Free Roulette by Megan Mulry

my mother is a seducer by trade. And not just sexual seduction, either—the woman nearly makes love to a croissant. I don’t even resent it anymore; it’s just the way she is. So if Rome wants to play it all goddess-lips for a few more hours, that’s fine with me. Compliment away.
    I stretch out in every direction in the now-free bed and take a deep hit off the pillow where he slept. It’s a mix of earthy, exotic French cologne and Rome’s own smoky, masculine scent. I try to capture it like an image. I read somewhere that olfactory memories can be really powerful. I want to be reminded of how I feel just now, physical and alive, with my body humming in the perfect balance between what happened throughout the night and what is about to happen in the shower. I want to keep this as a private hidden memory just for me, something separate from my regular life back home in the States.
    “Now!” he calls from the shower, and I bound out of bed and into his slippery, welcoming arms.
    An hour later we are driving back to my office in silence and it’s like a curtain is coming down on our little one-act play. We’re in the back of his hired limo, and it no longer feels like the languid silence of the hotel room while we were getting dressed and still giving each other all those flirty once-overs. I start to check emails, when my cellular signal perks up and then my phone rings. My thumb is already hovering over the screen, so I accidentally answer the call.
    Landon.
    “Hey, beautiful! Where’ve you been?” He sounds like he is walking and talking. I can hear the hospital loudspeaker in the background. In the quietness of the backseat, Rome probably can hear it, too.
    “Hey,” I answer. “Sorry, I was out of range for a while. I ended up going out—”
    “No worries. I won’t keep you. We’ve been invited to the Pearsons’ for dinner Sunday night. Do you want to go? Think you’ll be back in time? Up for it?” He answers a nurse or someone who is asking him to confirm a dosage for a patient, saying something about micrograms.
    “I should be back,” I say. “Do you want me to call Stephanie, or will you?”
    “I’m playing tennis with George today, so I’ll tell him we’ll be there. Have a safe flight back. I’ll talk to you soon. Have to hop.”
    The line goes dead, and I look up to see Rome staring out the other window. Smoking.
    “Sorry about that,” I say.
    He turns to look at me. His game face is back. The half grin, the slightly raised eyebrow. “Don’t be silly. No need to apologize. Real life returns, eh?”
    He doesn’t sound particularly disappointed . . . Oh, but his eyes.
    I can see that his phone is also lighting up to indicate an incoming call, but instead of taking it, he slides his thumb across the DECLINE tab and slips it back into his pocket. I feel like I was the one who put an abrupt end to the end.
    He starts to speak, then stops.
    “Just say it,” I mumble to my lap.
    “Do you love him, Miki?”
    It’s my turn to look out the window. How the hell should I know if I love Landon? I’m just trying to do the next right thing. Landon is definitely the next right thing. Deep down, I think love is a bit of a racket. I guess I’m a cynic.
    “Rome . . .”
    “Forget I asked. It’s none of my business.”
    Damn it. I suddenly want it to be his business. I want him to want it to be his business. I know he is trying to respect that I had a life before he showed up— have a life. Even so, for a split second, I wish he’d be a tad less respectful and just demand things of me and tell me how he is going to rip me out of the life I had before he showed up.
    I guess he is the grown-up after all, because the fact that I think I need to be rescued is seriously messed up. Plus, even if I were to go out on a limb and pursue it, what sort of long-term relationship could ever live up to this spectacular day and night of bliss?
    That sort of thing just can’t be maintained over the long