I turned around to see him shaking his head, his hands in his pockets. He might have been complaining, but there was genuine happiness in his eyes as he watched his mother and I embracing.

“He gushes a little.” I snickered.

“Of course he does. Every man who loves a woman gushes about her. Jude does, and their father did. And, now, Roman. It makes me so happy.”

“Dad never gushed,” Roman said, his voice suddenly changing.

His mother stopped, turning. I followed.

“Of course he did. You were just too young to notice. But your father was the king of romance, always—”

“What are we having for dinner?” he asked, clearly interrupting his mother on purpose as we entered the grand foyer. My eyes went everywhere at once.

Her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion before she gave in. “Chicken cordon bleu. That reminds me. I need to go cork the wine. Why don’t you two go get settled in the living room? I’ll bring a few glasses out in a minute.”

We nodded as she made her way to the kitchen.

I took a few silent moments to wander around the foyer, admiring the beautiful staircase and fine tapestries and carpets. It was like walking into a museum, only there were no ropes or signs telling me where I could and couldn’t go, and my little fingers were allowed to touch and investigate everything.

“I’m sorry for that,” Roman said finally. “I don’t like talking about my dad.”

“I know,” I said, looking at an old family painting.

It was quite remarkable. Our family would visit J.C. Penney every year, marking the passing of time with a ten-minute photo session. Roman’s family hired a professional painter, etching the lines of their faces with oils and pastels.

“I still remember sitting for that painting.”

“You sat for it? He didn’t paint it from a picture?” I asked, leaning in to get a better look at the tiny version of Roman.

He couldn’t have been older than four.

“No. My dad hated half-assing things, and portraits were meant to be painted from life, or some crap like that, so we sat for it while the artist sketched it out. It wasn’t the entire time, but as a kid, it seemed like an eternity.”

“I bet. I promise, if we get married, I will not subject our kids to hours of torture in the name of art.”

“Don’t worry; we won’t be having any kids.”

My heart stopped, and I froze, staring at the little green-eyed boy before me with his dark blond hair. He held a hint of mischief and a look of pride.

“What? But the jokes you made earlier… I just thought—”

“They were just jokes, Cara. I don’t want kids,” his voice said softly.

Turning away from the portrait, I looked up at him. “Why?” I breathed out.