Roman’s hands tightened on the wheel as the engine hummed beneath him, the sleek sports car eating up miles of cracked country road. Dust clouded behind him, and the polished black paint job was already losing its shine. He didn’t care.

He should’ve come sooner. He knew it. Every mile closer to her ranch twisted something in his chest. He could still hear her last message in his head — sharp, cold, and short. Just a simple: “Don’t bother rushing. You never do.”

She was pissed. Rightfully so. He’d been buried in work, city meetings, mafia problems, family issues, and every excuse he hated himself for using. But none of that mattered now. He was here. For the whole summer.

He thought about her standing on the porch — arms crossed, face pulled into that pout she tried to mask as anger. God, he loved that look. The fire in her eyes when she was mad at him made him want to grab her and shut her up with his mouth. But first, he’d take his punishment.

The house came into view, and his heart picked up. It always did with her. The one person who didn’t care that he ran an empire. She just cared that he showed up.

He killed the engine, sat for a moment in silence, and pulled out his phone.

Texting: I see your pout from the driveway. I deserve it. I’m here now, for months. Suit’s coming off, boots are going on. Let me in, sugar cube.

He hit send, took a breath, and stepped out.