“One minute,” Roman echoes, his dark eyes shooting murderous daggers at Brandon. “And if you touch her during that minute, I swear to God, mother—” He looks at Maverick and stops himself. “I won’t be a gentleman anymore.”
I slide out of the booth with Maverick and guide him to his father. As I gently push Maverick toward his father, he whispers to me, “Why did Daddy call him ‘mother’?” It’s another Maverick-ism worthy of Ava’s journal. But I’m too stressed about Brandon’s unexpected appearance here to smile about it.
With Maverick secured in Roman’s strong arms, I march toward the front door of the ice cream parlor with my head high and Brandon trailing behind me. Once outside, I position myself in front of the window, so Roman can see everything that goesdown, and then turn around in a huff to face Brandon, my hands on my hips. “One minute.Go.”
Brandon puffs out his cheeks. “I-I went to rehab after the wedding, and I—”
“Yeah, so you wouldn’t have to go to jail for all the money you stole from clients.” That’s what his sister, Delilah, told me in a text—that Brandon went to rehab as part of a confidential settlement agreement brokered by their father with all his firms’ clients, so Mr. Gladstone could avoid his precious son having to endure legal consequences for his bad behavior.
Brandon’s face falls. “That’s why I went, yes. Originally. But I’ve been taking it really seriously and trying to become a better person.”
I look at my watch. “Thirty seconds.”
Brandon shifts his weight. “As part of my treatment plan, I have to go to every person I’ve ever betrayed or hurt and make amends with them. You’re the first person on my list.”
“I should feel honored about that?”
“Just saying you’re at the top of the list, that’s all.”
I snort. “With a list as long as yours, I’m sure the people at the bottom will die of old age before you get to them.” I look at my watch. “Time’s up.” I glare into his eyes. “Fuck you, Brandon. Never contact me again, you lying sack of shit.” I turn to go, but Brandon grabs my arm to keep me in place.
“Hang on, Iris.Please.Hear me out.”
I jerk away from Brandon’s grasp. Not because he’s physically hurting me. His grip is pretty gentle, actually. But Brandon’s flesh against mine, no matter how soft his touch, feels like a violation.
Brandon opens his mouth to say more, but before he gets a word out, Roman appears out of nowhere, moving like a panther. In a blur, he picks up Brandon like he’s a toddler andhurls him several feet down the sidewalk, effectively turning Brandon into Roman’s human bowling ball.
As Brandon clatters onto the hard sidewalk, Roman booms, “Stay the fuck away from my girlfriend!”
Girlfriend?Perhaps now isn’t the time to feel giddy about Roman’s word choice, but I can’t help myself. Does he truly think of me that way, or is he using the word to screw with Brandon, the same way I talked about getting “railed” and “scrambled” at the end of my ranting tirade in the church a lifetime ago?
Brandon raises his palms, striking a defensive posture. He doesn’t seem physically hurt by his tumbling voyage onto the sidewalk. Shocked, yes. Stunned and embarrassed, definitely. But otherwise, he seems perfectly fine. “Calm down, Roman. I didn’t come to fight.”
Roman turns to me, his eyes aflame. “Are you okay, baby?” When I nod, he takes my hand and pulls me into him. “Do you have anything you want to say to this piece of shit before he skitters away like the cockroach he is?”
“One thing.” I release Roman’s hand and stride over to Brandon on the ground. “I’m not frigid, you littlebitch.Not with the right man.” I wish I could scream this petty put-down from the roof of the ice cream parlor, but I’m too battle-scarred from that stupid viral video to do anything but whisper-shout it while covering my mouth with my palm. As much as I want to release a primal, cathartic scream into the universe, it’s far more important that nobody watching this spectacle—or worse, recording it—has any chance of capturing my voice or reading my lips.
“On the contrary,” I add in another whisper-shout. “As it turns out, I’m a certified nymphomaniac with the right man—that man there—because he actually knows what he’s doing in bed, unlike you!”
Roman snorts and hoots with glee behind me. “Atta girl.”
“Never, ever contact me again,” I add, practically spitting the words out. “Or I’ll get a restraining order on your ass.” I return to Roman and defiantly grab his hand. “Come on, baby. Let’s leave the trash on the sidewalk for the trashmen to pick up.”
Roman’s smile is beaming and glorious—every bit as radiant and full of pride as the one he wore a week ago while watching Maverick on that pony. With a squeeze of my hand, he says, “With pleasure. Come on, baby.”
As we turn to stride away, Brandon calls out from the sidewalk, “I’m gonna sue your ass for assault, Roman!”
“Go for it, you little shit,” Roman tosses out, without bothering to stop walking. “I’ve got an unlimited budget for attorneys, and any jury would cheer me on for what I did.”
When we get inside the ice cream parlor, I’m surprised to discover Maverick’s not sitting in the booth any longer. Outside, I assumed Roman left him there and told him to stay put.
“Where’s Mav?” I ask, as we slide into our booth on opposite sides of the table.
“In the back with the store owner. She’s showing him how she makes the ice cream.” He flashes me a lopsided grin. “How do you feel?”
“Fucking amazing.”
He chuckles. “As you should.” He reaches for my hand across the table, so I happily give it to him. “Come to LA with me tomorrow, Iris. I don’t want to leave here without you.”
