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“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“I don’t have time to mess around. And even if I did, I still wouldn’t.”
“Can I just say how refreshing that is?” I rise from the table and slip my purse over my shoulder. “In a world full of men who play mind games like it’s a professional sport, you’re truly a breath of fresh air.” Covering my face, I blush. “I’m just full of clichés today, aren’t I?”
Roman walks me to the door, his hand on my lower back. Once outside, we move to a vacant section of sidewalk. My apartment is in the opposite direction of his, so there’ll be no walking me home or even to the end of the block.
“You still haven’t answered my question,” he says, his dark brows furrowing as he concentrates on me. He’s all but pinning me into place, though it’s not like I’m in a hurry to leave. Our time together is fast becoming one of my favorite things. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I don’t want to give him a solid answer without talking to Margaux first, but I also don’t want to send him home with his tail between his legs, because I want to see him again too.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask.
“I have two tickets for the New York Philharmonic,” he says.
In the six years I’ve lived in the city, that’s one of the things I’ve yet to experience. It’s always been on my bucket list, but I’ve never taken the time to make it happen.
“I’d love to,” I say, “but can I let you know?”
His expression stays calm, collected. There’s no disappointment. No hope. At least none he’s willing to let slip past his stony facade.
“Sure,” he says, taking a step backward. This is his version of goodbye—a non-goodbye. “Antonio should be here shortly.”
“Thank you,” I wave as he walks away. “And thanks again for today . . .”
I’m sure I’ve thanked him more today than I’ve ever thanked any one person in my lifetime, but I want him to know how truly grateful I am that he shared his private art collection with me. Many of my clients, most of whom I’ve worked with for years, have yet to do the same.
I plant myself at a wrought-iron bench outside the coffee shop and scan the passersby in search of Al Pacino—or any other famous faces—as I wait for Antonio to arrive.
Three minutes later, a shiny black Escalade pulls up to the curb. The passenger window rolls down, and Antonio gives me a wave before starting to climb out.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say as I trot to the car, climb inside, and buckle in.
“How’s your day going?” he asks as he merges into traffic.
“Great,” I say. “Roman showed me his art collection, so no complaints. Yourself?”
“Really.” His hazel eyes flick up into the rearview mirror, intersecting with mine. “He took you up there, did he?”
I nod.
“Huh.” He flicks on his turn signal when we come to a red light.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He doesn’t take anyone up there.” We pull onto another street and come to a crawl behind a stretch limo attempting to parallel park outside a historic hotel. “At one point, he was talking about putting everything into an archive or something.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” I say. “He’s got some pretty extraordinary pieces . . . it’d be a shame not to share them with people who truly appreciate them.”
Antonio dials down the radio, which I hadn’t even noticed was playing until now. The display on the front shows it was tuned to the Kidz Bop station.
“You know, the number of times that man has smiled—genuinely smiled—in the past three years, I could probably count on one hand, maybe two. Excluding when he’s around his girls. They’re the only thing that makes him happy these days,” he says a few minutes later, when we arrive at my street. “But then you came along, and now I’m seeing glimpses of the old Roman again.” Inching up to the curb, he finds a place to park and flicks on his hazard lights. Angling his shoulders, he turns to look at me. “With all due respect, young lady, whatever happens with you two, just don’t break his heart.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ROMAN
“Why do you keep leaving us?” Marabel is perched on my bathroom counter as I shave my face. Her eyes are glassy, tearful almost, and her little lips are shaped into a pitiful pout. It’s almost enough to make me think twice about this whole moving-on thing.
Just because I’m finally ready to take that step, it doesn’t mean they are.
The girls were one and two when Emma passed. I’m all they know. I’m their entire world. To have to share me with someone new could be devastating for them.
“Daddy has a new friend,” I say. “And we’re having fun. That’s all.”
