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A man stands at the back of the room. His arms are crossed as he studies me. It’s a strange expression of curiosity mixed with disgust, and it’s wildly out of place in this room of smiling faces. But it’s the unnaturally thick eyebrows that easily identify him.

It’s motherfucking Roman.

My hand slips, and the bowl filled with marinade launches. Ingredients fly airborne. The whisk bounces out of my grasp and marinade splatters everywhere, including my bare chest. The shocked reaction of the audience forces me to remember where I am.

“And that’s why we cook half-naked. Less laundry,” I say with a forced grin, joking to save the moment. I towel off the mess from my arm and pecs.

“I’ll lick it off you!”

Several offers arise from the crowd, which triggers other naughty comments. Thankfully, the mishap keeps them distracted from what’s happening on my face.

The sight of Roman here, in my space, at my work, is so startling, I’m in shock. His appearance triggers a new nauseating response, one that makes my hackles rise. If Roman is here, he’s too close to Sophia.

Again.

Roman laughs, like he’s just read my mind, like I’ve finally caught on. He’s here to hurt her in some twisted new way. Isn’t that what narcissists do? They cling to what they think is theirs and try to draw them back in. When that doesn’t work, they cross the line.

When he’s created enough chaos in my mind, Roman turns on his heel and walks out of the ballroom. I panic. Turns out, not knowing his whereabouts is worse than his random appearance.

“What’s going on with you?” Beside me, Casey drops a towel on the floor over the marinade puddle. She moves the fabric with the toe of her shoe as she assesses me.

“Wait. What are you doing?” Alarm paints her face when I take off my microphone and untie the apron at my waist.

“Emergency,” I say as I hand them over.

She covers the microphone with her palm.

“Gio, no,” she says urgently. “What am I supposed to do?” She looks over the kitchen island to a simmering crowd.

I grab the microphone and ad-lib, “Everyone, I have a special surprise for you. Let’s hear it again for my bonus mom, Tina!” I gesture for her to stand.

When the crowd applauds, Tina glances around the room with a confused smile. She stands, appearing caught off guard.

I rush off the platform and give her a hug. So only she can hear, I explain, “Something’s happened. I need to make sure Sophia’s safe.”

“You going to make Sophia your girlfriend?” she asks.

I know what this question is. It’s a Tina trade. Information for service. We are making another bargain. If I tell her what she wants to hear, which happens to be the truth, she will save my ass, and happily. It’s her way of making me admit my true feelings, and it always works.

I grab her shoulders and level my gaze with hers. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make her mine. You happy now?”

“What are you waiting for?” She slaps me on the arm.

She muscles past and marches up the steps to take her place behind the counter. At her commanding presence, the audience roars louder. She’s utterly magnetic, and I know my fans are in good hands.

I race down the aisle, heading in the same direction as Roman.

Behind me, Tina’s voice booms over the microphone, “I’m going to teach you how to make this poké with chili-pepper water, but I’m also going to share photos of Gio going through puberty. Jaz, load those embarrassing pics on these big screens. Let’s talk stories.”

The crowd jumps to their feet and applauds.

Five seconds. That’s all it takes for her to have them eating out of her palm. She’s brilliant, quick-witted, and I love her so much.

She can tell them anything she wants because when I round the exit and step into the night heading for the bungalow, there’s only one person I’m thinking about.

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sophia