Page 5 of Before I Say I Don’t

In that moment, it felt like we’d just sealed a door that neither of us would ever open again.

Roman’s gaze held mine, steady and unblinking.

“He’s a lucky man; I hope he knows that,” he added after a beat.

I didn’t answer, because deep down, I wasn’t sure Viangelo did.

As if on cue, the waitress reappeared with our drinks.

“Ready to order?” Her attention was focused on Roman, eyelashes working overtime.

“I’ll have the grilled salmon and the charred broccolini,” he said, handing her the menu without breaking eye contact with me.

“And you?” She turned to me, noticeably cooler.

“The tomato bisque and a half panini.”

“Anything else?” she asked—her tone making it clear the question wasn’t for me.

Roman smiled, friendly but final. “That’s it. Thanks.”

She lingered a half-bit longer than necessary before walking away.

I watched his hands as he lifted his tea—clean nails, a faint scar on his middle knuckle that looked like it had healed recently. That was the kind of detail one shouldn’t know about a man they didn’t intend to kiss.

“So, how’s Danica?”

“You remember my sister?” I asked, a bit surprised, since he had only met her a couple of times.

“I remember she made me take a picture of you two because she didn’t like the photographer’s angle,” he explained.

I chuckled.

“But yeah, I do. She’s good?”

“She is… same ol’ Danica. But she’s married now with two kids—a boy and a girl. She’s an event planner and runs them like a general marshaling troops, keeping everything on point."

He grinned.

"She’s actually coordinating my wedding while fending off my future mother-in-law’s unsolicited advice."

He chuckled softly, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I can see that. So… are you happy with Angelo? Is he treating you right?”

I fiddled with my fingers beneath the table, feeling a flicker of vulnerability.

“I’m happy, and yes, he does,” I replied, carefully choosing my words.

Roman’s expression said, if you say so, before he propped his chin on his knuckles.

“You look it,” he said. “You also look like you’ve been surviving on less than six hours of sleep for… a while.”

“Don’t profile me,” I teased, then sobered. “We just had this big verdict, and… well, I’m trying to do my best—the grown-up version of it.”

Roman nodded like he understood every word I didn’t say.

“You always did the most… but it always paid off.”

“Yes, it does.”

Silence settled, not awkward, but the kind familiar where the table held an old friendship steady while new awareness climbs up on top of it and learns to balance.

Our food arrived moments later. The waitress placed his salmon in front of him with a flourish, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, an all-too-familiar gesture from women hoping to be remembered.

Roman thanked her graciously, but he didn’t bother to ask her name.

Instead, he focused intently on me, as if the rest of the bustling restaurant had fallen away.

“What about you?” I interrogated, eager to shift the focus and anchor myself to something safe. “Investigations sounds… intense. What does a typical work day look like for you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Sometimes it’s spreadsheets and interviews in stuffy conference rooms; sometimes it’s hopping on a plane to another time zone to ask the same question from different angles.

Mostly, it’s about earning people’s trust enough for them to share their truths.

” He cut into the salmon, savoring each bite before continuing.

“I like the puzzle; I don’t like what the puzzle costs people. ”

“It’s funny… we chose different sides of the same coin. You dig until something gives, and I build until something holds.”

He tilted his head. “You always were a builder.”

“And you always were a breaker,” I countered, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks. “I mean—breaker of lies… of barriers… of?—”

He grinned, the corner of his lips lifting in the way I remembered from our college days.

“I’ll take it.”

As we continued to eat, our conversation flowed effortlessly.

We reminisced about professors who still stumbled over names and judges who had an irrational disdain for adjectives.

He teased me about the way I color-coded my outlines while I reminded him of that late-night study session when we pushed through until three a.m., ordered pizza, and he fell asleep face down in a casebook that left “RESTATEMENT (SECOND) OF TORTS” backwards on his cheek for an hour—an image I could never forget.

We settled into an easy rhythm, laughter punctuating the air as we revisited shared memories.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked, tracing a line of condensation on my glass with my thumb.

“Anything.”

“Is there a… special person in your life?” I kept my voice light and my eyes on his mouth because it was safer than looking into his eyes. “I don’t see a ring.”

Roman held my gaze like it was a contract he was willing to sign in ink.

“No ring means no one who’d be upset to see me at lunch with such a beautiful lady.

” He took a breath. “Although… there is someone I haven’t stopped thinking about,” he added carefully.

“We met years ago. Timing was trash. Neither of us really expressed our feelings to one another. I left. Life happened. She deserves… every good thing.”

The words landed in my chest and spread heat, shame, longing, and the kind of complicated emotion I couldn’t name in polite company.

I knew then that I was that special person. All of what Roman said was true, too.

“Oh,” I said, barely audible.

I looked down at my empty soup bowl studying it like there might be a map in the swirls that could guide me through this moment.

“I’m happy for you, Kam. Truly,” he expressed quickly and sincerely.

“Thank you.”

We lingered over the last sips of our drinks like prolonging the moment might slow time back to a pace that didn’t make my head light.

“I should get back,” I announced finally, my voice steady, even though my body disagreed.

Roman nodded once, a subtle agreement to a reality neither of us had chosen, one that hung between us like an unsaid confession.

With a swift motion, he reached for the check before I could react, sliding his card into the black leather folder without a hint of reluctance, and he didn’t bother pretending to argue about it.

Once Roman got his card back, we left and then stepped out onto the sidewalk together. For a fleeting moment, we stood there, caught in that awkward pause strangers share when they’re unsure whether to hug or wave—though we weren't strangers at all, and that was the problem.

“This was…” I began, searching for the right words to encapsulate the bittersweet nature of our reunion.

“Good,” he finished for me. “It was good to see you, Kam."

“Likewise,” I replied, my heart racing slightly under the weight of his gaze.

Roman looked at me the way men look when they’re memorizing a face they aren’t supposed to want.

Then, he held out his hand, palm up, and the gesture was both disarming and daring.

“Let me see your phone.”

“My phone?” I retorted, surprised by the request.

He tilted his head slightly, his hand still waiting.

The playful innocence in his demeanor felt dangerously alluring.

“Roman,” I warned, a mixture of disbelief and hesitation flooding my voice.

I quickly realized, though, that despite the warning, my spine seemed to melt into warm honey as I reached into my bag and handed it over. He raised a brow, the corners of his mouth twitching with curiosity.

“Code?”

I hesitated… only a breath. Then, “1131.”

“Proposal date?” he teased.

“Bar passage date,” I playfully quipped, with my arms folded.

Roman smirked. “Figures.”

His thumbs moved with a practiced speed, and I watched as he entered his number, quickly sent himself a text, and then returned my phone as if he were handing back a cherished item he’d borrowed long ago.

“Just in case you need a friend, a laugh, or someone to vent to about a judge who thinks commas are optional.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat blocking any protest.

“Roman… I’m engaged… to your friend.”

“Old acquaintance,” he clarified. “But relax. I’m not gonna show up at your door with roses. Unless…” His voice trailed off, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Unless I get bored.”

“Roman…”

His soft chuckle interrupted me, carrying with it a hint of reassurance.

“For real, I won’t step where I shouldn’t,” he promised, and the weight of those words lodged themselves under my ribs, burrowing into my consciousness.

Then, he leaned in, slow enough for me to pull away and fast enough that I found myself frozen in place. His lips brushed my cheek—not a kiss, exactly. It was warm, gentle, and suffused with a dangerous tenderness that sent a thrill down my spine.

“Take care, Kam,” he said, his voice low and filled with the familiarity of shared late-night conversations, as if we were walking out of the library at midnight, with plans to see each other in the Evidence room the next day.

Roman turned and walked away.

Three women at the window watched him go. The waitress leaned her hip against the hostess stand, staring as if trying to fix his image in her memory.

I stood on the sidewalk—the phone warm in my palm, my heart pounding too loudly in my ears—and stared at the spot where his shadow had just been.

I reminded myself that I was marrying the love of my life in a month.

Yet as I walked back toward the courthouse, I could still feel the ghost of Roman’s lips on my skin.

I could still hear the way he said my name, as if it were both a question and an answer.

And beneath that sense of righteousness, a tiny, treacherous voice whispered, "Call him when you need a friend. "