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“Fine.” Eva muttered as she eyed the three people in line in front of Molly.
“Thanks, Eva. You’re the best.” I gave Molly the high sign, and she headed for a table.
“Five minutes. Then I’m takingmybreak.”
I nodded as I hurriedly made a mocha latte for Molly. Whipping my apron off, I ducked under the counter and headed for Molly’s table.
“You did not tell me that you met Roman Grier!” Molly squealed when I was still ten feet away.
Every head in the coffee shop swiveled in my direction.
My shoulders hunched, I hustled to Molly’s corner and then hissed, “How do you know that?”
“Girl, you’re all overThe Babbler’shome page. Apparently some photographer caught you and Roman Grier on a beach.” She held her phone out to me.
All the blood left my head. I looked at picture after picture of me and Roman Grier. But instead of the weird, embarrassing encounter I remembered, the website framed the pictures like it was a romantic frolic on the beach. Us laughing over Pongo. Each of us holding his leash.
And ended with a picture with me on top of Roman Grier.
My knees locked, and I had to sit down.
I didn’t look frazzled or crazy in the photo. I looked soft.
And in love.
“Molly. Oh my god.”
“I know! Is this why you called me this morning?”
I could only stare at the last picture. I might’ve looked like I was in love, but Roman Grier looked sexy and a little pissed, in that smoldering, sex-god kinda way.
If only what was in the pictures was reality.
“I-I-I…” I sighed. “I don’t think I can say. I need to read that NDA again.”
“Sophia! You cannot leave me hanging like this. What happened?”
The sudden quietness of the coffee shop got my attention. At least three tables near us were shamelessly eavesdropping. I shook my head. “I definitely can’t talk about this here. Are you working tonight?”
“I’ll call in. But you have to tell me everything.”
“Fine.” Which really meant, maybe—we’d see. “I gotta get back to work.”
Chapter Two
Roman Grier
I’d thought the crush of paparazzi at the airport this morning had been insane. But that was nothing compared to the pandemonium down the street from Kingston’s home in the Hollywood Hills. I stopped counting after five news vans. And there was an actual police barricade blocking the street. People lined the sidewalks, holding signs with messages of sympathy that should’ve been comforting but didn’t quite hit the mark. I mean, who waves sympathy signs? Honestly, it looked more like a circus than a vigil.
I felt overwhelmed. I couldn’t imagine how King was dealing with all this. His estranged wife had just died. Why couldn’t anyone let him grieve in peace?
Pongo whined from the passenger seat next to me. I reached over and gave him a rub behind the ear. “It’s okay, boy. Just ignore the hordes.”
I cruised up to the barricade and rolled down my window as an officer approached my car.
“The street’s closed unless you’re a resid—holy shit! You’re Roman Grier.”
Pongo barked, baring his teeth at the young officer peering into the window of my Tesla Roadster.
