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By the time I’ve finished selecting everything, Roman appears at the doors of the pool house dressed casually and holding a wicker basket.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Brunch.” He glances at my bag. “Is that all you’re taking?”
I nod, still not quite understanding why he’s being so abrupt. The Roman I know is smooth, silver-tongued, self-possessed.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” He glances at a finished painting I made of a crimson iris dripping blood.
“You’re blowing hot and cold. Am I overstaying my welcome?”
He finally looks me in the eye with an intensity that makes my breath catch. My heart stutters as he crosses the distance between us and stands so close that I flail under the weight of his attention.
“It’s the opposite,” he says, cupping my cheek. “I’m getting so attached to you that it will hurt like hell when you leave.”
My brows draw together. “But I said I would stay.”
His lips tighten, and I can already guess what he’s holding back.
“You think I’m afraid of your dangerous lifestyle,” I say. “But I like being with you. If I left, I would always have regrets.”
Silence stretches out between us, and I continue looking into his eyes, trying to assure him of my sincerity. I might have kissed Roman to get away from Jim and hid here for protection, but I’m staying because I want him.
I like the person I am when I’m with Roman. I like being around him. Underneath the hard exterior is a man with family values, an amazing lover, and the protector I never knew I needed.
“Roman?” I whisper.
He sighs. “Let’s go.”
Our journey is mostly silent. I tire of his one-word answers and decide to leave him alone to brood. I try not to take it personally because I haven’t done anything wrong.
Maybe all his responsibilities are taking their toll? Some people react differently when they’re overwhelmed, especially when they don’t have an outlet like art. There’s a vast difference between being accustomed to death row and suddenly becoming responsible for a huge business. He’s just trying to acclimatize to the change of circumstances. I need to stop being paranoid and thinking I’m some artist he’s being forced to babysit.
When we leave the city limits and the roads narrow toward the woodland, Roman takes my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Feeling better?” I ask.
“Too much on my mind,” he mutters.
“I’m here if you want to talk about it,” I reply with a smile.
He squeezes my hand in a silent gesture of appreciation and says, “I know.”
Simon’s Pond is a quarter-mile walk from a gravel parking lot that leads to a winding trail through tall trees and wildflowers.
Roman’s shoulders loosen and his stance becomes more relaxed as we near our destination. A gentle breeze rustles through the leaves, and the air is alive with the melodic chirping of birds. It’s as though nature welcomes us to this tranquil oasis hidden from the chaos of organized crime.
He pauses, his lips parting, his breath slowing. I follow his gaze to water so clear you can see the fish.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I never imagined anything like this existed in New Alderney,” he says, his voice breathy with awe.
“Don’t you ever venture out into the forest?”
He shakes his head, his features forming a frown. “All my business is in the city.”
