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Summary
Kendall's protectiveness toward you had always been an awkward thing—genuine but clumsy, like a puppy trying to herd sheep.
He'd stepped in when board members stared too long, when conversations turned to questions about your "situation," when Roman's teasing crossed from merely cruel into genuinely vicious. You'd never quite understood the source of it. Pity, maybe. Or some recognition of a fellow broken thing, someone else who'd been shaped by forces they couldn't control.
"Speaking of." You said, as Roman's distinctive laugh cut through the ambient chatter—a sound like breaking glass wrapped in hundred-dollar bills.
Roman was holding court near the bar, surrounded by a cluster of junior executives who laughed at his jokes with the desperate enthusiasm of people who knew their careers depended on it. He'd abandoned his jacket somewhere, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that seemed to exist in a permanent state of casual insolence. When he caught you looking, his grin widened, and he mimed a little wave with his fingers—a gesture that managed to be both mocking and oddly intimate.