Page 31 of Roman

“I figured it out. The money she paid me back with was marked. She had mentioned going to you for the money. I found you.”

“Where—where is she?”

“I don’t know. But I will find her.”

“What will you do to her?”

He shook his head, refusing to answer. I gripped his wrists tighter, everything he said overwhelming and scary.

“You have to stay here for now, Effie. There is no choice. I can’t let you go. The men I stole you from might come looking.”

A long shiver went through me. A hysterical laugh burst from my lips. “So the man who rescued me from my kidnappers is my new kidnapper?”

“For now.”

“Why?” I asked quietly, tamping down my panic.

He regarded me in silence. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

I stared down at the food on my plate, my appetite nonexistent.

“Eat,” Roman said, his tone brooking no argument.

After my question, he had moved away, informing me dinner was coming. I sat on the sofa as he worked at his desk for a while, my mind racing. I always knew Marianne was selfish and cold. I knew she didn’t care much for me. But for her to do that. To be willing to sell me just to pay a debt, I realized she must hate me. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head. My whole life, I had tried to get her to love me. I adored her when I was little, and although she barely tolerated me, I always hoped that would change as we grew up and became adults.

Apparently not.

I picked up my fork, slicing off a bite of chicken. It was tender and, I was certain, delicious, but it tasted like ash in my mouth.

“Would you prefer soup?” he questioned. “Is your throat still too sore?”

“No, this is fine.”

He made a noise of distaste. “Yes. So fine, you’ve eaten three bites. Your body needs the nourishment to heal. There must be something you’d like.”

“No, I’ll eat this.”

He sat back, picking up his wine, swirling it in the glass as he studied me. I felt his stare everywhere.

“My diner?” I asked, trying to distract my thoughts.

“I went there this morning. Spoke with Margi. I explained you’d been in a car accident. She assured me that she and Anne could keep the place running. I offered one of my chefs, but she said she could handle it. She did say there was payroll and supplies to be ordered.” He took a sip of wine. “I told her to give it all to me and I would make sure it was looked after.” He indicated a bag by his desk. “It is all in there. You can look at it tomorrow. I did leave two men to watch over and help out. Just in case.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you.”

He eyed me pointedly, then shifted his chair and sat closer. He pulled my plate over and cut a small piece of chicken, added some of the creamy potatoes to the fork and pressed it to my lips. “Open.”

I was so shocked by his actions, I did as he directed, chewing slowly. He readied another fork.

“Why bagels?” he asked.

“My mom’s favorite food. She made them all the time and taught me. They became one of mine too. I wanted something different for my diner, and I liked the idea of using bagels.”

I let him feed me another mouthful, and I chewed and swallowed.

“Bagels and breakfast go hand in hand. I decided the gimmick would be bagels for everything. No toast or muffins. Bagels with breakfast, bagel sandwiches. We make five kinds daily. All from scratch. Two kinds of soup. And breakfast. We open at six and close at three.”

“Long days,” he observed.