Page 32 of Sexting the Billionaire

The compliment warms me more than it should. "Thank you. That means a lot."

A comfortable silence falls as we both focus on dessert. It's strange how easy it is to talk to him now, how the initial awkwardness has given way to something that feels almost like friendship—albeit friendship with an undercurrent of simmering attraction neither of us acknowledges out loud.

"May I ask you something personal?" Roman says suddenly.

I tense slightly, uncertain where this is going. "That depends on how personal."

"Why fashion? What drew you to this industry?"

Not what I was expecting. I consider the question while finishing the last bite of chocolate decadence.

"My sister, actually. Mia. She's been obsessed with design since she could dress herself. I used to make clothes for her dolls because we couldn't afford store-bought ones."

Roman looks genuinely interested. "And that led to design school?"

"Eventually. I was planning on something more practical—business or accounting. But my mom got sick during my senior year of high school."

Roman's expression softens. "I'm sorry."

"She's in remission now. Has been for years. But spending months in hospital rooms with her, watching her fight so hard to stay alive... it changed my perspective. Life's too short to do something that doesn't light you up inside."

"So you followed your passion instead of practicality," he concludes.

"And now I'm helping Mia do the same," I say with a small smile. "She's in design school, following her dream. She's brilliant—going to be far better than I am someday."

A strange expression crosses Roman's face—something almost wistful. "You're close to her."

"She's my favorite person in the world," I say simply. "What about you? Did you always know you'd go into the family business?"

Roman's expression shutters slightly. "Not always, no. But that's a story for another time." He signals for the check. "It's getting late, and we both have morning meetings tomorrow."

I blink at the sudden shift, wondering what I said wrong. But before I can puzzle it out, he's paying the bill and helping mewith my coat, the perfect gentleman despite the abrupt end to our dinner.

"I'll have my driver take you home," he says as we step outside into the cool night air.

"That's not necessary," I protest. "I can get a cab."

"It's nearly midnight," he points out. "And my car is already here."

Sure enough, a sleek black Mercedes idles at the curb, driver standing at attention beside it.

"Ms. Monroe needs to be taken home," Roman instructs the driver. "Then you can return for me."

"Very good, sir," the driver responds, opening the back door with practiced efficiency.

I hesitate, suddenly uncomfortable with the idea of riding in Roman's personal car while he waits on the sidewalk. It feels too intimate somehow, despite the professional context of our dinner.

"You're overthinking this," Roman says softly, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy. "It's just a car ride, Cassie."

The use of my first name, spoken low enough that only I can hear it, sends a shiver down my spine. This is the first time he's called me Cassie in person.

"Thank you for dinner," I say, trying to regain my professional composure. "And for the ride."

"Of course." He steps back, hands in his pockets. "Good night, Ms. Monroe."

"Good night, Mr. Kade."

The drive home is surreal—plush leather seats, privacy partition, the lingering scent of Roman's cologne in the enclosed space. I rest my head against the window, trying to sort through my conflicted feelings.

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