Page 12 of Owning Emma
Chapter 7
ROMAN
The whole livingarrangement wasn’t awful, and even though she was here grudgingly, she took it in stride. I couldn’t be more thankful for it because the last thing I could deal with this week was more fucking drama. I swear, work drama was coming out of my ears, flowing out of my nose, streaming out of my ass. Every time I turned around, something broke down, someone quit, or we were short on supplies. It all left me so fucking puzzled because I ordered the last batch of supplies myself, and there was no fucking way it just disappeared so quickly.
My suspicions were high, but how was I going to voice it? I couldn’t outright accuse my men of stealing from me, from all of us, but something wasn’t right. Shaw had been looking into the money aspect of my suspicions, but that was a slow process, paperwork always was. Without all the hard copies of paper from all the branches of businesses we dipped into, there was no way for him to verify my suspicions and account for the money we couldn’t seem to find.
So we waited.
Each day seemed triple the stress as the day before, but with no end in sight. The thought that someone I trusted, someone close to me, someone most likely living on my land, held up in one of the condos, was stabbing me in the back - well, it practically gutted me. My men, my people, the only people I could trust to have my back, may not be all that trustworthy after all.
The moment I walked into my house, I sighed with relief to be home. After tossing my keys in the bowl my mom placed on a table by the front door, I kicked off my boots. Walking through the living room, I peeled off my shirt and tossed it on the back of the couch. I then unbuttoned my belt and pants and headed to the kitchen to wash the grime off my hands.
Flicking on the water, I ran my hands underneath the cold stream, savoring the refreshing bit against my skin. I grabbed a scrub brush, squirted soap, and lathered it against the bristles. Most days, I didn’t mind working with my hands; other days, like today, when my back felt like it’s one wrong turn away from breaking and my bones felt ages older than they were, I wished I was book smart like Shaw.
“Don’t you dare,” came my mama’s voice behind me, and I inhaled deeply, trying to find my center.
“What am I doing wrong now, mama?” I asked, waiting for her to give me a whole list of reasons she was yelling at me in my own damn home.
“Using the vegetable scrub brush for your fingernails, you better hope you’ve never done this before, son.” Knowing she couldn’t see me, I rolled my eyes and stared at the ceiling. A guy couldn’t even get a moment's peace in his own fucking home.
“Never,” I lied, trying to appease her so she would leave me alone.
“Roman, where’s your shirt?” And here we go.
I spun around, determined to lay down the law, the law of my own damn house. But my mother wasn’t alone, which I hadn’t expected. There, standing to the right of my mother was Emma, dressed in a pair of faded skinny jeans and a long-sleeve shirt the color of wine. Her feet were bare. She probably left her shoes by the front door where Shaw and I usually did. I hadn’t seen much of her, not in my home, at least. I’d seen her at dinner in the rec room every night. I’d seen her playing cards with the boys, learning pool, becoming a staple. But here in the home, she made herself scarce. Except, every morning when I left for work, and I picked up my boots, they were sitting next to the tiniest pair of shoes I’d ever seen. Her shoes, a reminder that maybe Shaw and I shouldn’t be such slobs. Maybe I shouldn’t have flung my shirt over the back of the couch without care. I should perhaps wash a dish every once in a while, or leave the toilet seat down in the downstairs bathroom.
But isn’t that what I was paying her for? To pick up my fucking messes, so I didn’t have to? To help my mom clean and prep the food she insisted on cooking for the lot of men, to wash my damn socks, and make herself scarce while doing so?
Her fucking enormous green eyes stared at me from across the room, taking me in, almost making me want to shift from foot to foot, awaiting her approval. Her gaze skimmed my body, a leisurely stare, stopping to spend some extra time taking in the ink that decorated my chest and forearms. I found myself hoping she liked it, wanting her approval, then hating that this girl, this employee of mine, made me feel this way. I didn’t seek approval; I didn’t grovel for it, I wouldn’t ask permission. Everything I’d ever wanted was easily mine, and I didn’t need this little girl’s approval to please me.
Remembering my mother’s question, I forced my attention in her direction instead of at the brunette standing at her side. “I took it off when I came in.”
My mother’s face was covered in annoyance. “And left it on the couch in the living room we just finished picking up, and dusting, and vacuuming less than two hours ago, I’m sure.”
“I would have picked it up right after I finished washing my hands.” Lie, until now, I didn’t care if my dirty clothes were flung from the fucking chandelier, but I would be good as dead if I admitted that to my mother.
“Good, then you don’t mind picking it up after you wash your hands in the BATHROOM.” She put extra emphasis on where she felt washing my hands was appropriate. If you asked me, a fucking sink was a fucking sink. She should be thankful I didn’t want to eat at the rec hall with grease caked under my nails.
“Don’t you have your own home to micromanage?” I was probably pushing it, but it had been a long fucking week, and I just wanted to have a few moments to do whatever I damn well pleased.
“Do you want to test me, son? I don’t care how old you are; I will throw you over the knee and paddle your behind.” Next to her, Emma smirked, amused by my mother’s threat. I doubt if I tossed her over my knee, she would find a paddling nearly as amusing, though.
I held my hands up in the air in surrender, not because I feared my mother, but because she was my mother, and even though she drove me crazy, she had good intentions in mind. “Fine, to the bathroom, I go.”
I took my steps in their direction slowly, keeping my hands raised. I imagine at this point, she knew I was mocking her, but she didn’t voice it. She just nodded and watched me, a gleam of approval in her eye. It only took a few strides before I was standing in front of them both, peering down as I towered above their heads. The space to pass them was small, and if I’d been polite, I would have used manners, excused myself, and asked to get by. But that wasn’t me. I was Roman fucking Ortiz, and in this neck of the words, my word was close to godly, my actions were final, my orders to be carried out.
So, I took advantage of the small space left between Emma and the door frame, wedging my body between her and the wood. My abdomen and hips skimmed her body, her chest rubbing against my bare skin, and despite my mother standing inches away, I probably enjoyed the touch a little too much. I heard her breath hitch, her green eyes staring directly at me, and I paused in my movements, taking her in, drinking in every little freckle that peppered the bridge of her nose.
My mother cleared her throat, making her presence known, and I squeezed the rest of the way through the door frame, savoring the feel of brushing against her. I didn’t dare look back, not wanting to know if she felt the pull, the spark, the zing of electricity that her body against mine ignited.
The moment I got inside the bathroom, I slammed the door behind me. Turning the cold water on, I leaned over the sink, splashing the water over my face, cooling the unwanted thoughts that her expressive face provoked. Thoughts about her would not help the situation; if anything, they would only make it worse. Emma Stevenson was completely off-limits. She’s untouchable to the boys, to Shaw, to me. No fucking way was I about to fuck this over even more by adding her to my mix of unwanted drama.
* * *
I shouldn’t letit bother me so much that Emma and the boys enjoyed each other’s company. I made it perfectly clear to everyone that she was completely off-limits, a no-touch zone, a casualty of a wrong arrangement. But, watching her mill around the boys, laughing at their jokes, unaware that they were checking out her ass, undressing her with their eyes, well, it infuriated me. She’s too damn innocent, too fucking pure to be in a hall full of half-drunk men, offering them a plate of seconds and avoiding their grabby hands.
There should be no fucking grabby hands.