Chapter 4
A ONE PERCENT CHANCE
ROMAN
“Yes, actually,” Roman says, his face serious, but thinking of how serendipitous it is that she would be the one he crashes into.
Her hand wraps around the bag containing the medicine, and she holds it out to him.
“Thanks,” he says, reaching for it. He tries, he really tries, to avoid making contact with her skin, with her fingers.
But fate has other plans. So, as the package slips from her, his forefinger lightly grazes hers.
His body is apparently determined to hold on to the sensation, knowing full well it will amount to nothing.
This is nothing. Their gazes lock, and she sucks in a sharp breath before standing back to her full height.
Get a grip.
She clears her throat, jutting out her chin. “Someone sick?”
He looks down at the package, shoving it into the basket. “Something like that.”
She gives a small smile, her features sympathetic. “Well, I hope they get better.”
She’s nice too.
She starts to move past, but he just can’t help it. He enjoys inflicting pain on himself, you see.
So, rather than moving to a different cashier like a sane person, he finds himself in the line behind her.
She types furiously into her cellphone as she gets rung out, her mouth pursed, her eyebrows drawn.
He wants to know who’s disturbing her and if he needs to have a word with them.
He sees there’s not much on the belt and watches as she absentmindedly shoves her card into the machine with more force than necessary before cracking her fingers as she reads whatever message comes through.
The cashier, a young kid with a smattering of freckles, clears his throat.
“Ma’am?”
She looks up from her phone, a tightness to her features.
“Your card declined.”
He examines the machine and—
Yeah, those black letters are blocky and bold.
He shifts, watching as her eyebrows pinch even closer. She removes the card, wiping it against her stomach.
“Sorry, it’s an old card,” she says, clearing her throat.
“Might have typed in the pin wrong.” She inserts it again with shaky fingers.
The anxiety rolls off her in waves, and he can’t seem to tolerate the idea of her not feeling okay.
Before he can really think about it, he’s clearing his throat, pulling the piece of plastic from the card reader before it declines again.
“Baby,” he says, slipping her card into her back pocket and pulling out his own. “I told you to order a new card last week.”
Coaxing her to the side with a hand on her arm, he turns to the red-faced cashier.
“She’s so busy with work, she must have forgotten. She’s been making so many sales. She got Employee of the Month, you know,” he says evenly as he removes the divider, pushing his items with hers.
“Just put everything together for me. This woman, I tell you, incredibly persuasive. Right?” He takes in her furrowed eyebrows and pursed lips before inserting his own card.
“She’s so modest.” He steps back, gathering all the bags as the boy hands him the receipt.
“Thanks, man. Happy Fourth of July,” Roman says with a hand against her back.
He guides them out of the automatic doors, into the parking lot.
The sounds of customers pushing their carts across the concrete, crying babies, and trunks slamming shut greet him.
If possible, the temperature seems to have spiked at least ten degrees since he stepped inside.
He walks with her, making sure they’re in the shade of a few palm trees and the building’s slated roof before turning to face her.
He holds out her bags, the oppressive humidity making his palm clammy against the plastic, sweat rolling down his side.
She stands, basking in the sun’s rays, the light making her skin glow.
Jesus.
“Why did you do that?” She asks, blinking rapidly.
He shrugs, his hand slightly lowering. “I’m sure you would’ve done the same.”
Her eyes flit to the cars in the lot before meeting his gaze again.
“No. I wouldn’t have.”
He blinks at her candid admission, not expecting it but pleasantly surprised anyway. His lips turn upward as she takes the bag from him. He rubs his jaw with his free hand and clears his throat.
“You know, most people would say thank you.”
She looks up, her grip tightening on the bag.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, moving to walk past him. “Sorry for the trouble.”
But no, this can’t be it, right? Surely, this ends differently.
“Are you from around here?” he asks, then cringes. He won’t blame her if she pretends not to hear him and continues on her way, but her movements falter.
She turns on her heel, studying him for several moments, opening her mouth and then closing it.
He chuckles, running his knuckles under his chin.
“I’m not—I don’t mean to … shit,” he says, looking at his feet. He shuffles backward to leave. “Sorry. I’m not—I didn’t do that so you would—”
“No,” she says, interrupting him. He stops moving, examining her relaxed posture. “I mean, yes. I used to. I’m from New York,” she says, blowing out a small breath.
Of fucking course.
“So,” she says, looking back up at him with a small smile, “if you’re a serial killer, I’m not the best prey.” Her eyebrows pinch together then. “Or maybe I am. Nobody would look for me here, I suppose.” She looks off to the side, appearing deep in thought.
The corners of his lips twitch as he lets out a shaky laugh. “Jesus, I’m not a serial killer,” he says, chuckling louder as her words replay in his mind.
“That’s what they all say,” she mumbles. She fixes her gaze on him and steps further to the left.
He raises his eyebrows. “Are you … visiting family? Big Fourth of July celebration?”
And just like that, her face draws in, like a dark cloud swiftly appears in a clear sky. Her lips turn downward before pressing together. Her eyes fall to the ground, and her entire posture stiffens.
We were doing so well.
Roman rubs a hand across his mouth, taking a small step back when she says nothing.
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s complicated,” she says, gripping the handle of her bag tighter.
“I’m procrastinating. I haven’t been home in a long time,” she says, breathing out.
“They don’t even know I’m here. Not sure if they’d even be happy to see me.
But I’m finishing my master’s program around here—sorry, I’m rambling. ”
Her brown eyes are sharp and round, with an unwavering intensity that has his mind reeling.
“I really don’t mind. You have a pretty fantastic voice.”
And for some reason, he feels emboldened by her lack of retreat and takes a step closer.
“And I think they’d be happy to see you. For what it’s worth,” he says, towering over her as he rubs the nape of his neck. “Your family.”
Her arms wrap around her silhouette. “You don’t know me. What if I’m the problem? What if I’m the monster?” she asks, looking past him.
“You’re not,” he says, and then gestures towards her. “I mean, you don’t look like one.”
She twists her head, blinking up at him. “Really? And here I thought my fangs and claws were showing,” she says, her eyes bouncing around his face.
He laughs as he inches forward to let a woman walk past with her cart.
“Well,” he says in a low voice, “I think … I have a solution to our problem.” He clears his throat, wiping his palm against the material of his shirt.
Now or never.
“I could take you out for a coffee, and you can tell me all about your origin story,” he says slowly, gauging her reaction. “Fangs and all.”
Her lips part as she stares at him, a slow smile on her face that makes his own heat.
Her eyebrow arches. “Presumptuous of you to assume I like coffee,” she says, matching his pitch.
Roman reaches for his chest like he’s been wounded, swaying to the side slightly.
“Don’t … like … coffee?” He narrows his eyes. “You really are a monster …” he says, trailing off, eyebrows raised in question.
“Jahlani,” she says, shaking her head.
“Jahlani,” he repeats, savoring each syllable, testing it on his tongue and liking the way it sounds—loving the way it feels. “The evilest name I’ve heard since He Who Must Not Be Named.”
She looks down at her feet, her smile faltering.
“I don’t think your girlfriend—”
“Presumptuous of you to think I have a girlfriend.” He jostles the bag of feminine products, flexing his fingers. “They’re for my sister.”
She says nothing, her expression wary. He takes another step forward, and his eyes flit to her pierced earlobes before moving back to the length of her nose.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Don’t say no. You have to admit that fate wants us together. Twice in one day? That’s something.”
At this, she laughs. And it’s a glorious sound. One that he could get drunk on if she’d let him. One he’d make sure to hear at least seven days a week, 365 days a year. Her head tips back and her eyes close before they fall back to him, a lightness to them.
“That’s not fate,” she says, shuffling on the balls of her feet.
“It’s not?” he asks, trying and failing not to sound winded.
“No,” she says with a snort. “You’re experiencing apophenia and confirmation bias.
You’re spotting a pattern that doesn’t exist. You saw me once,” she adds, stepping closer.
“And you’re choosing to focus on that, ignoring all the other times that we didn’t cross paths.
Us meeting? That’s math. That’s probability. ”
She waves her arm back towards the building, her stare unwavering.
“Let’s assume here that the store is large enough that there’s a reasonable chance of us crossing paths multiple times, but it’s not so large that it’s improbable we would never meet twice.
” She looks towards the store this time, before settling her gaze back on his.
“Let’s say it’s 10,000 square feet. We were clearly not sticking to a single area of the store. ”
“Clearly,” he murmurs, angling his body closer as she continues, her hands moving wildly.
“Our movements are random, and we’ve probably been in here for roughly the same amount of time. So, maybe we’ve only covered about one-tenth of the store in our time here. There’s at least a point one, or a ten percent chance, of us meeting once.” She licks her lips, eyebrows furrowed in thought.
“But we met twice,” he says. “What are the odds of that?” She chews on her lip, looking away. “How do we get that number?” he asks, interest piqued, because holy shit, she’s a fucking math wizard.
She exhales, looking back up. “You’d have to combine the probability of both independent events.
Assuming that both numbers are the same, the product would be point zero one or one percent.
But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s a rare event.
” She sounds less confident now, and it sends a sharp prickle through him.
His chuckle is low as he rubs two fingers against his temple.
“Yeah, all you’ve managed to do is prove to me that your mind is just as beautiful as your face, and that I need to learn more about statistics if I have a fighting chance of keeping up with you in any kind of conversation.
” He shrugs, finally toe to toe with her.
“Numbers don’t lie, and I’d really like yours,” he says, his pulse ticking to an abnormal rhythm, his tongue feeling rather heavy because the last time he asked a woman out, it didn’t feel like this.
He isn’t sure it ever has.
She blows out a gust of air, her eyes ricocheting over his features. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
“I did,” he says, glancing at her mouth. “And I promise, I’m not a serial killer. I’m just a guy wanting to get to know a captivating woman.”
“Why?” she asks, blinking rapidly.
He inhales deeply through his nose, sliding his hand into his front pocket. “You’re funny, blunt, smart,” he says, moving even closer.
Absolutely gorgeous.
“Unpredictable,” he says instead, watching her skin flush.
She licks her lips, swallowing. “And that’s a good thing?”
He shrugs. “It makes me curious.”
“But, what if … I’m a serial killer?” she says quietly, her eyebrows furrowed.
God.
He laughs, dropping his head forward before taking in the serious expression on her face. “See what I mean?”
Her smile falls and the light in her eyes seems to dissipate as she moves further away from him. From whatever this is. From whatever it could be.
Her lips press into a thin line. “No, I don’t, actually.” His breath hitches as she seems to snap back into her default mode, her walls growing taller with each passing second.
“Jahlani.”
She clutches her bag tighter. “I’m sorry about earlier, and … thanks again for helping me, but I don’t think this is a good idea for me. I’m just not in a good place right now,” she says, wiping her hand against her thigh.
Roman’s ribs grow tight as he gives a weak smile. “Yeah, okay,” he says, while blinking. “Sorry, I don’t know what—”
“No, it’s fine—”
“—came over me, I have a lot—”
“—I’m just figuring out things—”
They both pull in shaky breaths before laughing. Roman swallows, stepping back.
“Maybe I’ll see you around?” he asks, looking down as his phone vibrates. Danica’s name and number flash across the screen along with a contact picture—a photo of her with Lucy. His daughter. The very reason he’s in this store to begin with.
He declines the call, but when he looks back up, she’s gone.
I’m just not in a good place right now.
And he knows she was right to pass up on his offer because, truth be told, neither is he.