My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(111)

But he was right.

And I was shocked.

He reclined against the backrest, shrugging it off. “You always wear blue. It complements your tan. And you gravitate toward blue things. From your Henry Plotkin phone case to your favorite Chanel bag—all blue. As for your favorite food, that would be lomo saltado. Extra aji verde.” Even the tiniest smirk from him directed rays of lust straight to my bloodstream. “You order it in three times a week. The delivery guy practically has our gate code. You always switch things up for variety when you order from any other restaurant. Other than Peruvian ones.”

Spot on. Again.

Maybe I was more transparent than I’d thought.

I suppressed a smile, knowing if I unleashed it, he’d see how stupidly in love with him I was.

Oh, no.

I was, wasn’t I? In love with Romeo Costa. The coldest, least sympathetic man on Planet Earth. The God of War.

All moisture fled my mouth. The adrenaline in my body awakened me from my orgasm-induced sleepiness.

“But you don’t know about my dream. My real dream. Not the ones I joke about.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Children?”

I shook my head. “That’s a goal, not a dream.”

“Then, no. I do not. What’s your dream, Dallas Costa?”

To be Dallas Costa because it’s your choice and not a part of your plan.

I had a much older dream, though. “I want a house that is also a library.”

“A library in your house?” he corrected, frowning.

“I said what I said. I want a house gutted from within and turned into a library. Every inch of it. Every room would have shelves, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling. No matter where you walk. Kitchen. Dining room. Bathroom. Everywhere.”

He studied me like I was an intriguing piece of art he’d just stumbled upon at the museum. Completely new to his eyes.

Slowly, he nodded, unfastened his tin of gum, and placed a square on his tongue. “Now I know.”

Well, that was anticlimactic.

I swallowed hard, feeling stupid and childish.

I changed the subject. “So, you felt bad today and came to see me. Careful. I might suspect you’re developing feelings for me.”

The joke came out all awkward and wrong. More accusing than flirtatious.

“I needed a quick fuck to get rid of the excess pent-up rage.” He reached for his water bottle, taking a sip. “Do yourself a favor and don’t read into it. I’d hate to hurt your feelings, Shortbread. They’re so very precious. So are you, by the way.”

It was the most patronizing, backhanded, terrible compliment I’d ever been paid. And I couldn’t even tell him that, because then he’d know how much he’d hurt me.

“Hey, Romeo?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you noticed you haven’t been chewing on gum excessively in the last few days?”

I had.

I noticed everything about him.

Romeo tilted his head. “That’s right. It’s been a few days.”

“One of these days, you’re going to have to tell me why you like gum and silence so much,” I teased, my foot finding his under the table.

“Why are you so fascinated with it?”

“Because our habits tell us who we are. Your quirks are a piece of you.” I paused. “And I want to piece you together, Romeo Costa. That is, if you’d let me.”

He shot up, taking his bottled water with him. “I’ll be in my office, working. Thanks for the fuck, Shortbread.”





Thanks for the fuck, Shortbread?

I deserved to be slapped by every woman on Earth.

Still, I meant what I’d said.

Though her feelings did matter, it would be wrong for Dallas to mistake our cordial relationship for a romantic one.

To be honest, Morgan had nothing to do with it. My heart had long decayed by the time she’d entered the picture.

No. What alarmed me wasn’t my dead heart.

It was the danger of what my wife might do to it. Blow off the dust with her sweet breath. Soap off its tombstone with her capable hands. Breathe life into it with her unbearable, undeniable sweetness.

From her portrait in my study, Shortbread loomed over me. Her eyes clung to my profile as my loafers flattened the rug.

Back and forth.

Sure, we had something good going on. I trusted her. Enjoyed her company, even. Her cunt was by far the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted—perhaps as a result of the industrial amount of sugar she consumed.

But there would never be more than that. And how could I keep my wife while offering her a fraction of what we both knew she deserved?

I didn’t enter her room that night.

Or the next night.

Instead, I drove to Oliver’s mansion with Zach. They’d just returned from our annual pre-Christmas snowboarding vacation in Colorado, which I’d skipped out on for the first time.

Ever.

The guys played pool while I nursed a bottle, perched on the vintage Pac-Man machine. A Commanders game danced on the television in front of them.

All in all, a pleasant night.

I should have missed these gatherings with them, now that I spent most of my scarce free time with Shortbread.

Yet, somehow, I didn’t.

“So, when do you think you’ll grant her a divorce?” Oliver lit a cigar and plucked a thong from the crease of his cedar leather couch, tossing it into the trash.