood was still down south, away from his brain. “Sorry. I meant to keep it friendly between us.”

  But he wasn’t sorry. Not at all.

  “If this is how you treat all your friends, then we’re in a whole lot of trouble.” She tossed him a quick look over her shoulder. Her mouth was quirked up in the slightest smile.

  Then she was gone, leaving him listening to the sound of her heels crunching on the gravel drive.

  CHAPTER 1
4

  What the hell had she been thinking? Going over to Roman’s and letting her emotions get the best of her. Oh, those kisses had been terrible and wonderful, every cell in her body was on fire, and it had taken all her strength not to turn around and march right back to his door for more.

  She was a train wreck. Her brain was fogged with lust, her body no better. Thank God her phone had rung, because it had saved her from a horrific lapse of judgment.

  She’d almost told him the truth. About how she’d had to let him go all those years ago. But she’d chickened out, and it was probably for the best. What would be the point in stirring up old history? That would lead to imagining what could have been, dangerous ground she couldn’t walk on. It had taken her too many years to stop imagining that. Besides, Roman had always been so upright, so sincere. What would he think about being lied to?

  She did not want to start something up with Roman again, no matter how irresistible he was. First loves were always sentimental and irresistible, more based on hormones than reality. After all it took to forget him, she could not allow herself to fall for him again. The gossips would have their field day, and when things went south, as they inevitably would, she’d have to live with him in this town. Oh, and she was moving. All good reasons to stay the hell away from Roman Spikonos.

  The house was dark, except for the stove light in the kitchen and one small table lamp in the living room. The typical we’ve-gone-to-bed lights. Bella heaved a huge sigh as she tossed her keys across the countertop. Thank God no one was up, because she really hadn’t done a very good job tying back her hair or wiping off her smeared lipstick. Or calming down.

  Good Lord, she needed a drink. Or a gallon of ice cream. She headed into the kitchen, where she found an open bottle of red wine on the counter and took a decent drink, not bothering to pour it into a glass. Her entire body was buzzing, wired, wanting. Roman hadn’t lost his touch, or his ability to electrify her every nerve ending, just as he had so long ago.

  Those few wild, uninhibited moments with him had reminded her of someone—of the girl she used to be. Before life had happened and had dimmed the good parts of her down. Like the lightbulb in the lamp next to her father’s favorite chair. He kept it on the lowest setting to save it. From what, she wasn’t sure. Because lightbulbs were still pretty darn cheap. And youth—well, she still had it, but it wasn’t going to last forever.

  “Where have you been?” her father asked.

  She startled, setting the wine bottle down with a hard clink as the glass hit the granite, and wiped her mouth. Slowly, she turned. Her father was sitting in his favorite chair, a light-brown La-Z-Boy with a subtle geometric pattern she’d picked out for him. Comfortable and practical yet decently stylish, her fashion sense in a nutshell. Gracie sat at his feet, resting her head on his knee.

  “I stopped at Maggie’s after my date,” she lied. Almost thirty years old and still fibbing. There was something dramatically wrong with this picture.

  “Bruno called looking for you.”

  “I know, Pop. I came right home.” She walked over and sat on the couch next to her dad’s chair. He was absently stroking Gracie’s sweet little head, his seed catalogs and today’s newspaper folded in his lap. Memories hit her. At one time, she would’ve gotten a book and sat on the floor next to her dad. He’d pause from his reading and pat her on the head just like Gracie. There was a time when she could do no wrong in his eyes.

  In some ways, she was still that little girl longing to be in his good graces. Even though she’d hated what he’d done to her and Roman, she understood how she’d disappointed him. She’d been the one to fracture his image of her as a good, obedient daughter. She’d broken his heart when it was already shattered from the loss of her mother.

  But her father’s love came with too many caveats and expectations. She’d failed to live up to his standards, and he’d clung to his disappointment for years. And that disappointment would linger, perhaps his entire life, no matter what she did to try and rectify it.

  She wondered if penance had a time limit. She didn’t think so, at least as far as her father was concerned.

  Sometimes she wondered if the situation was like Roman had implied . . . that a part of all this was her own feeling that she’d disappointed him irreparably—that she’d projected her own disappointment of herself onto her father.

  Either way, it was pretty messed up.

  “He sounded upset,” her father said.

  “Oh, you know the Santoros,” she said, waving her arm dismissively. “I don’t think they want a career woman for their son.” Much less one who got knocked up in high school. Well, they’d have to work hard to find him an Italian virgin. Good luck in finding him a virgin of any nationality, in fact.

  “You’re too good for him anyway,” Vito said. He reached over and patted her hand. A quiet gesture. Two little pats. His hands were a bit older that what she’d remembered as a kid; they were weather toughened and mostly rough, but his touch felt good. It was a little sign of affection he had difficulty displaying otherwise.

  “They were looking for someone to quit their job to take care of the bambinos,” she said. “And probably to log in more than a few hours a week in the restaurant.”

  “He’s still a mama’s boy. He told me on the phone he’s living with his parents. What a persona pigra.”

  Italian for lazy, the kiss of death in her father’s eyes. She didn’t know about the lazy part, but Bruno did like his parents enough to take them with him on a first date. “Why’d you want me to go out with him, anyway?”

  He shrugged. “Italian, good family, trying to keep you away from bad influences.”

  “Right.” Like what he thought Roman was? The dog had crept over to her for some petting and was sniffing at her legs. Bella wondered if she smelled Roman’s scent on her. She gave her a good scratch behind the ears, and in return Gracie happily pressed against her leg, slid down and went belly up for more.

  “I promised your mother I’d find you somebody good to marry.”

  Bella looked up in surprise. “What?”

  “Before she died, she made me promise.” Her father touched her cheek. “You have a good heart, Arabella. Don’t ever sell yourself short.”

  Bella frowned. “What do you mean, Pop?”

  “All I’m saying is, you’ve waited this long. Don’t settle for someone who doesn’t make you happy.”

  “Do you mean Bruno? You don’t have to tell me that, Pop. No chemistry there, that’s for sure.” Thank her lucky stars her father wasn’t into brokering an arranged marriage with the Santoros. The relief was palpable.

  “No, not Bruno.” He paused a long time. She knew it was difficult for him to talk about personal matters. Like her love life. “I mean Ethan.”

  “Oh.” Bella was a little shocked. Her father loved Ethan like a son, and to say this . . . well. She had no words. For her father to actually talk to her about her happiness—and not have the conversation be about marrying a nice Italian boy or about encouraging her to return Ethan’s affection—it was a side of her father that left her speechless.

  “Gina told me he surprised you at that fancy restaurant at the marina. He’s been a good—friend, hasn’t he?” her father said. “But he doesn’t make you happy. Make sure you marry someone who does. Or your mother will never forgive me.”

  “I’ll do my best.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Can I help you get ready for bed now?”

  Her father picked up his newspaper. “I’m not tired just yet. But I’ll be fine. You go on up.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  As she and Gracie walked up the steps, Bella wondered what her father would have thought about Roman if he’d met him now for the first time. If she hadn’t gotten pregnant, if there’d been no history, no drama. Vito would have admired his work ethic, thought him enterprising, and thought his applejack idea was innovative.

  But there was a past, and she could not continue to dredge up all the pa
in from that time in her life again: the heartbreak of losing Roman, the loss of their baby, the anger at her father’s rigidity, the heartbreak of having to live a life here that she had never planned. Roman’s return had the potential to release a floodgate of emotion that she couldn’t bear fully opening again. Her fresh start did not include getting tangled back up with her painful past, no matter how tempting he was.

  “One more coat and it’ll be good as new, ladies,” Roman said, pushing the paint roller up and down Bella’s office wall on Monday evening as Bella watched from behind the reception area. But tried not to. It was just so hard with all those beautiful muscles flexing before her eyes. And remembering how she’d had her hands all over them this weekend wasn’t helping, either.

  Bella cleared her throat, which was suddenly very dry, and went back to checking her schedule.

  From behind Roman, out of his line of vision, Maggie flexed her own biceps and gave it a little squeeze and pointed to Roman, mouthing wow. Bella rolled her eyes and gestured for Maggie to move along, which she perversely did not do. Instead she lingered in the waiting room, pretending to read a magazine while she eavesdropped.

  “So how was your weekend?” Roman asked, barely disguising the smile that threatened to break out.

  “It was great, thanks.” Their recent make-out session loomed large in her thoughts. She couldn’t even remember the rest of the weekend. “How about yours?” she asked casually. At least, she tried to sound casual despite not feeling anywhere near casual at all.

  “Great. The roof’s coming along, and the barn is cleaned out and ready for the construction crew.” It was mesmerizing, watching those big golden muscles move up and down her wall, flexing like he was pumping iron. He turned around suddenly and caught her staring. Unfazed, he tossed her a caught-ya smile.

  She snapped her gaze back to her paperwork, which she’d reread at least three times. “Well, I’d love to chat, but our senior citizen group is starting soon.”