So he repeated, “I’m really sorry.”
“Me, too.”
Camila’s whisper nearly crushed his defenses. But one night of flirting with her had given him more feelings than he’d had in the last five years combined. He could not, under any circumstances, get closer to this woman.
Doing so would ruin him. So Roman did the only thing he could.
He slid out of the booth and walked away.
3
October, one year later
Roman’s morning didn’t suck. This was more than he could say for most mornings—
after all, they were mornings, and had an uphill battle by default. But even though he wasn’t exactly a chipper kind of guy (fine. He was stone cold serious. He always had been. So sue him for being a realist), he had to admit that this particular morning actually had a couple semi-decent things going for it. There hadn’t been a line at the coffee shop on the corner by his apartment. The weather was crisp and cool, with none of that humidity bullshit he suffered through every summer, but not so cold that he’d needed to drag his coat out of the hall closet where he’d jammed it in March. Best of all, last night he’d been able to slam-dunk the massive medical fraud case he'd worked jointly with Remington PD’s Intelligence Unit, turning over the last of the case notes and paperwork that would send yet another criminal to prison. While Roman didn’t believe in anything nearly so cosmically woo-woo as good omens, he had to admit, so far, this morning had been full of promise.
Just like another morning attached to a day that fucking wrecked you, pointed out a voice from the deep hidey-hole of his subconscious, making him stop short on the busy city sidewalk a few blocks from his office. Roman dodged out of foot traffic just in time to avoid being side-swiped by a man with a jogging stroller, placing his back to a bakery storefront and pretending to check his cell phone even though his heart was jammed in his throat. His memories of that day almost always arrived without warning, emphasizing not only everything he’d lost, but how little control he had over when or how hard his brain would kick him with the reminder. The deep breath he took did nothing to get his traitorous subconscious in line, and the memory of that other morning, six years ago now, yanked him back in time as if only six minutes had passed.
Sunshine spilling down from a cloudless sky, glinting off his freshly minted wedding band as he drove to work. A chest full of idiot happiness, thinking that the life in front of him would be loaded with anniversaries and milestones and maybe even kids. Grandchildren. A pair of rocking chairs on the porch.
Forever.
The caller ID flashing over his dashboard with the words Northview Hospital. The simple, straightforward words the doctor had used when Roman had arrived fifteen minutes later, still convinced there had been some sort of mistake.
Your wife, Gabrielle, was hit by a car while she was on her morning run. She sustained multiple serious injuries, and despite our every effort, we were unable to save her…
She’s gone.
So, yeah. Good omens were for suckers. He’d stick with cold, hard reality, thanks.
At least reality would never blindside him, and it sure as hell wouldn’t make him think he was cut out for something as happy-happy as forever.
That ship had fucking sailed.
Roman kicked his feet back into motion, his dress shoes clipping out a steady cadence on the concrete as he boxed up his memories and slid his focus back into place. He’d dealt with Gabi’s death six years ago, doing all the Agency-required grief counseling and taking off enough time that his boss didn’t give him too much shit for coming back to work too soon. But Gabi wasn’t going to be any less gone no matter what Roman did. Throwing himself into work had been better than wandering around the apartment they’d shared, still expecting her to come home and tell him it had all been a huge mistake. It had been better than diving into a bottle or losing his life savings to a gambling habit or mindlessly fucking his grief away. And it had sure as hell been better than getting all up in a bunch of feelings over something he couldn’t change.
So what if he’d spent the last six years avoiding anything that would make him feel…well, anything? Sure, it had distanced him from his old man, his old friends, and his new unit-mates, but it was safer than the alternative.
He couldn’t lose anyone else.
Grumbling under his breath, Roman opened the door to the bank a few blocks from the FBI field office he called home and stepped over the threshold. Wrapping the case he’d worked with the Intelligence Unit last night—his second in the span of a year—had afforded him a little flex time this morning, and he’d put off his errands for far too long. Remington Financial was in one of the city’s historic buildings, with polished marble floors, high ceilings, and a long, mahogany front desk adorned with brass fixtures. Despite having an old-world aesthetic, like a museum or a library, the bank hadn’t skimped on security. As was the case with any financial institution nowadays, bullet resistant security glass separated the tellers from the bank patrons, and there were cameras mounted in several strategic yet subtly placed points along the ceiling and walls. Not that those were a guarantee that nothing bad would ever happen—Roman knew better than damn near anyone that you couldn’t one-hundred-percent something like safety—but they sure didn’t hurt.
Making his way farther inside the well-lit space, Roman lifted his chin at the security guard, who returned the single-nod gesture before refocusing his attention to the side of the lobby where the bank managers and loan officers sat at their desks, quietly working. The large, airy space was divided by a combination of glass cubicle partitions, potted trees, and strategically placed furniture, offering privacy without ruining the open concept.
There were only two other customers on the opposite side of the lobby from where Roman stood, an older white man with graying hair who was chatting with the teller through the bullet-resistant barrier at the front desk and a dark-haired woman with her back to him, headed for the table bearing deposit and withdrawal slips. Her cream-colored sweater dress hugged a set of knockout fucking curves, and Roman couldn’t help but let his eyes linger on the hypnotic sway of her hips keeping time with the clack-clack-clack of her slim brown boots as she walked. Heat tackled him in an uncharacteristic punch he hadn’t felt in…Christ, had it been a year since Camila had hit him like a sexy, sassy hurricane at the Crooked Angel, flirting with him for half the night and smiling in encouragement as he'd flirted right back? A year since he’d felt that undeniable, red-hot pull of want for a woman who wasn’t Gabi? A year since that want had quickly become panic as Camila had turned to kiss him goodnight in the back alcove of the bar?
But the only thing Roman did less than flirt was panic. He’d been so thrown by the punch of feelings that he’d pulled back from Camila as if she’d been on fire, sliding out of the booth with a weak “I’m sorry” and not stopping until he was in his car, headed far away from the dark-haired beauty and all of his intense, burning want for her.
Not his finest moment. Camila probably thought he was a consummate dickhead for how he’d behaved that night, yet the memory of the way she’d stirred him up was apparently still as strong as ever. For Chrissake, he was eyeballing random women in the bank and wishing they were her.