Breaking Roman (The Moran Family Book 3)

by Alexis James

  Taking one more step puts us barely two feet apart, close enough that I can just get a hint of her subtle perfume. “I asked you to call me Roman.”

  She gives me what I assume is a stern expression, one I want to kiss right off her pretty face. “And I’m telling you that this … all of this … is very inappropriate.”

  “Fuck appropriate,” I growl. For a brief moment she looks like she wants to jump into my arms, her armor falling away bit by bit, warmth filling her once hesitant eyes. But the moment is fleeting, and she walks away as swiftly as possible, leaving me standing there with my dick in my hand, feeling like a total and complete fool.

  Slamming the palm of my hand onto the up arrow, I keep my gaze on her as she moves to the end of the garage and climbs into an old Honda Civic. Not the sort of car I pictured a classy lady like her owning but to each his own. Not once does she look back, even though I fully believe she knows I’m still standing right where she left me.

  Could I have screwed that up any more than I did? Where the hell did that even come from? I went from babbling and barely being able to talk to the woman to getting in her personal space and demanding answers to questions I had no right asking in the first place. And now because of that, my job could be on the line. Especially since I don’t doubt that she’ll take her complaint about me directly to Cruz’s office first thing tomorrow morning.

  The last thing I want or need is dissention at work. I sure as hell don’t want her lodging a complaint about me, which will only lead to questions I’m not ready to answer. I’m well aware, though, that I’m completely to blame. I was out of line. We’ve barely said more than a dozen words to one another, so why the hell did I feel like I had the right to turn personal all of sudden and start spouting invitations and demands?

  Stepping inside the elevator, I begrudgingly head to the thirtieth floor to attempt to right this wrong. Face your problems head-on, Mama always says. Mia’s desk is empty, but Cruz’s office door is open and when I step over the threshold, I’m slightly annoyed that they didn’t make use of the lock. She’s perched on his lap and they’re in a lip locked … like really lip locked … the kind that involves a lot of tongue. The kind that usually leads to all sorts of dirty, naked things.

  “Really, you two? You do have a home, you know. And a perfectly good bed.”

  Mia shoots to her feet, straightening her skirt and shifting her eyes. “Uh … hi, Roman.”

  I smile at her and snicker as her face turns bright red. “Hi, sweetness. You guys having fun?” She moves quickly past me and back to her desk.

  “What do you want, Roman?” Cruz snarls. He discretely runs his thumb over his lips, clearly perturbed that I interrupted their little make-out session.

  He may technically be my boss, but first and foremost he’s my big brother—the same guy I’ve been able to count on my entire life. Because of that family loyalty, I know he’ll at least hear me out before he explodes. “I gotta talk to you. I fucked up.”

  He points to a chair. “Okay. Have a seat and tell me what happened.”

  “It’s probably nothing,” I backpedal.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  I settle in across from him and prop my bag up against the edge of chair. Running my fingers through my too-long, wavy hair, I prop my elbows on my knees and look directly at him. “I asked Sabrina out.”

  He looks mildly stunned. “And what did she say to that?”

  “She said it was inappropriate.” I toss in air quotes because I’m still feeling butt-hurt at her response.

  Cruz leans back in his chair. “And?”

  “And I may have said …” Shit, I feel like a damn child, coming clean with my parent.

  “Roman, what did you say?” He says each word slowly, as if he fully expects me not to understand his request.

  How the hell did I get here anyway? All I wanted was to take a pretty lady out for dinner and now look what’s happened. He’s probably itching to ream me a new one in about a dozen different ways. “Uh … I might have told her to fuck being appropriate.”

  He glares at me and his jaw ticks in anger. “You said what?”

  Shooting to my feet, I start to pace. “I was pissed, so I reacted.” Tearing my hands through my hair again, I mutter, “She’s so damn beautiful.”

  Cruz slowly rises and like a panther stalking his prey, he moves toward me until he’s looming over me. I’m a tall man, well over six feet, and yet he still somehow manages to make me feel like a child. “You are aware of our company policy on this subject, yes? No dating coworkers. Sound familiar?”

  Taking a step back, I snap, “Of course I am. As are you, but that didn’t stop you from going after Mia.”

  “Leave my wife out of this.” He moves toward the wall of windows and in his reflection, I can see the anger start to fade. “You can’t date her. You understand this, right?”

  “I can’t date her because she doesn’t want me to. Not yet at least. But not because I give one fuck about your lame company policy.”

  The only people who have ever been able to hold their own against him are Marco and myself, and even I’ll admit that doing so can sometimes be damn terrifying. Cruz is that silent predator, ready and willing to kill with one hard glance, one snap of his fingers. But he’s also the same guy who defended me against bullies when I was eight and came to each and every football game. No matter how rocky things might get here at the office, he is always my big brother.

  He turns to face me, leaning against the glass. “Why her, Roman? Why her, when you can have your pick of women in Miami?” I shrug and stay silent, because there’s no way in Hell I’m telling him that I’ve crushed on this woman for years now. I look like a big enough jerk as it is. “My employee will not be another notch on your bedpost. Is that understood?”

  I lift my head, daring him. “And if it’s not?”

  Cruz sighs. “Don’t make me do this, Roman. Get your rocks off someplace else. Sabrina is off limits.”

  His warning is crystal clear, as I knew it would be. But the idea that he’d fire me over something like this most certainly doesn’t sit right. “Fuck you, Cruz. I’ll see who I want to see.”

  Mia steps inside the office and looks back and forth between us with concern. “Please don’t fight, you two.”

  Mentally and physically exhausted, I grab my bag and step up next to her, dropping a kiss on her head and murmuring. “See ya, Mia.”

  “Roman! Dammit, we’re not finished.” Cruz follows me down the hall toward the elevator. “I’m not done speaking with you about this.”

  Shooting a hard, sideways glance his way, I snarl, “Too bad. I’m done. With all of it.” I leave my own warning hanging in the air as the elevator doors close and only then does all the fight escape me as I slump against the wall.

  I hate fighting with my siblings, but I especially hate fighting with Cruz. I depend on him too much sometimes so erecting a wall between us just feels wrong on every level. And while I completely understand that he has an obligation to the company he runs, he—more than anyone—has to understand how ineffective that damn office policy is. A lot of people who date within the company, so if I know about it I’m certain he does as well. This is more about me not being right for her rather than upholding some lame company policy that’s completely outdated.

  I make quick work of dropping off the papers to Lou then climb back on the elevator and head out for the night. My phone rings just as I pull out of the parking garage, but I know without looking who it is. Cruz hates tension as much as I do, so I’m sure he’s going to calmly try to make me see his side of things. After years of admiring Sabrina from afar, I’m not about to let him discourage me—threat or no threat. I’ll play it cool, maybe I’ll apologize to her, but then again, maybe I won’t. The only apology I’m willing to make at this point is for cursing in front of her. The rest … well, even though she dissed me, there’s been a definite change in the air between us. All I can do is hold on to that a
nd move forward.

  The car sputters to a stop as I pull into the driveway. My poor baby has seen better days, but it’s been such a reliable vehicle for so many years I hate to think about replacing it. The door creaks when I push it open, step out, and breathe in the warm Miami air. I’m dog tired, asleep on my feet, but I’m fully aware my day won’t officially end for at least another few hours. Such is the life of a single mom, I think as I stroll up the walkway toward the front door.

  The house is ablaze with lights and while I cringe at the idea of the impending electrical bill, I certainly can’t begrudge my daughter the small bit of security she feels being in a well-lit house. I can’t blame her at all really. We don’t exactly live in the best neighborhood and even though we have good people living in the homes on our block, and my best friend lives in the adjoining duplex, we’re still consciously aware of the crime that takes place in this part of town.

  In addition to all of the lights being on, the television blares in the empty living room, and I can hear music coming from her bedroom. Securing the locks behind me, I toss my purse and satchel down onto the counter and glance around. As usual, the kitchen is a mess with remnants of the meal she cooked for the two of us and an overflowing sink full of dishes. This is my tradeoff for a meal we share together most nights during the week: at least an hour’s worth of cleaning and straightening up before I can even think about turning in for the night.

  “I’m home!”

  Kicking off my sensible yet uncomfortable shoes, I pad barefoot into the kitchen and pull a wine glass down from the cupboard. My one reward each night is a full glass of red wine, and believe me, I enjoy every single sip. Sure, the wine is rotgut and cheap, but if I close my eyes I can pretend that it’s not and that I’m not a worn-out thirty-something single mom of a teenager.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  I turn to enfold my daughter in my arms, holding her close and breathing in the sweet smell of strawberries from her hair. This is the best part of my day, the part when everything else falls away—all the constant issues and problems that I face running an entire human resources department, managing a large group of my own employees and keeping up with constant demands for new employees. Sure, I love my job and I’m blessed to have it, but there are days, today being one of them, when I long for the days when I was that lower level nothing sitting in the cubicle punching a time card. Those days are long gone now and while I’m thankful for the more than generous salary I earn, I earn every single bit of it.

  “You’re late today,” she murmurs, tipping her head back to smile at me.

  My hands frame her face as I drop a kiss on her forehead and move toward the oven. “Sorry, hon. You must be starved.”

  She shrugs. “Not really. I had a snack while I studied for my English test.”

  By the time we’re seated at the small, rickety dining table, she’s talking a mile a minute and clueing me in on every aspect of her day. This is our time, the mother and daughter time I count on at the end of each day, time when we can simply reconnect with one another. When I got pregnant, I never imagined I’d be raising my child alone. I never imagined I’d be sending her off to school each day with a one mile walk through a less than desirable part of town, to a less than desirable school. But I’ve learned in the years since Emmy was born, choices are few and far between when you are a young mother trying to make your way in life on your own. I might always be able to count on my parents for emotional support, but financial support was simply something they’ve never been able to provide. Sure, they allowed us to live with them and did what little they could for us, but the responsibility to care for me and my daughter has always weighed completely on my shoulders.

  Moving to Miami was step one in declaring myself an independent person and now five years later, I can call myself successful. Emmy and I are light years removed from the small bedroom we shared in my parents’ house for the first ten years of her life; while I will never consider this duplex an ideal place to live, it’s all mine. Granted, it’s just a rental, a crummy one at that, but I’ve got great neighbors who look out for my girl and the constant presence of my best friend nearby, so I can’t complain.

  “There’s a dance in a few weeks.”

  My eyes roll over to hers, and I grin. “Oh yeah? You gonna go?”

  She shrugs and pokes at the meatloaf on her plate. “I don’t know. Gotta see what the girls wanna do.”

  The girls would be her two closest friends, Maureen and Maya, better known in our house as M & M. The three girls have been inseparable since we first moved to town, both living a few houses down from us and offering my daughter what she desperately needs on her walk to and from school each day: safety in numbers. They offer her many other things, of course, but to a worrywart mother like myself, that sense of safety is priceless.

  Once we’re done eating and she’s back in her room doing homework, I refill my wine glass and roll up my sleeves. I love my daughter more than life itself, and I’m grateful that she somehow manages to get a meal on the table for us each evening, but she doesn’t know one thing about cleaning as you go, even though I’ve harped this subject to death until I’m blue in the face. I’m thankful I have a dishwasher and grateful she at least thought to soak the stuck-on pans so with that in mind I get the water going and get to work.

  Fuck appropriate.

  Squeezing my eyes closed, I shove the thought aside and force myself to think of something else. Like the student loan payment that’s due on Friday or the nonexistent plans I have for the upcoming weekend.

  I asked you to call me Roman

  Stop it, Sabrina. Stop it right this minute. You have no business thinking about him or that strange conversation from earlier tonight. So what if he asked you out and flirted with you in your office. None of that matters. Regardless of what he says, it is inappropriate. Every single little teeny bit of it. Even these wayward thoughts are inappropriate.

  Fuck appropriate.

  Slamming my hands, I cause a rush of water to cascade over the front of my blouse. The sheer material adheres to my breasts, outlining nipples that have remained untouched for far too many years.

  Oh good gracious … really?

  Scrubbing hard on the chipped Pyrex dish, I make a quick internal grocery list, run through a few things I need to accomplish this weekend, and avoid gazing at my reflection in the small window that looks out onto the side yard. I know what I’ll see there if I do: the shocked, needy expression I’m certain I wore in the parking garage when he was standing in my personal space, asking me questions he had no right asking in the first place.

  Fuck inappropriate.

  I close the dishwasher door, mumbling to myself, and wring out the dishrag. Briefly, I consider opening another bottle of wine then immediately cast the thought aside when I take a quick inventory of my measly stash. I’ve got one bottle to get me through until payday, so I’d better be stingy with it. As it is, I never should have greedily refilled my glass, but I blame it on all the intrusive questions and the … the …

  Oh dear God … that man is gorgeous.

  I give my eyes another hard squeeze, gather up my shoes, and lock up for the night. After kissing Emmy goodnight, I shut myself in my room and quickly shed my clothes then pull on the ratty nightgown that I’ve owned since I was in high school. Kind of like the beat-up, old dresser that I still use and the same queen-sized mattress I hauled all the way from California. Nothing in this room is new or even in decent condition, but it’s all mine and it’s the one place where I can turn off all the worries from the day, close my eyes, and wish for a time when things were easier.

  The tiny adjoining bathroom isn’t fancy, but I enjoy the convenience of having a space all to myself. I quickly wash my face and brush my teeth then turn out the lights and crawl between the cool sheets with a sigh.

  The moment my eyes close, his face swims to the surface. Roman Moran, just like his brothers, is a thing of beauty. And while his two older brothers r
esemble one another so closely they sometimes look like twins, his lighter coloring and mocha colored eyes stand out and are dangerous to me. Very, very dangerous. He’s not nearly as intimidating and intense as Cruz, or as brash and cocky as Marco, but there’s something about him that scares me to death.

  I’ve heard about his reputation, even though I make a conscious effort not to get sucked into the office gossip. It’s difficult to un-hear certain things, especially when I admit that I’m desperate for any news about the man I barely know. I do know about his nickname, and he’s honestly earned it.

  Despite being alone, I’ve done well in life. My solitude is not by choice, not really anyway. I am first and foremost a mother and because of that, I don’t have the luxury to date various men or parade them in and out of my daughter’s life. In truth, the last man I dated was her father, jerk that he was (and probably still is). I blame myself for that choice, though, since I willingly bought into every sleazy line he fed me right up until he promised to stand by my side throughout my pregnancy. I knew that one was a lie.

  The funny thing is I don’t even know how to miss things like companionship and love. And since I can barely remember what sex is like, I can’t really miss that either. There is a part of me that longs for a partner, someone to bounce worries and fears off of, someone to snuggle up to each night. Sadly, I’m fully aware that any longing I might have will have to be put on the backburner until Emmy goes off to college.

  I highly doubt someone as handsome and charming as Roman Moran could measure up to all I need in my life. Oh, I’m certain he’d fill all the requisites, warm body and all, but he’s not partner material, and he’s sure as heck not father material either. Not that I’m looking for a father for my daughter, but I doubt he’d spend one more minute with me if he knew I came fully attached with my own set of fifteen-year-old baggage.

  Still, I do think about him sometimes. I marvel at the shy nervousness he displayed, right up until this morning when his guard came down and he attempted to flirt with me. There was nothing shy or nervous about him in the parking garage earlier either and in fact, if I had to guess, I’d say I was probably seeing the real him for the first time. How ironic, but I know little about the man I’ve secretly admired for the past few years. A part of me would really, really like to know more but the wary part knows I should take off running in the opposite direction and never stop.