Page 23 of Till Death Do Us Part

She slammed the door to the car, locked it, then stared at it. She kicked the tire a second later.

I grinned.

She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, heading toward the Farmer’s Market, her lips moving. She was talking to herself. Complaining, it seemed like.

She was dressed casually in a long-sleeved white shirt, an open front sweater, blue jeans cuffed at the ankle, and tan flats with a strip of black where her toes went. Dark, stylish sunglasses covered her eyes. Her new haircut gave her a more mature look.

Simply put, Roma Corvo was a stunning woman. It didn’t matter if she was dressed up or down. She stole my fucking breath—something almost impossible to do.

She stopped at a table with handmade soaps. After chatting with the seller for a second, she handed him some cash and then pocketed the things she’d bought in her bag. She went to stroll forward but stopped, pulling her phone out. A second later, my phone lit up and vibrated with a text.

Little Herbivore:I want my car back, John.

I hadn’t answered her since I switched out her matchbox of a car for one of the safest on the market. A Volvo Wagon.

She hadn’t even noticed when I pocketed her keys out of her bag on our walk from the restaurant back to the museum. Trying to act oblivious to me wasn’t in her favor. She’d probably noticed the cash I set in their place. It was for the lunch we shared.

I wondered what she told Emanuele when he noticed the new set of wheels. Though it surprised me to find out she’d bought a secondhand car with her own money. She was sporting her independence in a way she knew he would be okay with.

Me:You’ll call me Felice.

Her fingers flew across the screen. A second later, a response came.

Little Herbivore:Everyone calls you John. That’s how you introduce yourself. So, excuse me for following what seems like the norm.

Me:You’re not everyone.

That stopped her for a second. Her shoulders relaxed before her thumbs started to pound against the screen again.

Little Herbivore:Seriously, Felice. I want my car.

Me:It’s a clown car, and you’ll be flattened. You can’t drive.

That was the understatement of the century. I never flinched, and up until Roma, nothing made my heart race but the pursuit of the hunt. But her driving was up there with standing on the edge of a pit filled with complaining, talkative people at the bottom. A version of fucking hell for me.

Little Herbivore:It’s not a clown car. It’s a FIAT!

She moved her sunglasses to the top of her head, pulling her hair back.Her thumbs moved again.

Little Herbivore:How about we make a deal?

Of course, she’d want to make a deal. She was probably used to making them with her old man. Emanuele Corvo did everything for his daughters, including arranging their marriages, but he also gave them the freedom to carve out their own paths in the world. He knew being too strict was only going to make them defiant.

Roma wanting to make a deal with me proved how naïve she was to the world, though. She should have known better than to even say the word to a man like me.

Me:No deal for your safety.

Little Herbivore:Hear me out. What if you teach me how to drive? And we drop the motorcade!

Even though I’d switched her car out, I still had a man driving in front of her, one behind her, and one on each side. She was forced to slow down, following their leads.

Me:If I refuse?

Little Herbivore:I’ll be forced to report it stolen.

I barked out a laugh. I was about to text her back when a guy came to stand next to her. She turned, as if he had just said her name. Her smile came easy at seeing him.

I placed him right away. The guy from the restaurant who had handed me her bag of food. He had a surfer boy tan and wild, curly blond hair. I didn’t miss how Roma seemed to fixate on it while he started up the conversation. His hair brought back memories of the guy who’d attacked her. She was squeezing her phone like a lifeline.

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