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Camila finished the last meal kit on her cart, double-checking it against the list before labeling it and wheeling her cart to the workstation at the front of the room. “When I say I’m the baby, I don’t just mean I’m the youngest. I mean, I’m thebaby. You saw how my brother freaked out when he saw us flirting last year, and that’s nothing compared to the way he lost his mind when he saw I’d been hurt in the bank robbery.”
“Okay, fair. He was pretty overprotective,” Roman admitted, “and while I agree that it’s none of his business who you flirt with—or who you do anything with, for that matter—is it possible that he was just scared for your safety at the bank?”
“I’m sure that was part of it,” Camila admitted, because as hypervigilant as Matteo was about her well-being, she had no doubt that he loved her. Of course he’d been worried. “But that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Theyalltreat me like that, all the time. Like I’m still some twenty-two-year-old kid with no clue how to take care of myself. I mean, yes, I’ve switched careers a few times, and sometimes I’m impulsive. Maybe more than sometimes. But that doesn’t make me incompetent.”
Roman frowned up at her from the spot where he stood by a crate full of canned soup. “That’s got to be pretty frustrating.”
The statement was simple, yet something about the way he’d delivered it unlocked a floodgate in her chest, letting her feelings come pouring out. “It really freaking is. Look, I get it—in their own weird and totally pushy way, they love me and want me to be happy. But I’m not like any of them and I never hear the end of it.”
She paused, but only for a breath before continuing. “I’m Camila, who doesn’t take anything seriously because my belly button is pierced and I take last-minute vacations when the airfare is cheap. Camila, who refuses to grow up or settle down—I rent my place month-to-month in case something better comes along, and when it does, I pack up and move. Camila, who can’t even choose one career to stick with and whodefinitelycan’t take care of herself. Obviously, since I managed to end up the victim of a God’s-honest felony. I know they mean well.” She sighed, her heart twisting. “But they’ve made it wildly clear that I am the family fuck up, with no direction and no—”
Roman was in her personal space, capturing her wrist with one hand and placing the other on her shoulder to turn her toward him, in less than a blink. “Camila, listen to me,” he said, pinning her with a liquid-bronze stare so intense, she couldn’t do anything but nod and melt into his touch. “I don’t know your family and I don’t know their motivations for the way they treat you and interact with you. But I know what I saw in that bank, and I know what I see right now in front of me.”
“You do?” she whispered, and he didn’t hesitate.
“I do. I see someone who is brave and smart and beautiful. Maybe also fierce enough to drive me a little crazy,” he added, giving her no choice but to laugh, “and a thousand other things on top of that. But not one of those is a fuck up. Not even close.”
“Oh.” The word coasted out as mostly an exhale, barely escaping past the knot in her throat. “You’re awfully certain about that.”
“Yes.” Roman nodded, just one lift and lower of his chin. “I am.”
“Thank you,” Camila said.
The hand he’d placed on her shoulder slid upward, over the column of her neck, until his thumb reached her jaw, making her heart tap faster against her breastbone. “You’re welcome.”
Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and she pressed up to kiss him. But the sound of the swinging door leading to the front of the building being bumped open had them jumping apart.
“Oh!” The middle-aged woman stopped short, three steps into the prep room while Camila tried desperately to pull on a nothing-to-see-here expression. “Roman, hi. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were back here.”
“Yeah, I slipped in after the shift started,” he said, pausing for less than a beat before adding, “Tammy, this is Camila. She’s helping me out tonight.”
Tammy smiled, waving at Camila. “Nice to meet you, Camila. Thanks so much for volunteering. We’re always grateful to have good help.”
“I’m happy to,” she said, returning the woman’s smile.
“Well, I’ll grab these extra meal kits and get out of your hair.” Tammy loaded up an unused cart and headed back to the door, waving again on her way out. Face heating, Camila turned toward Roman, wanting to get her apology over-with.
“I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have unloaded on you like that, and I definitely shouldn’t have almost…” God, she couldn’t go there without wanting to die of embarrassment. “It was impulsive. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Two tiny words. Two simple syllables, and Camila’s heart wanted to break free from her chest. “You’re not?”
“No.” Putting down the meal kit in his hands, he walked back over to her, stopping just shy of her personal space. “When I said solidarity, I meant it. I’m on your side, Camila. As for the rest”—he stepped forward, brushing his mouth over hers in a single, soft stroke—“I’m starting to like your brand of impulsive.”
She laughed. “Well, good. Because I’ve got plenty to go around.”
But even when they fell back into the comforting rhythm of packing up meal kits and the conversation turned to lighter topics, Camila knew she wouldn’t forget Roman’s words—or how they’d made her feel—any time soon.
13
Archer gripped his tactical mask with one hand and the steering wheel of the car Thorn had stolen with the other, taking a deep, cleansing breath. In the forty-eight hours that had passed since their meeting in the kitchen, he had come up with a plan that was as close to foolproof as it was going to get. He and Thorn and Portia had completed their assignments and triple-checked every last detail. The floor plan, the fear tactics, the robbery strategy, the escape route, the backup plan. Everything had been practiced, then memorized, then practiced again until it had become as ingrained as breathing.
They were going to walk into Prosperity Savings and Loan in exactly ninety seconds and take every last dime out of the vault, nice and easy. No bullets. No bodies. All payday.
“Okay,” Archer said, making sure Thorn and Portia kept their weapons low across their laps, out of sight of other drivers or pedestrians. “You know the drill. I want to be in and out in six minutes. Portia, you’ve got the cell phone jammer and the manager. Thorn, you’ll need to grab the guard and disarm him. I’ve got the rest of the lobby.”
“Got it,” Thorn grunted, and Portia gave up a nod. Thorn had fallen in line fairly easily over the past few days, the prospect of hundreds of thousands of squeaky clean dollars in his bank account likely motivating the shit out of him, as Archer had guessed it would. Not that Thorn had been blowing smoke a few days ago—he’d have gone after Camila Garza in a heartbeat if Archer had been on board with it, just as he’d have murdered every last person at all the banks they’d robbed if it had been up to him.
