I sprint up the sidewalk toward her office building.

I thought about calling, but I have no idea if her mother or Thurston has had a chance to talk to her.

Both asked me, in very different ways, if I’d consider forgetting what I know.

Angela called me early this morning, begging me to leave her daughter alone.

I told her that I intended to marry Bianca one day, so leaving her alone was never going to happen.

Thurston took a more hands-on approach.

He showed up at my office an hour ago with a check in his hand. There were many zeroes, and my name written in blue ink. He wanted me to ghost the woman I adore in exchange for cold hard cash.

I tore up the check and laughed in his face.

I look straight ahead as I approach the lobby doors of the tower that houses the office of Packton Properties.

I spot her as she approaches the building from the opposite direction.

My beautiful Bianca is dressed in pink. Her hair is blowing in the wind. She’s hurrying along on heels that should be illegal to walk in. I don’t know how the hell she handles the height, but I’m not complaining.

She’s breathtaking.

“Bianca,” I call out to her.

Her steps slow as she searches around her. When her gaze lands on me, a smile shoots over her lips.

My world feels centered for the first time in days.

I rush toward her, sprinting around the countless people crowding this sidewalk. It’s late afternoon in Manhattan. Everyone is in a goddamn hurry to get somewhere.

I know I am.

The closer I can get to the woman I love, the better I feel.

“Roman.” She picks up her pace as I near her.

She’s in my arms the instant I’m in front of her. I dip her, kiss her and hold her close to me until I whisper the three words I’ve been longing to say to her. “I love you.”

Her gaze searches my face, and with a cup of her soft hand over my cheek, she says them back. “I love you, Roman. I really love you.”

***

We held hands as we made our way to her apartment on the subway.

The suggestion was hers after I told her that we needed to talk. We did a pit stop at her office so she could check in with John, and then we took off.

We’re at her apartment now.

I opened a bottle of white wine, poured her a glass, and then polished off one before I refilled my glass.

Even though I’m dreading the conversation we’re about to have, I know I can’t move forward with our relationship until I do.

This isn’t a burden I’m carrying. It’s a gift. A twisted, fucked up gift that I need to hand over to Bianca.

She kicks off her shoes and settles on her couch. “Sit with me?”

I’m there before she can get another breath in.

Sipping her wine, she studies my face. “Something happened the other night when I was at your place.”

“Yes,” I answer clearly. “Something did happen. I’m sorry for the way I handled it.”

“Did your father die too, Roman?”

I shake that off with a shrug. “I’m not sure. He left when I was a kid. I’ve never heard from him.”

Concern knits her brow. “Your father did to you what Elizabeth did to your girls?”

“He hung around for a few years after we were born, but he eventually realized he couldn’t cut it.”

“I’m sorry.” Her hand reaches for mine. “I had no idea. When I talked about my dad dying, that must have brought up a lot of feelings for you.”

I could let her make that assumption, but I won’t because it’s not based on fact.

I rest my wineglass on the coffee table and turn until I’m fully facing her. “When you spoke about your dad, it did bring up a lot of feelings for me.”

Tears well in the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

I swipe my finger over her cheek to catch a tear, just as I feel my emotions thundering to the surface. “You weren’t, Bianca. Not at all.”

She stares at me. “You felt something when I talked about him. I saw the sadness then, and I see it now.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. It’s been there since she mentioned her father’s name. George Cuthbert.

I suck in a deep breath and squeeze her hand in mine. “I knew your dad, Bianca.”

“What?” she half-laughs. “Are you serious? He sold medical equipment. How would you have known him? You were only…”

“Sixteen when he died,” I finish her sentence.

“Right.” She nods. “Did your mom know him? Does she remember him?”

I drop my voice to a soft tone. “She didn’t know him.”

“I’m lost.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “Where did you meet him?”

I bring her hand to my chest and hold it there. “At the hospital. I met him there. I visited him often, and I was holding his hand when he took his last breath.”

Tags: Deborah Bladon The Hawthornes of New York Romance
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