Page 8 of Sinful Promises

I hopped out at my floor, and my stupid brain tried to tell me he was checking out my butt as I walked away.

Shit, Daisy, stop it. He’s not checking out your ass.

He was probably too busy checking his own reflection in the elevator mirrors.

Which, strangely, was something I’d never actually seen him do.

We met in the lobby— me dressed for another walking tour, with three-quarter-length leggings, a loose T-shirt, and my Converse sneakers, and him dressed for a freakin’ catwalk show in camel-colored chinos and a navy linen shirt with the top button undone.

Bloody hell. Why didn’t I get that memo?

There was no time to change, and feeling like the inferior Robin to his Batman, I set a pace, heading toward our meeting point for the tour.

We joined another twenty or so people at Piazza Barbarini, and within seconds of our arrival, several women were checking Roman out. With a blaze of jealousy coursing through me, I made sure my claim to him was well and truly known by curling my arm into his and peering up at him. “Right, mister. This is going to be fun. No gloomy stuff, okay?”

When he grinned at me, my heart fluttered. “Yes, boss.”

I slapped his bulging bicep. “I’m not your boss.”

“You can be.” His eyebrows did a tiny bounce. “If you want.”

Holy hotness. Was that a line? It was definitely a line. My girly bits purred.

Maybe being this close to him wasn’t such a good idea. I uncurled my arm.

But my attempt at distance was foiled when we climbed into the tour bus and sat with our thighs touching. The heat from his body had blood coursing through my veins so fast it was a wonder I didn’t keel over sideways.

I hated that he did these things to me.

Hated it. Hated it. And fucking loved it at the same time.

How could one man have so much power?

Being with Roman was like being free as a bird and yet trapped at the same time—imprisoned in a cage that thrust me forward and backward on a rubber band of hope.

Hope that I’d figure out what to do.

Hope that Roman would let go of my heart.

Hope that I’d actually be okay when that finally happened.

But right now, all I could hope for was getting through one day at a time in one piece.

Focus on the now, Daisy.

Focus on the now.

I repeated the mantra over and over as the heat from our thighs wrapped me in a blanket of warmth—like I was being hugged.

Thirty minutes later, we followed our leader and the rest of the group down a narrow mud-lined tunnel into the Christian catacombs. This was not a tour for claustrophobics. The tunnels were narrow and low. So low that nearly everyone, bar me, had to duck their heads. The farther we went, the more we descended and the cooler the air became.

We stopped at a tiny space where large rectangular cavities were carved into dirt-lined walls. As we gathered around to listen to our guide, I snuggled in next to Roman. Out of necessity, of course.

“Can anyone tell me what these are?” Matteo spoke in whispers as if the dead could hear us.

“Graves,” someone called out.

“Correct. But notice how small they are? Many were children. Malnourishment and disease meant many people didn’t live beyond their teenage years.”

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