The car rolled to a stop in front of a café that looked like it belonged in a French film — wrought-iron tables, ivy crawling the brick walls, the kind of place that served eggs on plates too small for the price.
Roman led the way in, hand at the small of my back like he’d claimed the right. The host didn’t even ask for a name, just guided us to a corner booth where the light was soft and nobody could overhear.
I slid into the seat. “You must tip like a warlord. Everyone knows you.”
He ignored that. “Coffee?”
“Yes. Black. Strong enough to resurrect me.”
He ordered without looking at the menu. When the waiter left, his gaze snapped back to me — sharp, steady, impossible to dodge.
“Why do you deflect every question with humor?”
I froze, spoon halfway to the sugar jar. “Excuse me?”
“Y
