Page 11 of Dark Romeo

“From who?”

“Work.”

He snorted. “It’s a Saturday night, Capi. It’s our day off. Go have some fun,” he emphasized the word over the music in the background. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Fun. Right. I know what fun is.

I hung up and saw that another message had come through. My heart fluttered. Another one from Roman?

It wasn’t. It was from Christian.

Christian: I tried to call you. What are you up to tonight?

Christian Price was the son of Senator Price, my father’s childhood friend. Christian and I would sometimes see each other when my father dragged me to dinners at the senator’s mansion. If Christian was texting, he must be home from Princeton where he was finishing a bachelor of business or politics or something. My father didn’t hide that he encouraged Christian and me getting together.

Me: Sorry, I have plans tonight.

I felt a little bad for my lie. It was kinder than telling him the truth. I just didn’t want to date him.

Christian: Another time then.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Christian, just that I never felt 100% comfortable around him. Our silences felt stilted. Our conversations were just…bland. I mean, what did a homicide detective have to say to the silver-spooned son of a senator? I didn’t feel any chemistry. That zing. The electricity and fireworks that my mother promised I would feel when I’d found the right one.

Like you did with Roman. I shoved that thought away.

Almost like he knew I was thinking of him, my phone dinged with another text message.

Roman: Don’t make me come get you.

I chewed on my lip and my eyes went involuntarily to my front door as if he might come barreling through at any second. I shivered at the thought.

My front door remained silent.

I shook my head. Silly. He was bluffing. He didn’t know where I lived. How could he possibly find out?

I washed the dishes, dried them and put them away. All the while Roman’s face kept intruding into my mind. I threw the dish towel aside and folded my arms as I leaned against the counter. The clock read twenty minutes to ten…

Maybe there was something good on TV?

It was still twenty damn minutes to ten.

Dammit, I couldn’t sit around staring at the clock. I walked out of my apartment, leaving the door unlocked behind me. I was about to knock on the door opposite when it swung open.

Nora, my sixty-something-year-old neighbor, was dressed in a powder blue skirt suit trimmed with black and shiny black pumps a la Jackie Kennedy. It looked stunning against her dark chocolate skin. Her light gray hair was coiffed into a French bun. She had a dash of deep red lipstick across her thick lips.

“Wow, Nora, you look great!” I said.

She beamed at me. “Thank you, honey. Can’t chat now. I’m late. Ta-ta,” she called back at me as she strode down the hall to the elevator.

Damn. Even senior citizens had more of a life than I did.

I slunk back into my apartment, shutting the door behind me. What now? I could go over cold case files from work like I did most nights. For some reason, this didn’t appeal to me right now. I sighed. I was officially the lamest single twenty-five-year-old in all of Verona, home alone on her Saturday night off.

The silence of my apartment seemed so stark and empty, the echoing of my clock reminding me that every second was getting closer to ten p.m. and my chance to see Roman again was slipping away.

My phone dinged again.

Roman: Don’t break my heart, Jules…

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