Chapter 5
Kayla
It’s just dinner, I remind myself. It’s just a date.
An evening where we both put on nice clothes and go to a restaurant and talk to each other about whatever it is that normal couples talk about.
People do this all the time. Of course, those people probably don’t have to psych themselves up that the evening won’t be a total disaster while putting on their mascara. But here we are.
Even to my own eyes, the face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror looks tired.
Strained. I try to smile, but it looks fake.
Giving up, I brush more blush onto my cheeks and reach for my lipstick.
The color is a deep wine, dramatic with my pale skin and dark brown eyes, but I know Roman likes it.
Smoothing the dark green fabric of my dress over my hips, I turn slowly in front of the mirror.
It clings to every curve. The neckline dips low enough to be enticing without being too revealing.
The last time I wore this dress was for our first wedding anniversary, a night that ended with us barely making it through the front door before his hands were everywhere.
I’m hoping tonight the dress will work its magic again.
Things have only gotten worse between Roman and me since that night in my studio. He’s coming home later, talking less, and there are more hushed phone calls that end abruptly when I enter the room. Whatever it is that’s going on, he won’t talk to me about it.
I can hear Roman thumping about and grumbling in the bedroom.
Drawers open and shut. Roman curses softly, and then more drawers open and shut.
When I enter the bedroom again, he’s standing by the bed, dress pants on but shirt unbuttoned, glaring at the suit jacket and tie I laid out for him earlier.
“I don’t see why I need to wear a damn suit,” he says as I enter the room. “Can’t we just go to Rusty’s? They know us there, and they don’t care what I’m wearing.”
“Because I want to eat somewhere nice tonight,” I tell him, coming to stand in front of him. I reach up to button his shirt, my fingers brushing against the warm skin of his chest. “I don’t want to eat at Rusty’s.”
Roman catches my hands, stilling them. “Hell Sunshine, if you want to eat something nice, we could do that here. I could fire up the grill. Open a bottle of wine. Got some good steaks in the freezer and ….” he trails off as he realizes the flaw in his brilliant plan.
“Seriously, Roman?” My voice sharpens with anger.
“No. I don’t want to eat a veggie burger here or a dry salad made with iceberg lettuce and a few sad shreds of carrot at Rusty’s.
” My hands curl into fists beneath his. “I made the reservations weeks ago; you agreed to wear the suit, you aren’t wiggling out of it now. ”
“Alright, alright,” he holds his hands up in surrender. “I’ll wear the suit.” He sighs dramatically, but allows me to finish with the buttons.
“Your sacrifice is deeply appreciated,” I mutter, reaching for the tie.
“It better be,” Roman chuckles before he finally notices what I’m wearing. His eyes widen slightly, traveling down my body in a slow, appreciative sweep that makes my skin warm despite my lingering annoyance with him.
“Is that new?” he asks, his voice dropping to that low growl that never fails to make my stomach flutter.
“Mm-hmm. Thought you might like it.” I loop the tie around his neck.
“Did you?” His hands find my waist, pulling me closer.
“I think you were right.” His fingers trail along the neckline, barely skimming the skin above my breasts.
“I think you chose this to distract me from the fact that I’m wearing a damn suit,” he accuses, but there’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth now.
“Is it working?” I ask, finishing the knot in his tie and tilting my head up to look at him.
His eyes darken as they fix on my lips. “You know it is,” he murmurs, pulling me closer until I’m pressed against the solid wall of his chest. “But you’re going to pay for it later.”
“We’ll see,” I whisper against his mouth.
His kiss is hungry, possessive, one hand sliding to the small of my back to hold me against him while the other tangles in my carefully styled hair.
I melt into him, my arms winding around his neck.
For a moment, everything else falls away — all the tension, the distance, the doubts.
There’s just Roman and me, and the familiar heat between us that has never dimmed.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I know he’s smeared my lipstick. I don’t care.
“I’m going to go fix my lipstick,” I say, reluctantly easing out of his embrace. “Meet you downstairs?”
Roman chuckles, biting gently at my earlobe before releasing me. “Don’t take too long, Sunshine. Sooner this evening is over, sooner I can get you into bed.”
I duck into the bathroom before I’m tempted to do something foolish like drag Roman to bed right this minute. After fixing my lipstick and trying to repair some of the damage to my hair, I grab a jacket, slip on my shoes, and head downstairs.
“We should go. Our reservation is for—”
But Roman isn’t listening. He’s standing rigidly, staring at his phone, his expression now hard and cold.
“Roman?” I ask, dread building in my chest. “What is it?”
He startles and looks up at me, as if he’d forgotten I was there. “I need to go,” he says, his voice now all Viper, none of the warmth from moments ago. “Something’s come up.”
“What?” The word comes out slightly louder than I intended. “Roman, no. You promised—”
“I know what I promised,” he cuts me off, already shrugging out of the suit jacket. “And I’ll keep it. I’ll meet you at the restaurant. I just need to handle this first.”
I watch, stunned, as he yanks off the tie, tossing it onto the couch. “You’re seriously leaving right now? Can’t someone else handle whatever it is?”
Roman’s jaw tightens as he heads for the stairs. “No, they can’t. I won’t be too late. Thirty minutes, tops.”
“Roman!” I call after him, but he’s already disappeared upstairs. I stand there, jacket clutched in my hands, fighting back the burning sensation behind my eyes. This can’t be happening again.
He returns minutes later, still wearing the suit pants and shirt but with his leather cut over it.
The Devil’s Rejects patch on his back seems to mock me as he grabs his keys from the hook by the door.
“Roman, please,” I try one more time, hating the pleading note in my voice. “You promised tonight would be mine.”
He crosses to me in three long strides, cupping my face in his hands. “I’ll meet you there. I promise. Order a bottle of wine, get some appetizers. I’ll be there before the main course.” He kisses me, quick but firm. “I’m sorry, sunshine. I need to handle this.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone, the front door closing firmly behind him. Moments later, I hear his bike roar to life in the driveway.
The room suddenly feels too quiet. I sink onto the couch, careful not to wrinkle my dress.
Anger wells up inside me. Normal wives don’t have to cross their fingers and hope that their dates with their husbands actually happen.
Normal wives don’t get stood up by the love of their life before they even make it to the restaurant.
But I’m not normal. I’m just another old lady, waiting for her man to remember she exists.
* * *
I check my phone again, one hour and seventeen minutes since I arrived at Sable and Silk. No calls, no texts.
The server has stopped asking if I’m ready to order dinner and is simply throwing pitying glances my way every time he walks by. I’ve nursed the same glass of Cabernet for the past forty minutes.
“Can I get you anything else, ma’am?” The server appears beside me; his voice is perfectly polite, yet there’s an undertone to it that says, ‘Are you going to order any more food?’ This is the fourth time he’s asked.
I’ve gone from “waiting for my husband” to “I’m sure he’ll be here any minute” to “just a little longer, please.” The progression of my excuses matches the dimming of hope in my chest.
“No, thank you,” I murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “Actually, could I get the check for the wine and appetizer?”
“Of course.” He nods and disappears, probably relieved that the sad woman taking up one of his tables is finally giving up.
I glance around the elegant dining room, taking in the couples leaning toward each other, the groups of friends laughing over shared bottles of wine. Everyone else has someone who showed up.
My phone buzzes, and my heart leaps with pathetic eagerness, but it’s just my weather app sending an alert about temperatures dropping tonight.
I toss the phone back into my purse, angry at myself for still hoping.
Roman isn’t coming. He was never going to come.
The evening was doomed the moment he realized the club needed him.
And he couldn’t even be bothered to send a text that he wouldn’t be here.
The server brings the check, and I hand over my credit card without looking at the total.
I don’t care what the wine and uneaten bruschetta cost. As I wait for him to return with my card, I notice a couple at a nearby table.
The man reaches across to tuck a strand of hair behind the woman’s ear; a small gesture, but it makes my throat tighten.
When was the last time Roman looked at me that way, with complete focus, like I was the only person in the room?
“Thank you for coming in tonight,” the server says as he returns my card. The formal pleasantry feels like a mockery.
I gather my purse and wrap, standing up and smoothing down the dress I’d chosen so carefully. As I make my way toward the exit, I feel eyes following me. The poor woman who got stood up.
Just as I push open the heavy wooden door to the restaurant, my phone rings. I fumble for it, nearly dropping it in my haste. Roman’s name flashes on the screen.