Too close.
His shoulder brushed mine.
The book stayed open between us like an expired excuse. I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric at my arm. I could hear the shift in his breathing, slight but real.
“Sky,” he said.
Just my name.
But his voice carried all the strain he had been hiding.
I lifted my eyes.
And there it was.
Not suggestion. Not curiosity. Not the careful attention he’d been rationing for weeks.
Want.
Raw enough to frighten us both.
His phone rang.
We stepped apart like the sound had shoved us.
That was the first time I realized Roman feared what was happening between us every bit as much as I did.
The fear got a face the following day.
Her name was Valentina Serrano.
She arrived just before dinner in cream silk and diamonds that looked inherited rather than bought, with the polished elegance of a woman who had never once in her life entered a room without expecting it to rearrange itself around her.
She kissed Dante Castelli’s cheek like family. Touched Nico’s shoulder like history. Smiled at Roman like ownership.
When she turned that smile on me, it became a weapon.
“So,” she said lightly over the first course, “you’re August Harding’s daughter.”
“And you’re very observant,” I said.
Nico choked on his wine.
Valentina’s smile sharpened. “Roman didn’t mention you were funny.”
Roman’s fork touched the plate too hard.
“I didn’t realize my biography required committee review,” I said.
Her eyes cooled. “You seem comfortable here.”
“Adaptable,” I corrected. “Different thing.”
“Is it?”
“Very.”
She tilted her head. “How interesting.”
It was not a compliment.
