Page 4 of Before I Say I Don’t

Chapter Two

KAMIRA

T hat following Monday, I was already buried in another case—not nearly as high-profile as the previous one I’d wrapped up, but still meaty enough to consume my entire morning.

After hours spent sifting through motions and preparing cross-examination notes, my stomach started begging for something more than caffeine.

As I stepped into the courthouse cafeteria, I was instantly assaulted by a smell that felt as if it were baked into the very vents—an unholy blend of burnt coffee mingling with a tired pasta sauce that had likely seen better days.

After the tension of that morning’s motion hearing, the thought of settling for the same uninspired options made my stomach churn in protest.

I needed air.

I wanted to try something different; something that came on real plates, cooked by someone who actually respected seasoning. And maybe, if I were lucky, I’d find a reason to breathe that wasn’t chained to a court deadline.

I walked two blocks down to a charming little corner bistro I’d been meaning to try— Rose a figure from a hazy past who wore worn hoodies and had an aura of quiet determination.

He was the kind of student who slept four hours and stood like he’d slept twelve.

However, the Roman who stood before me right then was a complete transformation—his frame was robust and chiseled, broad through the chest, with forearms that were defined, marked with a softness cultivated from discipline and consistent effort.

His hair was closely cropped, the fade so sharp and clean it felt almost illegal, drawing attention to the strong angles of his jaw.

He wore a navy polo that hugged his form perfectly and a close-cropped fade, line clean enough to be illegal.

The scent that surrounded him was a warm blend of cedar and a sense of knowing—like someone who had learned to choose well in life.

Before I could rein in my emotions, I felt my mouth curve into a smile, before I gave it permission.

“You look… good.” The compliment slipped out, genuine and effortless.

I wanted to say, ‘sexy as hell’, but I had to remember I was an engaged woman.

Roman smiled, slow and complete, like he knew exactly what I was holding back. “You look exactly like you did in moot court—like you’re about to ruin somebody’s afternoon.”

A laugh escaped me, loosening something tight in my chest I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying since that last argument with Viangelo that past weekend.

“Only if they deserve it,” I said.

Roman stepped out of the line and came closer, crowding out the sun through the window.

“You got a minute to catch up?” he asked. “Or are you on the clock?”

My eyes flicked to the time out of habit .

I could spare an hour. But for him? I could spare two and call it nutrition for my spirit.

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear and nodded. “Sure. Why not?”

The hostess must have been listening, because a two-top near the window miraculously opened. She led us there with the kind of smile that made it clear she would have seated Roman on the moon if he’d asked.

As soon as we sat, a waitress appeared.

She tilted her chin at Roman, then asked, “Can I get you started with something to drink?”

“Iced tea… no sugar,” he replied, then glanced at me. “And give this beauty whatever she wants.”

The word slid across the table like warm honey, coating me before I could put my guard up.

Beauty.

It wasn’t a compliment tossed out for effect; it was the way he said it, like he’d just realized something about me and wanted me to carry it with me for the rest of the day.

“Sparkling water with lime, please,” I requested.

Her eyes dragged over Roman once more.

I made myself look down at my menu and not at her. I hated that the smallest, pettiest part of me enjoyed the fact that he hadn’t looked back.

“So,” Roman began, resting his forearms on the table, leaning in. “You stayed.”

“I did… the firm made it worth staying.”

“You’re still at Carter & Bloom?” he asked. “Corporate litigation, right?”

“Yes. Corporate everything,” I confirmed with a sigh and a smile. “Mergers, contracts, the occasional trial when a client is allergic to settlement. I chair the pro bono committee, too. Keeps me honest.”

“You always were,” he said.

Roman didn’t say what —good, stubborn, relentless—but I heard it.

“Yeah, I read about your verdict last year,” he continued. “The class action against Caldwell BioTech? That was you, right?”

I beamed in surprise.

“Yes, that was me.”

For a second, I thought about telling him about the win I’d just pulled off the week prior, but I held it back. The last thing I wanted was to sound like I chose to have lunch with him to stack my trophies on the table between us.

That—whatever it was—felt too fragile for that.

“And you moved,” I continued. “Right after graduation. West Coast. Better job opportunity, if I remember correctly from your emotional goodbye drinks speech.”

“Guilty,” he said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “It was supposed to be a two-year stint… two years turned into nine.”

"What area are you specializing in?” I questioned genuinely curious about the path he’d taken.

“I’m an in-house counsel at a global sports brand, overseeing internal investigations,” he explained, the tone of his voice hinting at both the seriousness and the thrill of it all.

"Lots of travel. Less sleep. Fewer suits.” He gestured to his casual polo shirt.

“Let’s just say my dry cleaner misses me. ”

A smile crept onto my face. “Head of internal investigations?” I echoed, impressed. “So you spend your days asking people awkward questions they’d rather avoid.”

“Pretty much," he admitted, tilting his head slightly as if weighing the truth of my statement.

“Which is exactly why this place feels like a vacation… even though it’s home .”

He paused, looking around the familiar surroundings that once felt so comfortable.

“So are you back for good or just passing through?” I inquired, even though the answer mattered more than it should have.

“I plan on being here just for a month… maybe longer. Took a sabbatical before diving into the next monster project,” he informed, his gaze drifting out the window for a moment.

“Figured I’d take a breather, visit my folks, and enjoy some meals that come from real kitchens and not airport lounges.

But I mainly came back because one of my guys is getting married, and I’m a groomsman. ”

“Oh, really?” His revelation piqued my interest almost immediately.

“Yeah, one of my boys from back in the day. His name is Angelo.”

The noise of the restaurant dimmed and sharpened at the same time, like someone had turned down the music and turned up the lights on my thoughts.

“Angelo?” I repeated, my heart skipping a beat. “As in… Viangelo Grant ?”

“Yeah. We go all the way back to AAU ball.” A chuckle escaped him as memories danced in his eyes. “The crazy thing is, that nigga always said he’d never get married. Now look at him.”

I looked around the restaurant, scratching my neck.

“Wow. This is such a small world,” I mused, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, a hint of intrigue in his voice.

I lifted my left hand, letting the light catch the glint of my engagement ring.

His gaze dropped to the ring, confusion clouding his features.

“Surprise… I’m the soon-to-be Mrs. Viangelo Grant,” I divulged—no sparkle, no fake cheer… just the truth laid bare on the table between us.

His brows lifted. “Yo… you for real?”

“Yes.” The word came out smaller than I meant, almost hesitant.

And there it was—quick as a blink, deep as a well—disappointment, maybe even a flicker of you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me .

For a half second, something unraveled in his eyes—regret? Curiosity? A reel of old footage the two of us had yet to film together.

“Damn… I guess congratulations are in order,” he commented softly.

“Thank you,” I replied, because it was the polite thing to say.