Page 27 of Romeo

For now, she said she’d text me later.

And apparently, that was enough to make a grown man grin at his fucking ceiling.

CHAPTER FOUR

Fiona

The Sons of Hell clubhouse was warm enough that I’d forgotten how brutally cold it was outside until I glanced toward the windows. Beyond the glass, the Shenandoah Mountains were gray and frozen, snow dusting the peaks in the distance. Inside, classic rock played from the speakers in the corner—probably Banks’ choice—while the smell of strong coffee and whiskey hung in the air. Brothers crowded around the bar and sprawled across the worn leather couches, talking and laughing over one another.

I sat on one of those couches with my phone in my lap, pretending to listen while Nash explained some video game I’d never heard of.

Pretending being the important word.

My mind kept drifting to Jasper.

Weeks of texts. Weeks of smiling at my ceiling like an idiot when I should’ve been asleep. Weeks of wondering what the hell was happening between us.

If anything was happening between us.

It was a crush. That was what I kept telling myself. Jasper was older, experienced, and probably talked to dozens of women the same way he talked to me. Calling me Cher didn’t have to mean anything.

Except I didn’t quite believe that anymore.

It wasn’t only the flirting. It was the way he remembered things I’d forgotten telling him. The questions he asked days later. The way a conversation could pause for hours and then pick up exactly where we’d left it.

Sometimes it felt like he was collecting little pieces of me.

The frightening part was how easily I kept handing them over.

My phone buzzed.

Jasper: Let’s play twenty questions.

I bit my lip and glanced at Nash. He was still talking, gesturing wildly with his hands as he described some boss fight.

Me: That sounds dangerous

Jasper: Only if you lie.

Me: You assume I’d lie?

Jasper: I assume everyone lies during twenty questions.

Me: Comforting

My mouth curved before I could stop it. I pressed my phone against my thigh, angling the screen away from Nash’s line of sight.

“You listening?” Nash asked, pausing mid-sentence.

“Yeah,” I said. “Boss fight. Got it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re texting someone.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?” I asked, trying to hide my smile.