Her laugh, as it turned out, was even sexier than her smile. “Well, yes. But you saved my best friend’s life, so I thought thanks wouldn’t necessarily be out of line. Even if I am offering them right out of the gate.”
Roman searched his memory for any mention Delia might have made of her best friend in passing, and wait. Camille. No—Camila! At least now he wouldn’t have to scramble to try and catch her name. “Oh. Well, that was all just part of the job.”
“Wow. Are you always this modest?”
“I’m not being modest. It’s just the truth. My job comes with a lot of occupational hazards. I knew that when I signed on, so…”
One black brow kicked up, then one corner of her mouth matched it. “Maybe I should’ve asked if you’re always this argumentative.”
“I’m not arguing,” Roman…well, shit. Argued. Small talk had never been his thing to begin with, but five years of zero social interaction had made him rusty as hell. “Not on purpose, anyway.”
Funny, Camila seemed unfazed by his complete lack of grace. “Oh, don’t worry. I happen to think getting-to-know-you chitchat is boring as hell, and I love a good challenge. Should we take this argument to the bar?”
He might be averse to emotions, but he wasn’t dead. He knew Camila was flirting with him a little, just like he damn sure knew he shouldn’t flirt back. But as much as he liked keeping his distance, he also wasn’t a dick on purpose. It was a beer and a few minutes’ worth of conversation, not a fucking marriage pact. He probably wouldn’t ever see her again after tonight.
So he met her sassy smile head-on and said, “Why not? You’re not the only one who loves a good challenge.”
Camila Garza had won the hot guy lottery. She made a mental note to give Delia a hard time for not telling her how sexy Roman was. Granted, Delia was all about making goo-goo eyes at Camila’s brother (ew) and every interaction she’d ever had with Roman had been of the I’m-in-peril variety. She’d probably missed all the broody deliciousness the FBI agent had going on. But, come on. Dark brown skin. Close-cropped black hair. Bronze eyes. Muscles that Camila could clearly see the outlines of beneath his long-sleeved shirt—biceps, shoulders, and ohhh yeah, abs for days. Layer in the broody thing, and this guy checked every last one of her happy boxes. Plus, he’d saved Delia’s life at the risk of losing his own. He could hardly be a terrible guy, right?
Delia, being the smart cookie that she was, caught on, lickety split. “Right,” she said, pressing a smile between her lips. “I’m just going to go…somewhere that is not here. I’ll see you both later. Have a fun argument.”
“Thanks,” Camila said. Roman nodded at Delia with one firm lift of his chin (which had a God’s-honest cleft, was he trying to incinerate her panties?) then gestured toward the semi-crowded bar.
“Should we go find a good spot for you to lose this argument?”
She snorted. He might be hotter than the Sahara, but a girl had her pride. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I’m very good at winning arguments,” he countered, leading her to the back of the Crooked Angel. The bar itself spanned the entire far wall of the place, lined with a dozen and a half ladder-backed stools and illuminated by both overhead light fixtures and copious strings of tiny white lights. Roman pulled out one of the last empty bar stools for her, waiting until she was fully seated before getting comfortable at her side. Having hung out here a bunch of times with Matteo, Delia, and the Intelligence crew, Camila recognized the bartender, smiling as he came over. Sawyer Knox might look imposing, with his larger-than-average frame and the tough outward demeanor he’d picked up courtesy of the Marines, but she knew he was really just a big ol’ cinnamon roll, especially when it came to his live-in girlfriend, Jo, and her daughter, who were having dinner at the other end of the bar.
“Hey, Camila,” Sawyer said, his smile not budging as he moved his gaze to Roman, then back to her. “It’s good to see you out tonight.”
“Thanks. Sawyer, this is Kai Roman. Roman, Sawyer Knox.”
Roman’s nod was a little stiff, but Sawyer either didn’t notice (unlikely, given his three tours as a Marine) or didn’t care (bingo). “Nice to meet you,” Roman said.
“Likewise, man. What can I get you two?”
Roman gestured for Camila to order first, and her belly warmed at the courtesy. “I’d love the pale ale you’ve got on tap.”
Sawyer nodded, then looked at Roman. “And for you?”
“I’ll have the local IPA. Thanks.”
Sawyer made fast work of pouring their drinks, then placing both glasses on the bar in front of them. Camila took a sip, enjoying the citrusy flavor of the hops before deciding to give in to her curiosity.
“So, do you really think that something as big as saving Delia’s life is all just in a day’s work?”
“Yeah.” He paused to take a draw from his glass. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. Most of my time is spent in the field office, not the field itself. The case we just wrapped was more hands-on than usual.”
Camila followed his unspoken “but” with a lift of her brows, and he didn’t disappoint. “But I signed on for all of it. Danger included. So, whether I’m analyzing intel or going blind on financial reports or chasing down criminals while they’re trying to shoot me, it’s all part of the job.”
“Even though your life is on the line in some of those situations but not others?”
Roman nodded. “In the end, I just want to catch people who are committing fraud. Sometimes that’s more literal than others, but I’ll do whatever it takes to send them to jail. Even if it’s dangerous.”
“Spoken like a true workaholic.”
Although she’d meant the words teasingly, they sent a twinge to her belly. But no. Nope. No way. She was not going to let her own career issues commandeer this perfectly good conversation. Anyway, despite what her family said, her work ethic was just fine. Or, it would be, if she could actually find a job she loved the way Roman clearly loved being an FBI agent.
His half-smile let her stuff the thought fully away. “Now that, I may be guilty of. Being an FBI agent isn’t exactly a nine to five.”
“There are worse things a person could be than a workaholic,” Camila said.
“Well, there’s at least one thing we can agree on.” His smile lingered, his bronze stare doing all sorts of not-suitable-for-public things to her body, and she didn’t hesitate to lean closer.
“Did we just reach a truce?”
“That depends.” He didn’t close any more of the space between them, but he also didn’t pull away. “On whether or not you’re willing to admit defeat on the rest.”
Her pulse sped up in the best possible way. “Never.”
“Then I guess we’ll just have to keep arguing.”
Roman’s voice was honey, thick and sweet and so delicious that Camila wanted to taste it. She opened her mouth to tell him she could do this all night. But before she could get so much as a single syllable past her lips, she was interrupted by a very familiar, very irritated voice.