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I quickly walk toward the desk and pick up the box. “It was delivered this morning. Rush delivery. I thought my dad sent me something because I have an exam tomorrow.”
Roman says nothing. I tear the package open and my breath catches as I see the small drive. Roman steps closer. I lift the drive from the box, and a folded piece of paper falls onto the desk. I unfold it and my father’s handwriting stares back at me.
Cora,
Trust Roman Taylor. Stay safe.
That’s it. My fingers tighten around the note. “Oh my God.”
Roman takes the drive from my hand, studying it for a moment before looking at me.
“Good. Now, we need to move.”
The room begins spinning. Suddenly, I can’t seem to focus on anything. My father is missing. He isn’t answering his phone. He sent evidence to my dorm room and told me to trust a man I barely remember meeting as a kid.
I move quickly after that. I pack a bag, throwing clothes, toiletries, chargers, and anything else I can think of inside. My laptop goes into its case, followed by my textbooks. Roman watches me for a moment.
“What? I don’t know when my dad is coming back, and I don’t know what’s going on. I might as well keep up with school.”
He studies me as I zip my bag.
“This is my way of coping,” I add.
His expression changes. The amusement disappears. “I know.”
The simple understanding in his voice almost makes me cry. I refuse to allow myself to do that. Instead, I grab my bag and computer.
“Let’s go.”
Roman takes the bag from me without a word. “Are you always this prickly?”
“Yes.”
“Wonderful.”
***
The drive to the airport is quiet.
I sit in the passenger seat of Roman’s rented SUV, my bag behind me. Roman keeps one hand on the steering wheel and the other near the gearshift, giving me plenty of time to study the tattoos covering his skin.
Up close, I can make out more of them. The compass on his forearm is worked into a larger piece of storm-tossed waves and an old naval anchor, while a line of coordinates runs along the inside of his wrist. Higher up, darker designs disappear beneath his sleeve before I can figure out what they are.
They don’t look random. Every piece seems deliberate, like there’s a story behind it.
I find myself wanting to know all of them.
I have questions. So many questions. But with Roman focused on the road, I take the opportunity to study him without getting caught.
Those intense hazel eyes stay sharp and watchful, constantly moving between the road and the mirrors. I wonder what they would look like if all that control slipped.
The thought sends an unfamiliar warmth through me, and I shift in my seat.
What is wrong with me?
I’ve never reacted to a man this way. There have been guys interested in me, especially since I started college, but dating has never been much of a priority. Between moving around with Dad when I was younger and throwing myself into my psychology degree once I finally had some control over my own future, relationships always seemed like something I had plenty of time for later.
And sex?
