The Agent
Chapter 14

Roman started and deleted six texts to Camila over the course of an hour before he realized he was, in fact, an idiot. While he’d been relatively busy today, finishing up all the paperwork Calloway had deposited in his lap as the rest of his team worked to tie up the case they’d been handed last week, now that it was closer to quitting time, he found himself in a lull. Normally, Roman would fill that lull with more work. But every time he tried, his thoughts slid back to the time he’d spent with Camila at the food pantry last night. The way she’d opened up to him about her family dynamic, even though it was clearly a sore spot, had stuck in his mind, her willingness to just put herself out there making his pulse speed up, even now.

The fact that her family, including her brother, seemed to believe she wasn’t capable just because they thought she was impulsive? That made him feel things he couldn’t even explain. Camila made him feel things he couldn’t explain. And the part that had Roman in the biggest twist was that despite knowing how dangerous those feelings could be, he didn’t want to snuff them out. In fact, he wanted the opposite.

He wanted her.

Hey, he thumb-typed, Now that I’m on a roll, I was going to keep embracing my impulsive side by cutting out of work a little early. Want to grab takeout and binge watch something on Netflix? I’m buying.

Before he could squash the urge to delete it, Roman hit send. His heart thudded against his sternum as the three dots that said she was replying danced over his screen, his phone vibrating in his hand a few seconds later.

Agent Roman. Are you asking me out on a date?

More heart thudding, and f**k it. Your deductive reasoning skills are exceptional. Have you ever considered a career in law enforcement?

A beat passed. Then another. Then… Just for that, I’m going to make you let me pick the show, too. Meet me at my place in an hour?

Roman smiled. I’ll be there.

Taking a few seconds to shut down his laptop, he pushed back from his desk and slid his cell phone into his pocket. His team, including Calloway, were all still in the field, so he shot off a quick text to let her know he was taking off early (to which she dryly replied, “Who is this and what have you done with my agent?”) and headed to the locker room to change. He packed his work clothes into his bag beside his laptop and his service weapon, which he wouldn’t normally have with him for a day in the office, but he’d spent an hour at the range this morning. His locker came equipped with a lockbox, but Roman wasn’t about to leave the SIG Sauer P226 in his locker overnight, even if it was safely secured. Holstering the thing at his h*p, he made his way to his car, tossing the duffel into the trunk and securing the SIG in the lockbox he’d had custom-installed where his glovebox had once been. He tapped his GPS to life, scrolling to the address Camila had given him when he’d dropped her off on the night of the robbery. Late afternoon sunlight slipped between the city buildings, and he followed the directions to her place.

Roman knew he should heed the two dozen warnings sounding off from his brain, the ones that screamed that seeing her again—on a f*****g date, no less, with takeout and Netflix and the opportunity to k**s her in a non-public place—was a dangerous idea. He had feelings for her, ones that involved parts of him that were definitely not his d**k. Feelings like that meant risk, and he’d already lost everything once. He couldn’t do that again. He’d barely lived through it the first time.

But you’ve barely lived since then, whispered a voice from deep inside his head, and as badly as Roman wanted to deny it, he couldn’t.

He liked Camila enough to take the risk.

Pulling into a guest parking spot, he killed the engine and got out of his car. He scanned the surrounding area—some things were so ingrained, the habit would never die—then hit the lock button on his key fob and headed to the building’s main entrance. The large double doors led to a vestibule containing two potted palms, a wall half covered in locked mailboxes, a security camera (nice), and a directory of apartment numbers with corresponding extensions posted next to a corded phone attached to the wall.

Roman scanned the list, his eyes stopping on the fourth-floor apartment labeled “C. Garza”. He lifted the receiver and dialed the extension listed beside her name, and seconds later, she’d buzzed him past the second, sturdier set of doors. He noted another security camera set in the ceiling of the lobby, overlooking the bank of elevators to the left, although most people probably would’ve either missed it or dismissed it, maybe both. The trip to Camila’s apartment was as uneventful as Roman had expected it to be, and by the time he’d reached her threshold, his attention was focused on the anticipation brewing in his belly at seeing her again, even though it had been less than twenty-four hours since they’d parted ways at the food bank last night.

Camila opened the door, her dark, wavy hair brushing over the shoulders of a snug pink T-shirt and her curves encased in a pair of jeans that looked as if they’d been hand-crafted specifically for her body, and Christ, Roman was screwed before she’d even said a word.

“Hey,” Camila said, her smile so beautiful that Roman actually felt it in his chest.

He willed himself to get a grip. “Hey.”

The moment should’ve been awkward. Roman had expected it to be awkward—should he hug her? K**s her? Not presume any right to her personal space and skip touching her at all? But then Camila stepped closer, placing one hand on his shoulder as she brushed a soft k**s over his cheek, then moved back to usher him inside, and any potential for clumsiness disappeared.

“Come on in. It’s not much, but it’s mine for now,” she said, gesturing to her apartment. The place was small but well-appointed, with an open concept main space divided into a cozy kitchen with a breakfast bar, a living room big enough for a love seat, a bookshelf, a TV, and little else, and a nook where she’d placed a drafting table and a rolling cart loaded with art supplies. A shadowed hallway to his left led to what he assumed were a bathroom and her bedroom, but none of that was what had caught his attention.

The cream-colored walls were covered in photographs and art. Although every piece was either framed or on a canvas, that was where the similarity ended. Black and white photos mixed in with color images, some bright and others clearly older pictures that Camila had taken the time to carefully preserve. Charcoal drawings shared space with oil-painted canvases, watercolor landscapes, and a collage of hand-drawn blue and orange butterflies intricately cut out and pinned to the matboard beneath. The vibrant colors and vast array of textures shouldn’t have complemented each other, especially when presented alongside fainter pastel colors and various shades of gray. But it all came together in a way that felt seamless and natural. Not to mention beautiful.

“These are amazing,” Roman said, moving farther into her living room for a closer look. His eyes snagged on a photo of Camila and Delia, both laughing, and another of Camila with her brother and a group of people who, judging by the strong resemblance, had to be the rest of her family.

His gut panged, but he was saved by getting too far up in his feelings by Camila’s soft laugh. “Thanks. It’s totally just a hobby, but it keeps the walls from getting too boring.”

Roman’s brows shot upward. “Did you do all of them?”

“Guilty,” she said, nodding. “Other than a few of the photos, obviously, but I do edit those. I swap all the pieces out according to my mood and sometimes the season. But yeah. Hanging them on the walls is easier than replaceing the space to store them. Plus”—one shoulder rose halfway before gently lowering—“it keeps me from staring at boring, blank walls.”

“Camila, you are incredibly talented.” He stopped at a large drawing of a woman lying on her back in a pond, her face nearly submerged in the water and her hair spread out around her like a halo. “Have you ever thought about showing these? Or selling them?”

She barked out a laugh. “What? God, no. Like I said, it’s just something I do for fun. Anyway,” she said, turning toward the breakfast bar that divided the kitchen from the living room and the laptop on the counter, “I wasn’t sure what you were in the mood to order. There’s a fantastic Indian place that Delia and I go to all the time. Best samosas ever. Or we could order a pizza, but I’ve got to warn you, I’m pro pineapple.”

Roman recognized the dodge—for Chrissake, he was the king of changing the subject when things got too personal—and even though he wanted to ask more about why she hadn’t pursued art more seriously, he tucked a pin in the topic for the time being. “Indian food sounds great. We can argue about whether or not pineapple belongs on pizza while we wait for it to arrive.”

He moved toward the breakfast bar to look at the menu she’d pulled up. Camila’s phone buzzed from the spot where she’d left it beside the laptop, and she glanced down at it, then rolled her eyes.

“My brother,” she said.

“Do you need to take it?” Roman asked, and Camila sighed.

“Technically, no. But my family is still checking in on me, albeit less often than they were. If I don’t show proof of life, he’ll probably be a pain in my a*s until I pick up. I’ll only be a second.”

Her apartment was small enough that he couldn’t really go anywhere to give her privacy, but she didn’t seem to want any. Scooping her phone to her ear, she skipped past pleasantries, answering with, “I told you, you don’t have to keep checking…what?” She paused, her brows furrowing, and Roman’s pulse tapped a low warning. “Yes, I’m at home. Why? Wait, what?”

Camila’s chin snapped up, making every part of Roman freeze except for his heartbeat. “There was another robbery? When?” She shook her head. “Wait. Hang on a second. Roman’s here. I’m putting you on speaker.”

Roman took a breath to counter the sudden burst of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. Camila hit the speakerphone icon just in time for Garza’s “what the hell is Roman doing at your apartment?” to float over the line, and Roman’s jaw tightened.

“Great to hear from you, too, Detective.”

Garza paused, but Camila shook her head. “Anything you tell me, I’m going to tell Roman, so you might as well just get on with it. He and I are in this together, just like the other day.”

“Fine,” he muttered, although it came out sounding an awful lot like “God help me.”

Roman dove right in. “There was another robbery? Where?”

“Maplewood and Sixth. Prosperity Savings and Loan,” Garza said.

Camila paled. “Oh, God.”

Focus. Get the facts. Gain control.“Same M.O.?” Roman asked, although he knew the answer. But there was something in Garza’s pause that told Roman he was holding back an important detail, and the tension in his voice as he responded confirmed it.

“Yes. It’s definitely the same crew. Listen, I don’t have time to explain, but Camila…I want you to come down to the precinct, okay? Like, right now.”

“What?” she asked, her eyes going wide. “Why? Did you catch them?”

Garza exhaled. “No. We’re still trying to piece together what happened here, but there was a…complication with this robbery.”

Translation: a body. Unease climbed the back of Roman’s throat, but before he could intervene, Camila asked, “A complication? What does that even mean?”

“It’s a long story,” Garza said, and yep. Definitely a body. “But the security guard was also a rookie cop, and he knew case details. We still aren’t sure how he got the information—it sure as hell wasn’t from any of us—but it was accurate.”

His use of the past tense wasn’t lost on Roman, but he wasn’t about to push it and frighten Camila further.

“Okay,” she said. “But what does that have to do with me?”

A beat of silence passed before Garza said, “Apparently, the guard tried to use what he knew to intimidate the robbers. He told them we have a witness from the vault who saw the smaller robber’s eyes, and that we think she may be a woman.”

Roman connected the dots, and f**k. F**k. “And that witness could only be one person.”

“Oh, my God,” she breathed, covering her mouth with one hand. “They know who I am. They know my name. Is that why you want me to come to the precinct? You think I’m in danger?”

The thought threatened to let Roman’s adrenaline take over, but no. No. He could control this. He could protect her.

“Camila, this is going to be okay,” he said, cupping her face and meeting her frightened stare with one he made sure to infuse with certainty. These robbers were calculated. Smart. Too smart to come after her when they knew the cops would quickly discover what they now knew about the case. “I’m right here with you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“We don’t think there’s an immediate threat,” Garza said. “If we did, I’d be on my way to you right now. This is entirely precautionary.” He hitched. “Look, I know you think I’m overprotective of you, and maybe I am. But you’re my sister. Could you please just humor me, mija, and come down to the Thirty-Third for a couple of hours? At least until we can verify that these guys won’t be dumb enough to try and hurt you.”

Thankfully, she didn’t argue. “Fine. But I want a full update when I get there.”

Garza gave up a non-committal grunt. “I’ll send a patrol car to come get you.”

“No,” Roman said, unflinching. “I’ll take her. I want that update, too.”

A beat passed, during which Roman was certain the guy would argue—which was fine, because Roman was fully prepared to call Calloway and say enough was enough. This crew needed to be stopped.

But Garza just muttered a curse in Spanish. “Fine. I don’t have time to argue with you. But you’ll have to deal with Sinclair if you want any updates. I’ll meet you at the precinct in thirty.”

Roman nodded. “You can count on it.”

He was going to keep Camila safe. No matter what.