Page 11 of Before I Say I Don't
“Good,” he finished for me. “It was good to see you, Kam."
“Likewise,” I replied, my heart racing slightly under the weight of his gaze.
Roman looked at me the way men look when they’re memorizing a face they aren’t supposed to want.
Then, he held out his hand, palm up, and the gesture was both disarming and daring.
“Let me see your phone.”
“My phone?” I retorted, surprised by the request.
He tilted his head slightly, his hand still waiting.
The playful innocence in his demeanor felt dangerously alluring.
“Roman,” I warned, a mixture of disbelief and hesitation flooding my voice.
I quickly realized, though, that despite the warning, my spine seemed to melt into warm honey as I reached into my bag and handed it over. He raised a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching with curiosity.
“Code?”
I hesitated… only a breath. Then, “1131.”
“Proposal date?” he teased.
“Bar passage date,” I playfully quipped, with my arms folded.
Roman smirked. “Figures.”
His thumbs moved with a practiced speed, and I watched as he entered his number, quickly sent himself a text, and then returned my phone as if he were handing back a cherished item he’d borrowed long ago.
“Just in case you need a friend, a laugh, or someone to vent to about a judge who thinks commas are optional.”
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat blocking any protest.
“Roman… I’m engaged… to your friend.”
“Old acquaintance,” he clarified. “But relax. I’m not gonna show up at your door with roses. Unless…” His voice trailed off, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Unless I get bored.”
“Roman…”
His soft chuckle interrupted me, carrying with it a hint of reassurance.
“For real, I won’t step where I shouldn’t,” he promised, and the weight of those words lodged themselves under my ribs, burrowing into my consciousness.
Then, he leaned in, slow enough for me to pull away and fast enough that I found myself frozen in place. His lips brushed my cheek—not a kiss, exactly. It was warm, gentle, and suffused with a dangerous tenderness that sent a thrill down my spine.
“Take care, Kam,” he said, his voice low and filled with the familiarity of shared late-night conversations, as if we were walking out of the library at midnight, with plans to see each other in the Evidence room the next day.
Roman turned and walked away.
Three women at the window watched him go. The waitress leaned her hip against the hostess stand, staring as if trying to fix his image in her memory.
I stood on the sidewalk—the phone warm in my palm, my heart pounding too loudly in my ears—and stared at the spot where his shadow had just been.
I reminded myself that I was marrying the love of my life in a month. Yet as I walked back toward the courthouse, I could still feel the ghost of Roman’s lips on my skin. I could still hear the way he said my name, as if it were both a question and an answer. And beneath that sense of righteousness, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered, "Call him when you need a friend."
Chapter Three
