Roman (Raleigh Raptors 2)

I gave him a chiding look.

“And I nearly cried over the prospect of not partaking in the treats of the day,” he continued. “But you gave me half of your money.”

We only had enough to buy one thing each…

“And we shared,” he said.

I tilted my head, biting back a smile. “Second grade.”

He nodded. “I owe you.”

“You don’t,” I said, but allowed him to lead me up to the register. I remained silent as the cashier rang us up, and tried not to cry as Roman handed her his credit card.

“Receipt with you or in the bag?” She asked him, her eyes widening as she put two and two together on who he was.

“I’ll take it,” I said and quickly took the paper from her hand. I pocketed it, silently vowing to myself that I’d save every single receipt for everything Roman bought for me. And I’d pay him back in full whenever I got my feet underneath me again.

Which I hoped would be soon, but I hadn’t had the urge to paint or even check my website for requests since my last commission. I’d checked in with local galleries for showings on pieces I already had made—them accepting would be just the kick I needed to go get my art supplies back from Rick’s. But it was kind of hard to be creative and paint new work when I felt like I’d had the life sucked out of me at the same time a truck plowed me over.

Fuck, I really needed to get my shit together.

“Thank you, again,” I said two hours later. Roman had helped me successfully gather a new wardrobe, three pairs of new shoes, and some active gear too. Enough to last me until I found the courage to go to Rick’s and collect the rest of my things.

“Always,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his own as we headed to the parking lot.

The sun coated the collection of boutique shops with a golden light, the air humid yet comforting at the same time. “I really needed to get out of the house,” I admitted, sucking in a good lungful of that fresh air.

“I know,” he said, flashing me a cocky look. “I’m always right.”

I barked out a laugh, and play shoved him. “Oh, you think so, huh?” I teased. “What about that time you thought it would be a brilliant idea to fill Jace Keller’s locker with bullfrogs?”

Roman froze on the sidewalk, gaping at me. “Jace was a class-A prick,” he argued. “He cut off one of your braids!”

“And I broke his nose for that.”

“That wasn’t enough,” Roman said, laughing.

“It took us an entire week to catch them,” I said through my laughter. “And those bullfrogs earned us a month’s detention!”

“In fourth grade! I think we ended up passing notes the entire time, anyway.”

I snort-laughed at the memory. He was right, damn him.

That megawatt smile stretched his lips as he pointed at me. “See,” he said, tilting his chin in the air. “Always. Right.”

“Gah!” I threw my arms up in mock-defeat, but the laughter and happiness peeking out of my heart were real. “How do you do it?” I asked as we rounded the corner, near where he’d parked.

“Years of practice,” he said. “If you’re referring to my ability to be correct at any given point in time.”

I rolled my eyes. “No,” I said. “Somehow, you know just how to make me laugh. Or smile.”

“It’s not hard,” he said, his voice lowering as our pace slowed.

I furrowed my brow. I’d been told for years how hard I was to please, even when I’d done everything in my power to be as low-maintenance as possible.

“Roman—” My words died in my throat as I skidded to an abrupt halt.

My eyes widened, my world and vision narrowing to the car parked a few spaces down from Roman’s.

Electric green. Aston Martin.

The air in my lungs tightened, all at once too much and not enough. I backed up one step, then two, until I’d made it onto the sidewalk bordering the boutique shops. I scanned the area surrounding us, my eyes darting every direction.

“T?” Roman was at my side in an instant. “What’s wrong.”

“He’s here.” I choked out the words.

“Where do you see him?” Roman followed my line of sight, landing on Rick’s car.

But where was he? Rick hated places like this—he had a personal shopper who purchased all of his clothes, and they certainly weren’t from the shops around here. Was he following me? How would he even know—

“Omigod,” I gasped, and fished my phone from my pocket. No wonder…he’d shut everything else of mine down but this. This one way to get into contact with me.

Or track me.

“This is his,” I said, my fingers trembling around the iPhone. “He set it up for me. Put the tracking app on it in case we got separated at events.” And he’d used it countless times to practically follow me into the lady’s room on more than one occasion. Or use it as a weapon against me when I’d gone somewhere without telling him specifics—like the one time I’d gone shopping with Liberty for a Raptors pre-season party last year. God, he’d broken two dishes that night after he’d asked me where all we’d gone and I’d forgotten to mention the Cuban restaurant we’d stopped at for lunch.