Page 4 of From Rome, With Hate

She smiles and sends me a wink, and I manage a quick smile in return before she’s spinning around, raising the bouquet above her head.

I sigh and slip farther into the back, allowing the other hopeful women to gain a better position than me. Ear piercing shrieks and screams fill the ballroom as arms fly into the air, clamoring to grab hold of the cluster of mountain laurels. I back away and slip out without Charleigh catching wind of my departure.

I feel guilty for dipping out on a moment she thinks I should be a part of, but the pressure growing in my chest is becoming unbearable. I may have mistaken the man peering at me from behind the flower wall, but I knowhe’sstill here somewhere.

Fucker.

While marching down the hall, toward the back exit, I glance over my shoulder before pushing through the large, glass door. The warm, early-summer air hits my skin, and I practically gasp before falling against the wall. I peer up at the dark night sky. Farther down the alley, the city is alive, but from where I’m standing, I’m in my own world, alone.

My few seconds of solace are a momentary blip before the door beside me is swinging open.

A groan rises from my throat, and I’m pushing myself away from the wall the second I see his stupid fucking gorgeous face.

Black suit.

Black hair.

Bird tattoo sprawled across his neck, its wings wrapped around his throat, belonging to my worst enemy.

“I fucking knew it.” I scoff, crossing my arms tightly beneath my chest. “Leave it to Rome Montgomery to always show up in places he isn’t wanted. Especially at my best friend’s wedding.”

“You know, it’s a good thing you didn’t catch the bouquet.” He smirks, ignoring my comment. “That would have been difficult to explain.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

He scratches at the shadow of dark hair on his jaw, his blue eyes sliding to meet mine. “From what I recall, you were never good at sports. Also, it would have looked greedy if you were to go home with two bouquets of flowers. No, wait! Make thatthreebouquets, since you’re the maid of honor.”

“I never doubted it was you who left those in my room.” My lungs deflate, knowing he was here. Only he would have left me a bouquet of roses anonymously. “You’ve always had that stalker streak in you.”

“Yet you’re still surprised I’m here.”

“Nope, not at all. You always show up where you aren’t invited, but I guess I’m an idiot for thinking my best friend’s wedding would be an exception,” I snap back. “Besides, do you have a death wish? You’re lucky my father hasn’t seen you.”

“Aw.” He sticks out his bottom lip. “Are you worried about my safety, Lark? That’s cute.”

“Absolutely not.” I roll my eyes. “Your death would actually be a welcomed gift. At least then I may be able to live my life in peace.”

His face is unflinching, along with his silence, and I’m cursing myself for trying to read him. He’s always been impossible to read.

I begin to feel unsteady on my feet. I want to say it’s the champagne, but I know it isn’t. The metaphorical storm cloud thunders above me, reminding me it still exists. Thatheexists. I’m afraid it will never leave until we’ve settled the score. Anger bubbles in my veins, mixing with the alcohol.

I tip my chin higher, readying myself. For years, Rome and I have played a game of tit for tat, exchanging insults and pranks, hoping it would drive the other crazy. To what end is a mystery. If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been hoping I could break him. It’s what I’ve wanted for years, and what I think he deserves. I guess he feels the same way. Some things never change.

Though we’d taken a little too far when he broke into my office and filled it with a million torn pieces of paper. In retaliation, I’d written an anonymous article in my brother’s magazine, accusing Rome of hosting sex parties and orgies. He sued my brother and the magazine for defamation but dropped it once I finally confessed that I was the responsible author. Now he claims I owe him a debt in exchange for dropping the lawsuit. As if he’s doing me a favor, when really, he’s just an asshole.

Taking in a shaky breath, I ask him the one question I’ve been dreading. “So, what are you doing here? Collecting your debt?”

“Not quite yet, Lark.” His voice is deep and smooth, slithering over me like a serpent.

I bite the tip of my tongue until the pain becomes unbearable. You can never escape your past, can you?

“Why are you here, then?”

“I’m on my way out for a job.”

“A job?”

He sighs, annoyed. “An assignment.”