My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(104)

“I’m breathing regularly, Rom. Maybe you’re just super attuned to me, so you can hear me even when I’m quiet.”

Rom.

My nickname spoken from her rosebud lips sounded like the most beautiful word in the English language. When Oliver and Zach called me that, I wanted to punch them.

“Keep dreaming, Shortbread.” I settled a hand on her back, leading her to our table. “And while you do that, don’t forget to be courteous, friendly, and well-mannered. I need Reynolds’s business.”

“Ugh. I planned on eating directly from their plates, but now that you asked…”

Tom and Casey already awaited us at the table. They weren’t alone. They brought—I shit you not—their toddler.

Thus, a flurry of cooing and kissing ensued.

Casey immediately gushed about Dallas’s hair, dress, eyes, and general existence.

Meanwhile, my wife physically snatched the toddler and cradled it to her chest. “Who do we have here?”

“Freida. Her nanny bailed on us last minute.” Casey sighed. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Mind?” From the extent of Dallas’s outrage, you’d think Casey just suggested a couples swap. “Children are my passion, and this one is just extra delicious, aren’t you, sweetie?”

Despite that last sentence potentially landing her in the FBI’s watchlist, a twinge of pride pricked my chest.

I studied Dallas, seeing her from a stranger’s eyes. Her beauty remained unrivaled. Yet, more than her looks, I admired her endurance, sweetness, brash honesty, and devotion to children.

I wasn’t so arrogant as to think she was content with what we shared. She wanted more. Feelings. Romance. Dates. Heirs.

She deserved all those things, too. But the only way I could grant them was to let her go, and I refused to do that.

The mindless chatter began as soon as we settled into our seats. Little Freida—curly haired with a yellow plaid dress—sat in Dallas’s lap and ate squished food from between her fingers.

I asked after Tom’s parents, golf tournament, and drone-flying hobby, all of which I cared about a little less than Kanye West’s opinion about marginalized minorities.

Through bits and pieces, I overheard Dallas and Casey discuss the grave matter of surgical brow lifts.

Idiotically, and for no reason other than my inability to let the matter be, I tuned out Tom Reynolds, whom I’d courted for weeks, listening to Shortbread’s conversation.

Her steady breaths lingered in my ears, accompanied by her boisterous laughter, the crunch of her complimentary bread, and the little gulps her throat produced as she sipped a pink martini.

The way she blew raspberries into Freida’s neck and stroked the child’s shoulder every time she fussed.

Was she right? Was I simply hyperaware of her?

The very thought made me shudder.

It took me a while to slide in to business mode, but once I did, I forgot Dallas’s existence. She seemed to amuse the Reynolds females.

I made a mental note to reward her cooperation in the form of fucking her.

I’d be smart about it. Now that I knew her period cycle, I’d fuck her when there was little chance of getting her pregnant.

“I’m going to be honest. Things aren’t looking well for Licht Holdings.” Tom blew out air, shaking his head once we finally cut to the chase. “I doubt they’ll be able to honor our contract even if we were willing to overlook the public outcry to boycott them. Which, I have to say, the Secretary of Defense isn’t eager to do. Cameron Lyons is Georgian, if you might recall.”

I poured Tom another glass of wine. His words were silence to my music-allergic ears. “Have their productions reduced significantly?”

“I’m not in a position to discuss their business with you. You know that as well as I do, Costa.” Reynolds scanned the heavily jeweled diners, voice lowering. “But with their Newsham manufacturing base shut down and another one in Alabama under heavy investigation, I just don’t see how they can pull it off without missing the deadline by months. We’re talking a backlog that could cost the Pentagon billions.”

“We’ll be able to take their load and hit the deadline. Perhaps even hand over some equipment early. As you may be aware, we just recruited five hundred workers at our Smethport factory. Call it the Prophecy of Dry Bones. The resurrection and restoration as you return to your promised land—Costa Industries.”

If things went my way—which they historically had—the DOD and Reynolds would have no part of their contract fulfilled. Costa Industries would be long gone by then. Duly crushed, liquidated, and dormant.

I didn’t care one bit.

As Dallas loved to point out, I was in the business of death and intimidation.

Reynolds nodded, stroking his chin. His daughter gurgled in the background. “I’ll talk to Lyons. He initially wanted to try Licht Holdings for their attractive prices, but that’s out the window, so I’ll see what we can do—”

A loud bang exploded in my ears.

The double entry doors collapsed on the floor.

People shrieked. Utensils and champagne flutes shattered to the hardwood in a symphony of broken glass. Waiters dove, seeking safety under tables.

Four men dressed in cargo pants, black Henleys, and balaclavas tromped through the restaurant.