The Intelligence Unit Series

"lunderstand your disappointment, Roman. But under the circumstances, I think it would be best to leave this particular case under the Intelligence Unit's jurisdiction."

Roman heard his boss's words. Understood what each of them meant. But somehow, he couldn't get his brain to string them together and process them in a way that made any f*****g sense. "It's a bank robbery. Of federally insured money. We're the fraud unit for the local office of the FBI. How do we not take this case?"

Agent Calloway lifted a brow, keeping her voice low and controlled despite the fact that Roman had almost certainly just pissed her off. "Technically, a case like this could easily fall under our jurisdiction," she agreed, "if one of my agents wasn't both a witness and a victim. The Intelligence Unit is perfectly qualified to investigate a bank robbery. For cases like these, it's a matter of discretion-namely, mine-as to whether or not we'd take point, and normally, I might be tempted. But because you were so directly involved, I'm choosing to hand it off to Intelligence."

"I'm not a victim," Roman said, unable to keep his frown on lockdown. "And it's because I'm a witness that we need to take this case. I have firsthand knowledge of the entire crime. I'm the best person to take these guys down."

Ignoring the last part of his argument, she said, "You just gave a detailed statement on everything you heard and saw during the robbery. Therefore, all of your knowledge is on record. More importantly, I agree with Sergeant Sinclair. You're too close to this one to be able to work it." "I'm not-"

She lifted a hand, cutting off his argument at the quick. "I'm not questioning your ability as an agent, Roman. You're one of the best agents I've got." Her normally scalpel-sharp gaze softened, and for f**k's sake, just when he thought this couldn't get any worse. "But you witnessed a bank robbery. Your life was threatened at gunpoint. It's a big deal, yet here you are, trying to throw yourself into work."

"I'm an FBI agent. It's part of the package to be threatened at gunpoint," he said. "Also, to throw myself into work."

But she shook her head. "This wasn't an op and you weren't in the field. Besides, training doesn't always override trauma, and you already work more than everyone else on the team combined. I'm worried about your wellness. I want you to take a couple of days off."

His jaw cranked, his heartbeat drowning out the noise of the busy precinct lobby. "You're benching me?"

"I prefer to call it a mental health break. But I need to be sure your head is in the right place. Go home, Roman. Rest. Call a therapist or a priest or a friend if you need one. Hell, air it out with a total stranger if that floats your boat, just as long as you don't keep it all bottled up. I'll see you in a couple of days."

Calloway gave him one last look before turning away and walking out of the Thirty-Third. Roman closed his eyes, keeping them shut in an effort to hide the emotions he knew must be churning there.

When he opened them a beat later, they landed on Camila Garza.

She was staring right at him.

Roman's instincts warned him to break eye contact with her and turn and walk out of the precinct. Yeah, the move would be borderline rude-not that he hadn't pulled one disappearing act on her already when he'd run from their not-quite-a-night together last year. But she was standing not even ten feet away from him, watching him so intently that there was no chance she'd missed at least part of his nonversation with Calloway.

Which meant she'd seen far more than he'd meant to show anyone, least of all her. He needed to escape her too-curious, too-beautiful stare. He needed to make her forget she'd seen anything at all. He needed to put the demand coming from his defenses into action and burn a path out the door, leaving Camila Garza firmly in his rearview.

His legs, which were clearly double agents working under orders from his d**k, refused to move even a little bit, and God damn it, could this day go any farther south?

"Hi," Camila said, having crossed just enough of the space between them to bring her into his orbit.

The sight of the adhesive bandage on her temple and the bruise peeking past its borders dumped him back to the moment. "You have a head injury. Shouldn't you be at home, resting?"

She folded her arms over the front of her sweater dress, a maneuver that Roman should definitely not find sexy, and yet here he was, prepping his hand basket for a one-way trip, destination: hell. "Nope. In fact, Tess said I was perfectly fine to come down and make a statement."

Relief spilled through Roman's chest, although he kept it far from his face. "You're on a first-name basis with the doctors in the ED?" For f**k's sake, was she tight with every first responder in Remington?

"Yes. Well, only a few of them, but cops and firefighters and doctors tend to cluster together, so I met her through Matteo. You know how it is."

He was tempted to point out that, actually, he didn't-not anymore, anyway-but parading that little tidbit out loud would only prompt a whole bunch of questions he didn't want to answer. "I'm glad you were cleared." She'd been through a lot, though, and not just the physical trauma. If the adrenaline letdown was messing with him, Roman could only imagine what it was doing to Camila, who was far less trained to handle it. "How are you doing otherwise?"

Now it was Camila's turn to blank her expression, and f**k if that didn't grab his notice. "Actually, I was coming over here to ask you the same thing. You looked a little... unhappy just now. Is everything okay?"

"Yep." He punctuated the lie with a nod. "Totally fine."

"Right. Me, too."

A beat passed, then another. Finally, just when Roman thought maybe the awkwardness in the air would crush them both, Camila shook her head. "Actually, no. You know what, that's not true." Okaaay. "It's not?"

"No," she said, a different version of the same mettle he'd seen from her in the bank flashing over her pretty face. "A handful of hours ago, we were held at gunpoint in a freaking bank robbery. Which is the sort of thing I thought only happened in action movies until this morning, but as it turns out, they're super real and super terrifying."

She paused, but only long enough for a quick breath before she kept going. "I want to be fine. Believe me, I do, because if my brother catches me saying I'm not fine, he's going to call our parents and siblings and possibly the National Guard, and they will all baby me until I go insane. But since Matteo is currently not within earshot and my stiff upper lip is pretty much tapped out, I think I can safely admit the truth. Someone pointed a gun at me. That person could have very easily ended my life in a blink. So, no. I am definitely not okay. And now that I've just placed the cherry on the top of my shit day by barfing my feelings all over a guy who doesn't even like me, I am going to get a drink. If you'll excuse me."

Chin held high, she turned toward the door, clearly intent on leaving him behind. Roman's rational brain told him he needed to let her-Camila was an adult, and after the day she'd had so far, if anyone deserved to day drink a little, it was her. But the rest of him screamed in protest. She might be a perfectly capable adult, but she was also clearly smack in the middle of some serious adrenaline letdown. That alone probably dictated that if she was going to have a drink, she should also eat something to keep her blood sugar steady. Add that knot on her head to the mix?

Roman's conscience wasn't about to let her go without making sure she was okay.

"Wait." The word was out before he could trap it, and Christ this was a bad idea. "I'm going with you."

She stilled, turning back to ask, "Why?"

He didn't know much, but shooting straight from the hip? Now that was in his skill set. "Because I know better than to try to get you to go home to rest, and frankly, I could use a drink, too. Also, I'm hungry. And I'm betting that, like me, you also haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

Her expression alone told him he had her dead to rights. "Tess did say I should eat something." Of course, she wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily. "But that's not what I meant. What I meant was, why do you want to go with me?" "Because," Roman said, and here, he had to tread with care. He'd lowered his guard around her once and a repeat could not, under any circumstances, happen. But her mind was clearly made up, and if she wasn't going to go home to rest, the least he could do was make sure her adrenaline or her head injury didn't get the best of her until she did go home. It was just a drink-in public, no less-and hopefully he'd be able to convince her to eat like the doctor had advised, too. "We've both had a hell of a morning and you sound like you could use a little solidarity."

"Not to put too fine a point on it," she said, one dark brow arching up, "but the last time I saw you, you were running away from me like your hair was on fire and I was the one holding the matches."

Roman should've known better than to think she'd get shy about it. After all, she'd gone toe to toe with a bank robber pointing an AR-15 at her. But since popping off with "actually, I bolted that night because you made me feel things that only my dead wife has made me feel before, only a hundred times more intense, so yeah, that scared the f**k out of me," wasn't really an option, he went with, "Like I said, solidarity. We were both caught up in the same bank robbery and we could both use a drink."

For a second, he thought she'd argue, and damn it, he couldn't let his emotions enter the equation. He already felt things for Camila that he could neither control nor explain.

But then her stomach let out a low growl, prompting her to sigh. "Suit yourself."

"I know the perfect place." Gesturing toward the door, he waited until Camila began to walk before following her out of the precinct and onto the sidewalk. Golden sunlight spilled down from a cloudless sky, the air carrying just a hint of crispness that promised fall right around the corner, and damn, how was it the same day as when he'd headed out for errands, feeling like today might hold hope?

Camila turned toward him expectantly. "Which way is this perfect place of yours?"

"It's two blocks up, on Church Street." Roman hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "It's not fancy at all, but the tacos are great and they serve margaritas."

"You had me at tequila," she said, and Christ, this was going to be more than he'd bargained for.

But she was an adult, who could make her own (possibly stupid) decisions. The best he could do was make sure she stayed safe, so he said, "Tequila it is."

Camila turned in the direction he'd pointed and began to walk. Roman fell in beside her, their footsteps keeping time on the sidewalk as they made their way to the restaurant. The walk took only minutes, and Roman slowed, gesturing to the door as they approached.

Camila's brows lifted. "This place is called Juan More Taco?"

"You said tequila," he reminded her, opening the door to usher her inside. "Plus, the tacos really will change your life."

"Promises, promises," she said, her eyes traveling over the restaurant's interior, and okay, so Roman may have sugar-coated the "not fancy" aspect of the place. Large chalkboard murals of brightly colored sugar skulls decorated the walls like graffiti, interspersed with framed newspaper clippings of restaurant reviews. Light fixtures that matched the colors in the murals hung down from the ceiling, illuminating the dining room with a cheery glow. The space itself held less than a dozen tables, all empty now that the lunch rush had come and gone, and yeah, that was pretty much the extent of the place.

"Roman!" A fifty-something Latino man with dark hair, graying at the temples, greeted them from behind the counter to their left, his voice warm and his smile. "¿Cómo estás?"

"Hey, Juan. Not too bad," Roman said, unable to help but smile a little.

Right up until Juan's eyes landed on Camila and went wide as saucers, anyway. "And you brought a friend."

Shit. "I, uh. Yeah. This is Camila. Camila, Juan."

"Hola, Juan," she said, exchanging what Roman recognized as a few pleasantries with the man in Spanish.

"What can I get you two today?" Juan asked, gesturing to the menu hand-lettered on the large chalkboard covering the wall behind the counter.

Camila's gaze zeroed in on the frozen drink maker and the bottles of tequila and margarita mix. "I'd like the largest, strongest margarita you've got, please," she said, and Roman bit back his urge to wince. "Make it two."

Juan, thankfully, kept his curiosity to his expression only. "Sure thing. Would you like your usual to eat, Roman?"

"Sure. And a double order of chips and salsa, please."

Juan nodded. "How about you, Camila?"

Roman's gut tightened in hope as Juan looked expectantly at Camila for a food order. For a second, he worried she might stick to a liquid lunch-she was so damn stubborn that way-but then she said, "Roman promised the tacos are life-changing, so I'll have the usual, too. Gracias, Juan." "De nada. I'll put your order in right away and have a server come by with your drinks. Sit anywhere you like," Juan said with a smile, then disappeared into the kitchen. Camila turned the full force of her curiosity on Roman the instant Juan was out of earshot. "You're on a first-name basis with the restaurant owner?" "When the food is good, sure."

A hum drifted up from the back of her throat. "First, you take me day drinking, next, you're actually friendly with another human being. Today is full of surprises."

Roman's gut clenched. After Gabi had died, he hadn't seen much point in cooking for himself. Not that he couldn't-his mama had raised him right, teaching him everything from good manners to how to cook any number of dishes. The fact that she'd been gone for nearly ten years now didn't change those lessons, or how ingrained they were. He made a mean gumbo and could even wrangle peach cobbler from scratch per her very own recipe if the occasion called for it. But now that it was just him and work, he didn't see the point in a lot of culinary fanfare, so yeah, he'd gotten friendly (fine. As friendly as he ever got) with Juan since he'd eaten here roughly once a week for the past few years.

Not that he was going to tell Camila any of that.

A few tables stood nearby, and he headed toward the closest one while they waited for their food to be ready. A server came by with two glasses of water and a bright-blue bowl overflowing with tortilla chips with a generous side of both pico de gallo and salsa verde, and Roman made a mental note to double the guy's tip.

"You know, being freaked out by the fact that we were held at gunpoint this morning isn't a bad thing," he said, piling a handful of chips onto one of the small white plates their server had left them and handing it over before repeating the process for a plate he kept to himself.

She snorted, and Christ, how the hell did she make it so cute? "Says the guy who wasn't freaked out even the tiniest bit."

"Who says I wasn't freaked out?"

"Um, I was right there next to you, remember?" Camila paused to dip one of her chips in the salsa, then-much to Roman's happiness-polish it off in two bites. "Damn, that's good," she murmured before adding, "You were completely calm while the rest of us were a half-step away from totally hyperventilating."

"You mean, I looked completely calm," he corrected, and her brows furrowed.

"Well, if you weren't, you're one hell of a good actor."

He let another few seconds go by, mostly so she'd keep eating like the doctor had advised. "Believe me, I wasn't always. It's all part of the training. But I can promise you weren't the only one in that bank who was scared. In fact"-he took a bite of his own, and man, he'd been hungrier than he realized-"if you hadn't been scared, I'd be worried."

"So, bravery is worrisome?" Camila asked, her doubt on full display. While the conversation was far from conventional, at least this was a topic he could speak to. Plus, talking about fear versus bravery at a high level kept them from swerving into more dangerous territory, like personal emotions and the past and how much he still wanted to kiss her after an entire freaking year, so, really, Roman was all for it. "Not being scared in the face of danger isn't bravery."

He sat back in his chair and tried really hard to ignore the bolt of satisfaction unfolding in his gut at the way she'd polished off a few more chips. Focus, a*****e. And not on her mouth.

Roman cleared his throat. "Fear is a normal, natural human response to danger. The more danger a person faces, the higher their level of fear." "I'm definitely with you so far," Camila said, and he nodded.

"But bravery doesn't happen when a person isn't scared. Bravery is what happens when a person is scared shitless and can react anyway."

She considered this. "So, what? You're saying bravery is just a matter of having good instincts?"

"Sort of."

The server appeared again, this time with two salt-rimmed margaritas. Roman lifted his chin in thanks, waiting until the server had placed both glasses on the table, then retreated to the kitchen, before continuing.

"In a lot of cases, bravery is a matter of training. Think of it like this. You see a burning building, what's your first instinct?"

Camila laughed and lifted her glass in salute. "To run as far away as possible. Obviously."

"Mine, too. But the firefighters at Station Seventeen run toward the fire, and in some cases, they even run into it. It still doesn't necessarily make them braver than me or you by default. It does, however, make them better trained to manage their fear enough to fight fires." "I wouldn't let Gamble or Shae or Hawkins hear you say that," Camila replied, but Roman just shrugged.

"Not only would I totally say it to all three of them, but I bet they'd agree." He didn't know any of them all that well, personally, but he did know they were great firefighters-some of the best in the city. Anyone who could read the newspaper knew that. "I guarantee they're all scared as hell when they roll up on a fire. The difference is, they've been trained to override that fear and act, and then they do exactly that. That's what makes them brave."

Camila took a long sip of her margarita, clearly mulling his words over, before she surprised him by conceding (sort of). "Okay, but what about not being scared at all? How is that bad?"

"Remember that normal human response thing?" He waited for her nod before continuing. "Fear keeps people human. It means they're functioning exactly as they should be. If a person doesn't feel it, it's a sign that they're not connected to reality anymore. Which is, obviously, a big red flag."

Roman had been an FBI agent long enough to be able to recognize when a criminal had crossed that line, and it rarely ended well.

“|

I guess that makes sense," Camila said, then lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. "I still wasn't exactly able to handle my fear in that bank, though."

Was she kidding? "You stood up to armed bank robbers in order to get Rosalie the help she needed, even though you were scared," he pointed out. "That sounds pretty brave to me."

Here, her expression grew wry. "And you told those same armed bank robbers I wasn't strong enough to help."

Shock kicked him right in the solar plexus. "You think I told him that because I think you're weak?"

She rolled her eyes and took another long draw from her drink. "Um, yeah. Why else would you tell him that?"

Her tone marked the question as genuine, and shit. She really didn't know. "Because I'm a field-trained FBI agent, Camila. It's literally my job to keep people out of harm's way. Even if that means putting myself directly in its path."

A beat passed. Then another. Then her eyes flew wide. "Wait. So you said that..."

"To try and keep you in the safer space of the lobby," he confirmed. "The robber there was much more level-headed than the big guy in the vault. Trying to convince him I'd be more help than you seemed like the best way to keep you safe. Not that it worked, but I had to try."

"Oh," she said, half word, half breath. "So, you really were scared? And you tried to get him to let you take my place anyway?"

Roman answered without hesitation. "Yes."

Camila blinked. "I guess that makes us both brave, then."

A bolt of some emotion Roman didn't have a name for shot through his chest, lingering for just a second before he realized he should snuff it out and stick to something safer. Hockey scores. The weather. Anything other than his feelings. But Camila had been honest with him, even when it had meant being vulnerable. He could return the favor, at least a little.

"I owe you an apology," he said, his heart thumping first at the words, then even harder at the pure surprise on her face. "It's far too late, and you have every reason not to accept it. But I did leave really abruptly after we spent that evening together last year. I had good reasons, but..." Roman trailed off. Christ, he never should have opened his mouth. "Anyway. I was rude to you, and I'm sorry."

"You had good reasons," she repeated.

"Yes."

Her brows rose, her stare unmoving on his. "Do you want to share them?"

"No," was what he'd fully intended to say. His defenses sent the word to his brain, which then delivered it directly to his mouth. But somehow, the memo went haywire, because what came out was, "I'm a widower. My wife, Gabrielle, died six years ago in an accident, and I'm just not very good at...I don't know. Flirting, I guess."

Camila's shoulders bumped the back of her chair, her brown eyes wide and her lips parted. "Roman, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."

Her sympathy was genuine and kind, and funny, it let him take a much-needed breath. "It's not something I really share. I mean, I did all the counseling. The Bureau's pretty insistent when it comes to that. But I don't tend to get too personal with anyone, pretty much ever. So, when you and I hit it off so well, I guess I kind of..."

"Got scared?"

She looked at him, and even though he knew she'd see the truth in his eyes, he met her gaze anyway. "Maybe a little. But it still doesn't change the fact I acted like an a*s."

"Well, I have it on good authority that fear is a normal human response to dangerous situations. With that in mind, it wouldn't be very fair of me not to accept your apology."

But as she smiled at him and clinked her nearly empty glass against his still very full one, Roman couldn't help but feel like being in Camila's presence was still a very dangerous situation, indeed.