Chapter 21
21
KAIRA
T he library was by far my favorite spot in Roman’s sprawling house. He said he liked the library, but this was the one room that felt untouched by him. It was warm, unlike the rest of the place. It was cozy and inviting. It wasn’t just the furnishings that were different. It was the whole vibe.
I closed the doors and took a moment to soak it all in. With so many options, I had no idea what I wanted to read first. If I had had the ability, I would read several books at once. Unlike a typical library, this one wasn’t organized by genre. The books weren’t alphabetical from what I had seen either.
I didn’t mind. It would give me the chance to explore all of the titles. Despite the messy organization, or perhaps because of it, I found myself drawn to a particular shelf where books were stacked haphazardly in no apparent order. I reached out and pulled out a book with a leather spine that looked as though it hadn’t been touched for years. The title was embossed in fading gold letters, “Echoes of the Heart.”
Curious, I opened the book to a random page and read a bit to see if it was something that piqued my interest. It was definitely a possibility. I put it on one of the small tables and started to scan more of the titles.
I wanted something romantic, but not quite Jane Austen. Preferably something a little more modern. Given the owner of the library, I had a feeling romance was not really his thing. He probably liked books about polo and yachts and how to properly chastise your butler.
I found something vaguely romantic and curled up on one of the cushy armchairs, my legs tucked beneath me as I held the book in my hands. I opened it and started to read.
Rather, I tried to read.
My eyes scanned the same sentence for the tenth time, but the words blurred together as my mind drifted, drawn away by a daydream I couldn’t seem to shake. It wasn’t unusual for me to get lost in the world of my own characters—hell, I did it all the time when I was writing—but lately, the male lead in my imagination had started to take on an infuriatingly familiar shape.
Roman .
Not cool.
I shook my head and tried to focus on the story. But the memory of his hands on me in the pool last night was impossible to ignore. The heat of his touch, the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered—it had been intoxicating.
But then, there was the other side of him. The moody, sharp-tongued Roman who could suck the energy out of a room with a single comment. The man who saw the world as a battlefield and everyone in it as either an opponent or a pawn. He was a hammer looking for a nail.
Why was he like that? What made him so cold and guarded?
I wondered about his parents, the people in the pictures Carla and I had found earlier. I couldn’t imagine losing my parents, let alone so young and in such a tragic way. What kind of mark did that leave on someone?
I forced my attention back to my book, determined to shake off these thoughts. But just as I was starting to lose myself in the story, the soft creak of the library door pulled me back.
Roman walked in, freshly showered and dressed in gray sweatpants and a simple black T-shirt. His dark hair was damp, and he looked more relaxed than he was.
I quickly returned my gaze to my book, pretending not to notice him as he approached. I wanted to ignore him and pretend he was nothing more than an obnoxious insect.
But Roman was not the kind of man you could simply ignore. It wasn’t just his size—it was his whole aura. He walked into a room and demanded the attention of everyone in it whether he meant to do it or not.
“Wine?” he asked, holding out a glass.
“No, thank you,” I said without looking up.
He surprised me by putting the glass on the small table beside me instead of walking away. I glanced at him, expecting a sharp remark or a sarcastic comment, but instead, he stood there quietly for a moment.
“Should you be drinking in here?” I asked.
Truthfully, I didn’t really trust myself. He might be fine, but I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t spill my glass on an irreplaceable tome.
“It’s furniture,” he said. “It can be cleaned. Or replaced.”
I raised an eyebrow, unsure how to take his nonchalant response. Was he trying to tell me he didn’t care about the furniture, or was it a test to see how I would react? Either way, Roman was standing here, in his library, offering me wine and speaking softly, almost gently.
He pulled up another armchair, positioning it so that it faced mine, and sat down with his own glass of wine.
I could feel a standoff coming. Again. I picked up the glass of wine and took a drink. I was going to need the liquid courage to deal with him.
“I was out of line earlier,” he said.
I blinked, lowering my book. That was the last thing I expected him to say. “Which time?”
He nodded and took a sip from his glass before licking his lips. I nearly moaned when I saw him do it. It reminded me of him kissing me. That tongue that promised pleasure.
I shook off the thoughts and gave him my full attention.
“This house has been too quiet for too long. It could use a little laughter. You were right.” He shook his head. “I’ve been living here a certain way but that doesn’t mean it’s the right way.”
His honesty caught me off guard. Roman didn’t apologize, at least not in the time I had known him. But there was something in his expression—an openness I hadn’t seen before—that made me believe he was sincere.
I put my book down, leaning forward slightly. “I didn’t think you’d admit that.”
He smirked faintly. “Neither did I.”
We sat in silence for a moment before he continued.
“I’ve spent so many years in my business world, treating everyone like they’re trying to take something from me. It’s become a reflex.”
“Like if you don’t get them first, they’ll get you?” I asked gently.
He nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”
“That sounds like a lonely way to live,” I said, keeping my tone soft.
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought I’d pushed too far. But then he let out a quiet breath and looked back at me.
“It is,” he admitted. “But when you’re in it, you don’t really notice. It’s second nature to me.” Then he paused, looking into his glass as if it held some hidden truth that he was reluctant to share. “Until someone comes along and makes you see things differently,” he added quietly, almost to himself.
I felt my heart do a quick skip. Was he talking about me? I wanted to press him, to ask who had made him reconsider his fortress-like existence, but I feared destroying the fragile truce we had just built. Roman was a wounded animal. I had to tread lightly. If I started asking questions or imposing my thoughts and beliefs on him, he was going to bolt.
Instead, I chose a safer question. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
Roman glanced up at me, his eyes searching my face as if trying to decide how much to reveal. There was something in his gaze that made my chest ache—a vulnerability I hadn’t expected to see. For the first time, Roman wasn’t the arrogant, guarded man who infuriated me. He was just… human.
I reached for the glass of wine and took a small sip. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make the corners of his mouth lift into a faint smile. I wanted him to feel relaxed.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on me entirely,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I know I’m not the easiest person to be around.”
I laughed softly. “That’s an understatement.”
His smile widened, and I saw a hint of humor in his expression. “Fair enough.”
We started talking after that, our conversation flowing surprisingly easily. Roman asked me about the book I’d been reading. I teased him about the fact that his library was filled with books I doubted he’d ever read. He didn’t deny it, laughing when I called him out on the pristine condition of the spines.
“Do you collect the books just to have them?” I asked. “I didn’t even get to see a quarter of your library. It’s truly one of the biggest personal libraries I’ve ever seen. Well, let’s be honest, I’ve never actually seen a personal library.”
Roman chuckled, a sound I was quickly learning to appreciate. He didn’t laugh enough. He didn’t smile enough. “I suppose, in a way, yes. They are part of the aesthetic I desired for this place—a symbol of knowledge and culture. But maybe it’s time I actually started reading more of them.”
“Which book would you start with?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m a very black and white guy. I don’t know if I’m the kind of guy that can read fiction. I would pick it apart too much.”
I studied him. “What about biographies?”
“I don’t care enough about people.”
I giggled softly. “Honest.”
“That probably sounds like a dick thing to say, but I think we all have our own stories. What makes any one person any more interesting than the next?”
It was evident he valued his own privacy and solace over understanding others’ lives—a trait I found both frustrating and intriguing.
“Maybe, it’s not about one person being more interesting than another. It’s about seeing how someone else has navigated their unique challenges. You might find pieces of yourself in their stories, or you might learn something completely new.”
Roman looked pensive. “Maybe,” he conceded after a moment. “But I’ve always felt like we should deal with our own shit. It feels like telling one’s story is inviting people into your life. Like you need the attention or accolades. Or pity. That’s the last fucking thing I want.”
It was all very valid. “I get it. I guess I never really thought about it like that.”
“Do you like biographies?”
“Some. I do like to read about people living through extraordinary events. I find some to be inspirational. I couldn’t give a shit about politicians or?—”
“People like me,” he said with a twitch of his lips.
I grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I wouldn’t read my story.”
I didn’t want to tell him that I knew a little about his story and I did find it intriguing.
“I’ll let you get back to your book,” he said.
I didn’t want him to leave just yet. “Would you like me to recommend a book?” I asked. “Something juicy.”
He chuckled. “I don’t want to bother you.”
“How about you turn that fireplace on, and I’ll find you something? I bet you would like a good true crime thriller.”
“That sounds dark. Are you sure it’s a good idea for a guy like me to read a book like that? It might give me ideas.”
“Ha. Ha. Just get that thing going.”
I had seen a few books by Dean Koontz that I had a feeling would hold his attention. I picked up the book and took it back to the sitting area.
The fireplace was on. “It’s just a remote,” Roman said. “Just push the button, set the temperature, and you’re good to go.”
Roman took the book from my hands. A slight frown creased his brow as he flipped through the pages, scanning the blurbs and the author’s note.
“What’s this one about?” he asked.
“Murder, mystery, a bit of psychological twist. It’s gripping, pulls you into the mind of both the detective and the killer. Thought it might be something you’d appreciate—the strategy, the analytical side of it.”
“Sounds good.”
We settled in with our glasses of wine, the warmth from the fireplace and a newfound peace between us.