The Intelligence Unit Series

Camila was ninety percent sure she was having a fever dream. To be fair, her day had been pretty freaking surreal. The way that she and Roman had slid back into their snappy, sexy dynamic with ease after a week of radio silence was surprising enough. But the fact that they'd just tag-team convinced the Intelligence Unit to give them an update on the case when they'd both been stonewalled until now, and that there had finally been a break just when these robbers could strike again at any time? Camila had thought being in the know would make her feel better, but now her brain was spinning harder than ever.

All thanks to the stone-cold serious FBI agent she was finding it harder and harder to resist.

"Are you okay?" Roman asked as they made their way down the stairs and toward the main lobby at the Thirty-Third.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Okay, so it was a bit of a deflection. But as soon as Roman had pointed out that another robbery was probably imminent (Camila shivered), Sergeant Sinclair had used it as the perfect segue to tell both her and Roman that his team should get back to work and shoo them from the building. Roman had to be frustrated as hell at having been dismissed again. His work ethic was ten feet tall and bulletproof, and he'd been the one to spark the lead they'd all been struggling to find. Yeah, he was emotionally invested because he'd been in that bank, but come on. He was also damn good at his job.

Roman didn't bite on the change in subject. "That doesn't answer my question," he said, stopping at the front desk to hand his visitor's badge over to the redheaded officer who had walked them upstairs and sign out.

"Thank you, Agent Roman," Officer Barton said, taking Camila's badge as she passed it over. "Ms. Garza. I didn't know you were Detective Garza's sister, otherwise I-"

"That's okay," she said, shaking her head to gently cut him off. Her brother had been none too happy to see her, especially with Roman at her side. She was sure she'd hear all about it later. "Thanks." Barton nodded, his chin high. "Have a nice afternoon."

She and Roman headed out the door, ending up on the sidewalk. She knew better than to think he'd drop the subject, and honestly, maybe airing out her feelings would help ease her churning thoughts.

"Sort of," Camila said, finally answering his question. "I mean, on the one hand, we got the update we wanted, and the unit has some solid leads, thanks in no small part to you. So, those are really good things." "But?"

Ugh, of course he saw right through her. "But, I thought getting an update would help me feel...I don't know. More settled? Safer? Instead, my head is swimming more than ever. Which makes no sense at all and actually seems kind of stupid-"

"No, it doesn't," Roman said, shaking his head with enough emphasis that Camila knew he wasn't just trying to humor her. "We got an update, not answers. And now we have to sit around and wait while someone else goes out to get them. It's frustrating as hell." Camila laughed, because it was either that or scream. "Looks like you're still taking our solidarity pact very seriously."

To her surprise, one corner of his mouth kicked up. "According to you, I take everything seriously."

"If the shoe fits," she said, and Roman held his hands up in surrender.

"I'm an FBI agent, and I wouldn't be a very good one if I didn't take my cases seriously. Since I can't even work this one despite the fact that I just gave the Intelligence Unit one hell of a lead that I should be investigating...let's just say I feel you on those spinning thoughts."

"Okay," Camila said, taking a step toward him on the sidewalk. "I think it's safe to say we both need a distraction or we'll go crazy. What do you normally do when you need to get out of your own head?"

"Work," Roman said, the answer arriving so automatically that Camila had no choice but to feel a tiny stab of jealousy. How ironic that she hadn't loved her last five jobs combined as much as Roman seemed to love just this one.

She shook her head, and shook off the thought while she was at it. "Well, obviously that's not an option right now, as stupid as it is that Sergeant Sinclair won't let you keep helping. Anything else?"

"I hit the gym." His shrug told her he wasn't in the mood for a workout, which was fine by her. She didn't have the patience for the gym, where she'd only hop on a treadmill or sit in a yoga class and go further down the rabbit hole of her thoughts. "Eh. Can't say I'm really in the mood for a workout. Plus, neither one of us is really dressed for that," she pointed out.

"That's true," Roman said, his chin lifting a second later. "I might have an idea," he said slowly. "But it's kind of unconventional."

Camila's curiosity sparked, then sizzled. "You know that's probably going to make me like it more, right?"

"Fair enough." His stare traveled over her sweater and black swing pants, pausing for a beat on her favorite silver ballet flats before returning to her face. "How comfortable are those shoes?"

Now, her curiosity full-on combusted. "Comfortable enough to withstand middle school, but not anything I'd want to run a marathon in. Why?"

"They'll do," he said, but didn't elaborate, and Camila lasted about four milliseconds before not being able to hold back.

"For what, exactly?"

"For this distraction," Roman answered simply.

Oh, for the love of... "Are you trying to drive me crazy, or does it just come naturally to you?"

His smile was so unexpected and so f*****g gorgeous, Camila lost her breath. "It's making you think of something other than the case, right?"

Her eyes lingered on his mouth, her brain conjuring up the feel of his firm, full lips on hers, on how she would've begged him to kiss her in a dozen other places-hotter, needier places-and ooookay, she needed a redirect, fast.

"Yes," she said, her voice far breathier than she'd intended. Clearing her throat, she tried again. "I take it you're not going to tell me where we're headed, then?"

"Nope. You don't have to stay once we get there if it's not your thing," Roman added with a shrug, "but I'll hang on to the mystery just a little while longer."

"Of course you will," Camila said with a tart smile. She agreed to follow Roman wherever he was heading, and he gave her both his cell phone number and the address of the destination just in case they got separated. Fifteen minutes later, Camila pulled up in front of a red-brick building, and even though the place was as no-frills as it got, her jaw still dropped when she realized where they were. "Remington Food Bank?" she asked as soon as Roman met her by the front door.

"Yeah. I, ah, volunteer here on evenings and weekends whenever I'm not working a case." He ran a palm over the back of his neck, and Camila tried really hard not to notice the flex of his biceps beneath the snug sleeve of his T-shirt. "It's not that big of a deal, really. It keeps me busy."

"Just when I thought you couldn't surprise me any further," she said, sending his brows up.

"You're not seriously surprised that I like to stay busy, are you?"

A laugh jumped out of her. "God, no. I think we've already established that idle hands aren't really your thing. But volunteering at a food bank? Even you have to admit, that's not exactly expected."

"It's not that surprising," Roman countered, but no freaking way was she letting him off the hook.

"Roman, please. You're a broody, serious FBI agent"-she hardened her expression to mimic his intensity-"but here you are, spending your weekends sorting through canned goods and handing out peanut butter and bread to people who need it, when you could be going out or sleeping in or any number of other things. So, yes. It's pretty damned surprising."

"Okay, first of all, I've never made that face." He indicated his expression with a sweeping motion of one hand. "And secondly...you may have a point about the rest."

Camila grinned. "I'm sorry, what? Did you just say I was right?" She cupped her ear with a hand, and Roman huffed out a laugh.

"It's a little surprising. But I started volunteering here after Gabi died."

Camila's heart squeezed at the mention of his wife, but she didn't shy away from the topic. "Oh. Any particular reason you chose a food bank?"

"Truth?" Roman asked. "My therapist actually suggested it. I needed to get out of the apartment, and Gabi had always been pretty passionate about feeding those who were hungry. She was training to be a chef."

"That's a nice way to honor her," Camila said, and Roman nodded.

"It is, but it started out a lot simpler than that. There was a decent amount of manual labor involved, hauling all the crates around, and I didn't really have to talk to anyone if I didn't want to. I could show up, keep to myself, do the work, and get good and tired. At first, it was just something to keep me busy, and I'll admit, that's still part of why I still volunteer."

Camila nodded. "How about the other part?"

Roman shrugged, matter-of-fact. "Back then? I needed a way to cope with my grief and I knew that whatever I chose, I was going to go all in."

"Yeah, you're not exactly a half-measures kind of guy," she agreed with a soft laugh.

"Exactly. I didn't want to climb into a bottle or pick fights or get high all the time. I mean, those things probably would've made me feel better in the short-term. Or, at least, number. But I'd have lost my job pretty quick that way; plus, Gabi would have been pissed." Camila nodded, understanding slowly trickling in. "And how about now?"

"Like I said, part of it is still to stay busy. I don't really do the social thing, and, as much as I'd like to, I can't work all the time."

Questions formed in Camila's head, one on top of the other, all begging for answers. But Roman didn't open up easily-or, really, at all. If he trusted her, the least she could do was give him room and listen.

"And now, I enjoy being here. It feels good to do something that helps the community. Plus, Wallace-the guy who runs this place-needs all the help he can get. I figure he's got plenty of work to keep our minds off this robbery. As long as you're up for it?" She didn't hesitate. "Sounds perfect."

Roman led the way around the building to a rear entrance, stopping in front of the thick metal door and ringing the buzzer that was part of one of those security systems that had a camera and a video feed. "Wallace keeps the front doors locked unless the pantry's open for pickups. But he's always here during the day, accepting deliveries and donations or working in the office."

A few seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a tall, wiry man in his sixties wearing a baseball cap reading STAFF and an ear-to-ear smile. "Roman," the man said kindly, and Camila liked him right on the spot. "I don't have you on the books for this afternoon's shift. Not that I'm complaining," he added, his eyes widening as they landed on Camila, "especially when you've brought reinforcements."

"Yeah, sorry to sort of barge in. This is my, uh, friend. Camila."

She extended a hand to Wallace with a smile. "Camila Garza. It's nice to meet you."

"Wallace Anderson." His handshake was warm and firm. "So, what brings you two to my doorstep today?"

"Actually, we were hoping you had some work to keep us busy," Camila said.

Wallace laughed. "I've got enough work to keep ten of you busy. But I'll gladly take anything I can get." Looking at Roman, he said, "You know the ropes. I assume you can get Camila, here, up to speed on packing up meal kits? We'll get plenty of takers tonight. We can always use extra." "Sure," Roman said. "Thanks."

"I should be saying that to you," Wallace said, stepping back to usher them both inside. "Don't let him work you too hard, now, Camila. All volunteers get breaks when they need 'em, and there are plenty of water bottles in the staff fridge."

"Oh, no worries," she said. "I'm the one who asked for something to do to keep my brain busy. I don't mind the work."

Wallace chuckled. "Well, then. I suppose that makes you and Roman two peas in a pod. I'll be in the office if you need me." He hooked a thumb over one shoulder. "You'll have the prep room to yourselves. Everyone else will be up front, distributing kits once we open up in a bit." "Copy that," Roman said. "Thanks, Wallace."

The older man moved down the narrow hallway, disappearing behind a door halfway down. Camila turned to Roman expectantly, and he didn't disappoint, getting right down to business.

"There are three basic rooms, here. They serve kind of as checkpoints to make things easy." He started walking in the opposite direction from Wallace's office, the hallway just wide enough for Camila to fall in step beside him.

"Three checkpoints. Got it. What's the first one?"

"Sorting." He pointed to an open space to their right that reminded Camila of one of those warehouse mega-stores, only on a smaller scale, complete with floor-to-ceiling metal shelving and fluorescent lighting. Crates full of canned goods and other non-perishables filled the shelves and the large table in the center of the space.

Roman continued. "Some drop-offs come from local stores and restaurants, others from individual donators. Every once in a while we get a school-sponsored food drive. Wallace uses a portion of the monetary donations to shop twice a week for the most in- demand items, and everything ends up here, to be inspected, sorted by food group, and stored short-term."

Camila blinked, her thoughts moving as quickly as her feet as she followed Roman farther into the building. "But that's not where we're headed."

"Nope." Roman took another couple of steps down the hallway, then headed into a large, high-ceilinged room. It was similar to the donation room, with polished, concrete floors and bright overhead lights. But instead of shelving, this space was bisected by four long tables that served as workstations, each one packed with crates containing assorted canned goods, dry goods, and stacks of sturdy paper bags.

"This is the prep room," he said, moving to the two tables in the back of the space, both of which were loaded with crates. "After everything has been sorted and the expired or unusable items have been weeded out, they come here. The items are divided up by food group. Canned fruit, vegetables. Dry goods, like pasta and rice. Soup, spaghetti sauce." He gestured to each set of crates. "Everything's got a place."

Camila's gaze snagged on the front table, which held a short, tidy row of brown paper bags, three-quarters of the way full and standing at attention. "What about those?"

"Those are completed meal kits." Roman picked one up and brought it to the second table, tipping his head in a c'mon gesture. He looked so at ease in his T-shirt and jeans, guiding her through the kitchen-like space, that it was hard to believe he was the same man who dodged bullets and bad guys with such razor-sharp intensity.

Heat laddered down her spine, landing right between her hips as she thought of the other things he did with intensity. "Right! Meal kits," she said, clearing her throat and her mind. "That's what we're working on, isn't it?"

His black brows lifted toward his close-cropped hairline, but thankfully, he kept focused on the task in front of them. "Yep. Each kit gets a specific number of items, each from the different food groups. The size of the kit varies, depending on if it's meant for one person or a family. But the breakdowns of how many items go into each kind of kit are all posted at the end of each workstation."

Roman tapped a printout that had been laminated and taped to the end of the table in front of him, and Camila paused to read it carefully, then nodded. "Okay. Seems straightforward enough. Anything else I need to know?"

"Ideally, the items will go together to form a meal, like cans of red beans and boxes of rice, or pasta and sauce. Peanut butter and jelly. You get the idea."

"Ah, that makes sense," she said. It had to be hard enough to make a meal with random ingredients. Add limited resources to the equation, like not having many, or any, supplemental items, like pasta to put your sauce on? Pairing like ingredients together if they could was a smart plan. "I'm assuming you've devised your own personal process for putting the kits together efficiently?"

"You do know what they say about assumptions, right?" Roman asked, but oh no. Not even the way the corner of his mouth had kicked up into a hint of a smile was going to keep her from this one.

"Nice try, Oscar. But I've met you. You don't exactly fly by the seat of your pants. In fact, it's possible you even iron the seat of your pants every morning before putting them on. So, yeah, there's a zero percent chance you haven't come up with a process." The laugh that flew out of him would've shocked the hell out of Camila if she weren't so busy being thoroughly turned on at the sound of it. "Oscar?"

"As in, the Grouch," she clarified.

"Just for that, I should keep my trade secrets to myself," Roman said, crossing his arms into a knot over the front of his T-shirt.

Camila wavered for a second at the sight of his biceps pressed against the fabric, but managed to arch a brow. "You won't, though, because watching me not use your process is going to drive you bonkers."

Roman paused, then muttered a curse. "Are you trying to drive me crazy, or does it just come naturally to you?"

Camila laughed at the way he'd tossed her earlier words right back in her direction, and God, it felt so good. "Embrace the crazy, Roman. Who knows? You might actually like it."

He made a noise of doubt, although the smile he was clearly trying to fight canceled it out. "These rolling carts speed things up," he said, reaching for a sturdy pushcart similar to the ones online grocery shoppers used when filling orders. "Six kits will fit on here at a time. You can wheel the cart from station to station to grab what you need. Once you're done, you just label whether the kit is for one person or a family, then drop them at the first table. One of the volunteers from the front will come grab them when they run low." "Sounds like an excellent process." Smiling, she turned toward a second cart and began setting up empty bags inside the tray. Roman did the same with the cart closest to him. His movements were precise but fluid, each one full of quiet purpose, and Camila's thoughts barged out of her mouth before she could curb them.

"You take everything you do this seriously, don't you?"

Roman waited, placing two boxes of macaroni and cheese and a can of green beans into the bag in front of him before answering. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"No, not at all," she said, and meant every word. "In fact, I'm a little jealous."

Her face flushed at the admission, the heat growing even stronger as his chin lifted in surprise. "You're jealous. Of me."

For a second, Camila was sorely tempted to change the subject. Being the Garza family f**k up was bad enough. Admitting it to Roman, who was so dedicated to his career that he wanted to chase actual, bona fide armed bank robbers instead of running away from them? Yeah, that wasn't exactly going to boost her ego. But hiding her feelings wouldn't make them any less real or any less shitty, and anyway, she couldn't deny the truth.

Ever since Roman had laid down beside her on that cold marble bank floor and told her she was okay, Camila had trusted him with her life. She could sure as hell trust him with this.

"Of how much you love your job? Yeah, I'm definitely jealous," she said, sorting through the boxes and cans as she spoke. "You're so dedicated, and you clearly love what you do. Don't get me wrong. I like my job well enough. It pays my bills, and I'm grateful to be employed."

"But?" Roman asked.

She lifted one shoulder, continuing to pack the meal kits on her cart as she spoke. "But it's my fifth job in twelve years, and they've all been in different fields."

His brows lifted, just slightly, but it was his only sign of surprise. "What did you do before the job you have now?"

"I should probably start at the beginning. I got my bachelor's in psychology. I didn't really have a specific career path in mind when I was in college, and the classes were interesting enough," she said. "My first job was an entry-level position in social work, which I liked but didn't love. But moving up in that field would've meant getting an advanced degree, and I was hesitant to sink that sort of time and money into a career that I wasn't head over heels for."

"Seems fair. What came after that?"

"Let's see." Camila paused to tick off each job on her fingers. "I've been a customer service rep for an insurance company-zero stars, do not recommend, by the way-a massage therapist, and a human resources assistant. Oh, and the guidance counselor thing at the middle school, obviously."

Rather than respond with a glib comment about how often she changed her mind or, worse yet, a judgy question about when she'd settle down and find a career she could stick to, he said, "So, you haven't found the thing you love yet."

"Much to my family's dismay."

"Sounds like there's a story, there."

But rather than push her to tell it, Roman simply kept packing up groceries and giving her room to breathe, and hell if that didn't make it all the more easy for the words to break free.

"I'm the baby of the family," Camila said, surprised when he nodded.

"The youngest of five. I remember from the night we met." Her shock must've made its way to her face, because he tapped his temple and added, "I'm an FBI agent. Remembering details isn't something I can just turn on and off. Plus, I was, you know. Interested in the conversation."

Heat expanded, low in her belly, but she pressed past it to focus on the conversation. "Then you probably also remember that we're all in each other's business on a near-constant basis."

Roman chuffed out a laugh. "I believe the word you used the night we met was 'tight-knit"."

"It's the same thing," she said, arching a brow at him as they stopped at the same crate of canned vegetables, each adding corn and boxes of instant mashed potatoes to their meal kits. "We're close, which can be great. But there are very few boundaries when it comes to being a Garza, which means your love life, your career path-pretty much anything personal-is fair game for commentary, and meddling is its own love language. Which probably wouldn't be so bad if I were like the rest of them." "Sorry, how do you mean?" Roman asked.

Camila finished the last meal kit on her cart, double-checking it against the list before labeling it and wheeling her cart to the workstation at the front of the room. "When I say I'm the baby, I don't just mean I'm the youngest. I mean, I'm the baby. You saw how my brother freaked out when he saw us flirting last year, and that's nothing compared to the way he lost his mind when he saw I'd been hurt in the bank robbery."

"Okay, fair. He was pretty overprotective," Roman admitted, "and while I agree that it's none of his business who you flirt with-or who you do anything with, for that matter-is it possible that he was just scared for your safety at the bank?"

"I'm sure that was part of it," Camila admitted, because as hypervigilant as Matteo was about her well-being, she had no doubt that he loved her. Of course he'd been worried. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg. They all treat me like that, all the time. Like I'm still some twenty-two-year-old kid with no clue how to take care of myself. I mean, yes, I've switched careers a few times, and sometimes I'm impulsive. Maybe more than sometimes. But that doesn't make me incompetent." Roman frowned up at her from the spot where he stood by a crate full of canned soup. "That's got to be pretty frustrating."

The statement was simple, yet something about the way he'd delivered it unlocked a floodgate in her chest, letting her feelings come pouring out. "It really freaking is. Look, I get it-in their own weird and totally pushy way, they love me and want me to be happy. But I'm not like any of them and I never hear the end of it."

She paused, but only for a breath before continuing. "I'm Camila, who doesn't take anything seriously because my belly button is pierced and I take last-minute vacations when the airfare is cheap. Camila, who refuses to grow up or settle down-I rent my place month-to-month in case something better comes along, and when it does, I pack up and move. Camila, who can't even choose one career to stick with and who definitely can't take care of herself. Obviously, since I managed to end up the victim of a God's-honest felony. I know they mean well." She sighed, her heart twisting. "But they've made it wildly clear that I am the family f**k up, with no direction and no-"

Roman was in her personal space, capturing her wrist with one hand and placing the other on her shoulder to turn her toward him, in less than a blink. "Camila, listen to me," he said, pinning her with a liquid-bronze stare so intense, she couldn't do anything but nod and melt into his touch. "I don't know your family and I don't know their motivations for the way they treat you and interact with you. But I know what I saw in that bank, and I know what I see right now in front of me."

"You do?" she whispered, and he didn't hesitate.

"I do. I see someone who is brave and smart and beautiful. Maybe also fierce enough to drive me a little crazy," he added, giving her no choice but to laugh, "and a thousand other things on top of that. But not one of those is a f**k up. Not even close." "Oh." The word coasted out as mostly an exhale, barely escaping past the knot in her throat. "You're awfully certain about that."

"Yes." Roman nodded, just one lift and lower of his chin. "I am."

"Thank you," Camila said.

The hand he'd placed on her shoulder slid upward, over the column of her neck, until his thumb reached her jaw, making her heart tap faster against her breastbone. "You're welcome."

Her eyes dropped to his mouth, and she pressed up to kiss him. But the sound of the swinging door leading to the front of the building being bumped open had them jumping apart.

"Oh!" The middle-aged woman stopped short, three steps into the prep room while Camila tried desperately to pull on a nothing-to-see-here expression. "Roman, hi. I'm sorry, I didn't know you were back here."

"Yeah, I slipped in after the shift started," he said, pausing for less than a beat before adding, "Tammy, this is Camila. She's helping me out tonight."

Tammy smiled, waving at Camila. "Nice to meet you, Camila. Thanks so much for volunteering. We're always grateful to have good help."

"I'm happy to," she said, returning the woman's smile.

"Well, I'll grab these extra meal kits and get out of your hair." Tammy loaded up an unused cart and headed back to the door, waving again on her way out. Face heating, Camila turned toward Roman, wanting to get her apology over-with.

"I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have unloaded on you like that, and I definitely shouldn't have almost..." God, she couldn't go there without wanting to die of embarrassment. "It was impulsive. I'm sorry."

"I'm not."

Two tiny words. Two simple syllables, and Camila's heart wanted to break free from her chest. "You're not?"

"No." Putting down the meal kit in his hands, he walked back over to her, stopping just shy of her personal space. "When I said solidarity, I meant it. I'm on your side, Camila. As for the rest"-he stepped forward, brushing his mouth over hers in a single, soft stroke -"I'm starting to like your brand of impulsive."

She laughed. "Well, good. Because I've got plenty to go around."

But even when they fell back into the comforting rhythm of packing up meal kits and the conversation turned to lighter topics, Camila knew she wouldn't forget Roman's words-or how they'd made her feel-any time soon.