Page 55 of Romeo

No little escape hatch.

That was becoming harder to dismiss.

I looked at the flowers again. Maybe the problem wasn’t figuring out whether Jasper wanted something. Maybe the problem was figuring out what I wanted if he did.

That answer was a lot scarier.

CHAPTER NINE

Romeo

The clubhouse was quiet. I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the text thread with Fiona. She’d gotten the flowers. She loved them. And when she finally asked, I’d told her they were from me.

No taking it back now.

I’d spent weeks carefully dancing around what I wanted, letting her come closer without ever closing the space completely. Then I sent her flowers—for Valentine’s Day. Subtle. Real fucking subtle. I rubbed a hand over my face.

Maybe I’d pushed too hard. Maybe tomorrow she’d wake up, stare at that bouquet, and decide a thirty-one-year-old biker who remembered her favorite flowers after one conversation was more alarming than romantic.

My phone rang. I looked at the screen. Sugar. Of course. I answered and leaned back against the headboard. “It’s late, Cher.”

“Don’t ‘Cher’ me, Romeo.”

Her tone had me sitting up straighter. Sugar’s mama was my auntie Gail. Auntie Gail was one of three women in my life I didn’t play with. Sugar’s tone was suspiciously close to Auntie Gail’s.

“We need to talk.”

I waited, knowing damn well I wasn’t going to like where this was headed.

“About Fiona,” she added.

My jaw tightened. “What about her?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Rome. I know you sent those flowers. I know you’ve been texting her.” Sugar paused, and when she spoke again, every bit of humor had left her voice. “So I’m going to ask you once, and you better give me a straight answer. Are you playing with her?”

The question landed harder than I wanted it to. Not because Sugar had any reason to think better of me. She knew exactly who I’d been.

“No,” I said, my voice losing its usual humor. “I’m not.”

“Bullshit. You’re a player, Romeo. You always have been. You don’t do relationships. You don’t do commitment. So what the hell are you doing sending flowers to an eighteen-year-old girl who works for me?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” Her voice rose slightly through the phone. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re setting her up to get hurt. And if you hurt her, Romeo, I swear to God⁠—”

“I won’t fucking hurt her,” I cut in.

“Why should I believe you?”

Because every answer I came up in my head with sounded insane, I gave her the truth instead.

“Because she’s mine.”

Silence filled the line. I stared toward the dark window and waited.

“What did you just say?” Sugar finally asked.

“You heard me.”