Page 53 of Angel

She was sweet, warm, and genuine, making me feel like a bastard for my bitter mood.

At the same time, the pull to her was undeniable, yet the sting of Evangeline leaving me at the altar still burned through me.

Roxy deserved a man who gave her a clean slate.

Not a jilted groom wrecked by rejection, torn with desire for the sister in front of him and humiliation over the bride who ran.

‘I saw some silver earrings in a stall back there,’ she said, setting her spoon against her saucer. ‘Mind if I nip back and grab them?’

‘Go for it,’ I muttered. ‘Take your time.’

She rose then checked her purse.

‘Dammit, I’ve run out of lira. Do you have a few? I’ll pay you back.’

I reached into my wallet and produced a slim plastic ebony rectangle, then dropped it in her outstretched hand.

She arched her brow at it.

‘This isn’t several lira. It’s a credit card.’

‘It’s an American Express Centurion, the ultimate Black Card, babe, and I don’t have anything smaller. Most shops will take it; they should, as it has a couple of hundred grand on it.’

She scoffed, tossing the plastic back onto the glass table between us.

‘Don’t need the card now; I’m sure I’ve lost some notes and coins at the bottom of my bag.’

The hell?

‘Eva - I mean, the women in my past were always all about shopping on my dime,’ I muttered, confused at her rejection.

Roxy dug deeper into the corners of her leather bag, finally bringing up a small handful of crumpled bills and coins.

‘Evangeline might have thought a million in the bank was the holy grail, but I’m not her,’ she said, sliding her own cash into her pocket. ‘Material things mean jack to me.’

I narrowed my eyes on her, taking the card back into my palm.

‘So what do you value, Rox?’

She gazed at me straight in the eyes, her expression dead serious. ‘Devotion.’

I arched a brow.

Most women in my orbit saw the stage, the platinum records, and the black cards and swooned.

Evangeline had loved the lifestyle I afforded her.

Roxy, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the fame or the bank account, demanding the one thing money couldn’t buy.

A sudden, quiet wave of respect washed over me, burning through my usual skepticism.

‘Rockstars and their first world problems,’ she added, her face softening as she flashed a smile that sent an arc of need through me. ‘I won’t be more than twenty minutes, promise.’

She moved with an effortless grace, striking in her white linen summer dress as she stepped out into the bright light.

I tracked her until she blended into the thick afternoon crowd.

Around me, the plaza buzzed with tourists, the hiss of espresso wands, and servers navigating wicker chairs with silver trays.