Page 9 of Before I Say I Don't
For a half second, something unraveled in his eyes—regret? Curiosity? A reel of old footage the two of us had yet to film together.
“Damn… I guess congratulations are in order,” he commented softly.
“Thank you,” I replied, because it was the polite thing to say.
In that moment, it felt like we’d just sealed a door that neither of us would ever open again.
Roman’s gaze held mine, steady and unblinking.
“He’s a lucky man; I hope he knows that,” he added after a beat.
I didn’t answer, because deep down, I wasn’t sure Viangelo did.
As if on cue, the waitress reappeared with our drinks.
“Ready to order?” Her attention was focused on Roman, eyelashes working overtime.
“I’ll have the grilled salmon and the charred broccolini,” he said, handing her the menu without breaking eye contact with me.
“And you?” She turned to me, noticeably cooler.
“The tomato bisque and a half panini.”
“Anything else?” she asked—her tone making it clear the question wasn’t for me.
Roman smiled, friendly but final. “That’s it. Thanks.”
She lingered a half-bit longer than necessary before walking away.
I watched his hands as he lifted his tea—clean nails, a faint scar on his middle knuckle that looked like it had healed recently. That was the kind of detail one shouldn’t know about a man they didn’t intend to kiss.
“So, how’s Danica?”
“You remember my sister?” I asked, a bit surprised, since he had only met her a couple of times.
“I remember she made me take a picture of you two because she didn’t like the photographer’s angle,” he explained.
I chuckled.
“But yeah, I do. She’s good?”
“She is… same ol’ Danica. But she’s married now with two kids—a boy and a girl. She’s an event planner and runs them like a general marshaling troops, keeping everything on point."
He grinned.
"She’s actually coordinating my wedding while fending off my future mother-in-law’s unsolicited advice."
He chuckled softly, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I can see that. So… are you happy with Angelo? Is he treating you right?”
I fiddled with my fingers beneath the table, feeling a flicker of vulnerability.
“I’m happy, and yes, he does,” I replied, carefully choosing my words.
Roman’s expression said,if you say so,before he propped his chin on his knuckles.
“You look it,” he said. “You also look like you’ve been surviving on less than six hours of sleep for… a while.”
“Don’t profile me,” I teased, then sobered. “We just had this big verdict, and… well, I’m trying to do my best—the grown-up version of it.”
