Page 8 of Before I Say I Don't
Roman didn’t saywhat—good, stubborn, relentless—but I heard it.
“Yeah, I read about your verdict last year,” he continued. “The class action against Caldwell BioTech? That was you, right?”
I beamed in surprise.
“Yes, that was me.”
For a second, I thought about telling him about the win I’d just pulled off the week prior, but I held it back. The last thing I wanted was to sound like I chose to have lunch with him to stack my trophies on the table between us.
That—whatever it was—felt too fragile for that.
“And you moved,” I continued. “Right after graduation. West Coast. Better job opportunity, if I remember correctly from your emotional goodbye drinks speech.”
“Guilty,” he said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “It was supposed to be a two-year stint… two years turned into nine.”
"What area are you specializing in?” I questioned genuinely curious about the path he’d taken.
“I’m an in-house counsel at a global sports brand, overseeing internal investigations,” he explained, the tone of his voice hinting at both the seriousness and the thrill of it all. "Lots of travel. Less sleep. Fewer suits.” He gestured to his casual polo shirt. “Let’s just say my dry cleaner misses me.”
A smile crept onto my face. “Head of internal investigations?” I echoed, impressed. “So you spend your days asking people awkward questions they’d rather avoid.”
“Pretty much," he admitted, tilting his head slightly as if weighing the truth of my statement.
“Which is exactly why this place feels like a vacation… even though it’shome.”
He paused, looking around the familiar surroundings that once felt so comfortable.
“So are you back for good or just passing through?” I inquired, even though the answer mattered more than it should have.
“I plan on being here just for a month… maybe longer. Took a sabbatical before diving into the next monster project,” he informed, his gaze drifting out the window for a moment. “Figured I’d take a breather, visit my folks, and enjoy some meals that come from real kitchens and not airport lounges. But I mainly came back because one of my guys is getting married, and I’m a groomsman.”
“Oh, really?” His revelation piqued my interest almost immediately.
“Yeah, one of my boys from back in the day. His name is Angelo.”
The noise of the restaurant dimmed and sharpened at the same time, like someone had turned down the music and turned up the lights on my thoughts.
“Angelo?” I repeated, my heart skipping a beat. “As in…Viangelo Grant?”
“Yeah. We go all the way back to AAU ball.” A chuckle escaped him as memories danced in his eyes. “The crazy thing is, that nigga always said he’d never get married. Now look at him.”
I looked around the restaurant, scratching my neck.
“Wow. This is such a small world,” I mused, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Why do you say that?” he asked, a hint of intrigue in his voice.
I lifted my left hand, letting the light catch the glint of my engagement ring.
His gaze dropped to the ring, confusion clouding his features.
“Surprise…I’mthe soon-to-be Mrs. Viangelo Grant,” I divulged—no sparkle, no fake cheer… just the truth laid bare on the table between us.
His brows lifted. “Yo… you for real?”
“Yes.” The word came out smaller than I meant, almost hesitant.
And there it was—quick as a blink, deep as a well—disappointment, maybe even a flicker ofyou’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.
