I punch my pillow for the twelfth time tonight before I roll over and squeeze my eyes closed, willing my body to sleep. It’s a pointless task, and I let out a frustrated groan before reaching over to my nightstand and grabbing my phone.

It’s four in the morning, and I know I’m not going to be getting any sleep tonight. The text message from Drizzle is still unopened on my home screen.

I miss you, babe. Come over tonight. I’m so hard for you.

I cringe again as I remember the expression on Roman’s face as he read that message. The look of shock, of disgust. I feel embarrassed just thinking about it.

I hate that I’m so embarrassed. Seriously, screw Roman! He is just as much of a sleaze, kissing me when he has a girlfriend. Of two years! How did it not even cross my mind that he might have a girlfriend? Shakira. What kind of name was that, anyways?

Obviously it was the name of some exotic, gorgeous woman—the kind of woman who was effortlessly beautiful, had flawless, perpetually tan skin, and long dark hair. She was sultry and had a sexy accent. She probably spoke a few languages, knew how to cook, was sophisticated and elegant. She was likely everything I wasn’t, since he made it painfully clear that I was the epitome of everything that annoyed and irritated him.

I clap my hands, turning on the lights, and make my way to the bathroom. The generous overhead lights are not very kind this morning as I prod the large bags under my eyes. Since Roman had moved in, I’d slept so well. Now I’m back to insomnia, and looking like an extra from The Walking Dead. Fantastic.

I splash cold water on my face and crawl back into bed with my laptop. I scroll through my social media, taking some time to answer a few questions on Twitter and “like” some fan art on Instagram. I relish quiet moments like these, when I can take the time to respond to those fans whose unflagging loyalty never fades. After a while, I switch to my private account, the one where I post silly photos of me and my niece, Isabel, and screenshots of the stupid memes and texts that my brother Lawrence sends me. Gabby’s feed is just a long series of pictures with all her law school books piled high, with dorky captions about how thrilled she is to be learning torte review, whatever that is. Every few pictures, she’ll post a cute selfie with her gorgeous boyfriend, Liam. He posts less frequently, and his whole page is basically a shrine to Gabby, featuring one picture after another with her. Lawrence isn’t much better: all his posts feature his leading lady, Isabel. I worry about his obsession with his daughter. I don’t think he’s been on a date in years, and he sends me far too many pictures of him hosting tea parties with his daughter’s teddy bear collections. I want to ridicule him for it, but he looks so happy. They all do.

A loud yawn escapes from my mouth and I decide it’s time for me to end the pity party and get my morning coffee. I pad out to the kitchen and stop dead in my tracks when I see Roman, shirtless and wearing only a pair of low-slung sweatpants that, if they fell just a half inch lower, could shred what little self-restraint I possess and force me back upstairs to grab my dusty vibrator from the nightstand and lock myself away for the morning.

I push those thoughts away, remembering that Shakira (ugh, I still can't say that name without wanting to vomit) is in the picture. Just the thought of her makes the tingling in my lady bits from seeing a half-naked Roman start to dissipate. I take a step closer and overhear Roman in a very heated argument with my coffee machine as he repeatedly presses the power button, grunting with annoyance when nothing happens.

“You managed to piss off my coffee machine, too?” I ask, relishing the look of surprise on his face as he whips around to face me.

“It’s idiotic!" he bellows, shoving a hand through his hair in frustration. "The thing makes no goddamn sense. I just want a cup of coffee.”

I roll my eyes and walk over, pushing him out of the way with my hip. I lock my eyes on his as I reach for the cord behind the machine and plug it into the wall socket. I use every ounce of self-restraint to not burst out laughing when I watch his eyes widen, then an annoyed scowl creep up his face as he realizes his error. Opening the drawer underneath revealing an assortment of different individual coffee packs, I grab the Colombian coffee blend and pop it into the machine. “Here. This is the darkest roast I have.” I grab the sugar and pour two spoonfuls into an empty mug as the machine whirrs to life. I place it under the spout as the coffee begins to drip into the mug.

“Thanks,” Roman mutters as he crosses his arms at his chest.

“You’re welcome," I reply, making an effort to bestow upon him my sweetest smile.

As soon as his coffee finishes, I make my own and we both drink in silence. I focus my attention on the coffee in my mug, refusing to look at him or, God forbid, his abs.

I clear my throat and feign an intense interest in my coffee mug. “So, I’m just going to hang out for the day. Maybe do something with Mel. You can have the day off, or whatever.” I shrug my shoulders, doing my best to look unaffected as I add, “Maybe go see Shakira.”

I dare myself to look up and read his reaction. His face hardens. “You hired me to protect you. I’m not leaving your side.”

I roll my eyes. “Protect me? Please, get over yourself. Just say ‘thank you’ and take the day off.”

“The whole idea of a protective service, Daphni, is that I need to be with you. I know you have a habit of shrugging off your protective detail and finding trouble.”

I give him an annoyed look but before I can even open my mouth to object, Roman takes a step in my direction, holding up his hand to silence me.

I clench my jaw in annoyance and roll my neck, ready to engage in yet another battle with this man. But before I can shoot out my next barb, another genius idea pops into my head instead.

Okay, Roman Brantley. Game on.

Pasting a bright smile on my face, I nod eagerly instead of arguing, drawing a suspicious look from Roman.

“You know what? You are right. And I just remembered that I have an appointment. In an hour. So please get ready.” And before he can object, I drop my coffee onto the counter and rush out of the kitchen, revenge the only thing on my mind.

* * *

“Daphni! Welcome back!” Trina, clad in her usual uniform of muted navy-blue scrubs and white clogs, greets me as I step through the door. Even with short notice, she is always able to accommodate me, and that is the main reason I keep coming back. That, and because they make killer mimosas.

I smile at the warm reception and give Trina a quick kiss on each cheek. “Thank you for squeezing me in.”

“Of course! We have you booked for the manicure, pedicure, massage, and facial today. Will you be adding any specials today?”

“No, that sounds perfect.”

Roman clears his throat behind me and digs the keys out of his pocket. “What time should I pick you up?” he asks.

“Pick me up?” I ask in mock horror as my hand clutches my heart. “But Roman, you can’t leave my side. You need to protect me,” I say, throwing his words back at him.

His eyes darken and he crosses his arms again over his chest. He elected for his usual uniform today of a plain white T-shirt, faded jeans, and high-top Chuck Taylors. If he wasn’t so jacked and muscular, he would look like a band geek who kept his iTunes fully stocked with every Phish song. On him, though, the whole thing just works, and looks effortlessly sexy. It’s obnoxious.

“You need to be protected here? Getting a massage?” he asks.

“I do,” I insist as I bat my eyelashes. He glowers down on me and I know I’ve won this round. I turn to the receptionist. “We’ll be needing to add an extra person for my treatments today.”