“And does she have a name?” I asked, looking over the sleek red sports car with a bit of jealousy. I’d never been jealous of a car before.

“Lola.”

“Lola, the car.”

“Lola, the sports car,” he corrected, bending down to open my door.

I peeked inside. All tan leather interior, expensive wood trim, not a speck of dirt.

Okay, yeah, I got it.

“Lola, it is,” I mumbled under my breath.

I heard his laughter as he gently closed the door and ran over to the other side, giddy as a schoolboy in a spitball fight.

“I rarely get to drive her anymore. She was a birthday present to myself a few years ago when I was still trying to convince Jude to take over the business even though I knew it was fruitless. My last whim, I guess, before the old ball and chain were officially locked in place.”

“But we’re going to fix that, right?” I reminded him.

“Right,” he agreed. “And then my old ball and chain can be a woman… just as God intended.”

“You’re horrible.”

He pulled into traffic, and soon, the city was behind us.

Roman had told me very little about their country home. Just that he and Jude had fond memories of growing up there as children and always loved the opportunity to return as much as possible.

I guessed I’d always known in the back of my head that the Cavenaugh family was wealthy, that Roman himself was wealthy. But knowing and actually seeing it in person were two things entirely.

Sure, I’d been to Roman’s high-rise penthouse apartment and touched his fine things, but I’d never really considered him rich. He was just Roman.

My Roman.

But as his car pulled off the main road and we entered the gated drive, I realized for the first time the level of money his family dealt with on a daily basis.

And it was a lot.

I’d never been to a mansion, but I was pretty sure the Cavenaughs country home would definitely fit the bill. With its beautiful gardens and Old World architecture, I felt like I was on an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

But I wasn’t.

This was where Roman had grown up.

No, correction. This was one of the places where Roman had grown up.

I swallowed audibly.

“It’s just a house,” Roman said, obviously sensing my nerves from the other side of the car. His hand fell gently on my thigh.

“Remind me never to take you to my childhood home. It’s a hovel compared to this place,” I said.

He suddenly stopped the car. We were halfway down the long tree-lined drive with the house in plain view, its immaculate gardens surrounding each side.