My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(114)

“Oh, yeah?” Her energy returned tenfold. “And what the hell are you gonna do during this time?”

“Freeze my balls off.”





I could have sent Cara to do this.

It wouldn’t have been the most gallant thing I’d ever done—Cara straddled the thin border between fifties and sixties, suffered a busted back, and deserved her time off on Christmas—but not unheard of either.

Hell, I could’ve sent any of my six lower-grade assistants.

But I didn’t.

Something compelled me to join the three-hundred-strong line outside my local Barnes & Noble for a chance to get my hands on the brand-new fourteenth and final book in the Henry Plotkin series.

Henry Plotkin and the Cadaverous Phantoms.

And by “chance,” I meant I would definitely get it for Shortbread. Even if I had to pry it off the hands of a terminally ill, orphaned kindergartener.

I had no qualms about setting the entire place on fire if it meant returning with the treasured book.

It was what she wanted—what she had planned to do with her time tonight—and by God, she was going to get it.

A scowl stamped on my face as a few reporters interviewed people in the freezing cold about how long they’d been standing in line (four to seven hours), how they planned to pass the time until the store opened in the morning (with hot drinks and sleeping bags), and what they thought would happen in the book (I tuned out that part).

I pondered how I’d reached this new low in life.

I’d never done anything remotely as uncomfortable for anyone. Even for my ex-fiancée, whom I thought I’d tolerated.

Morgan could only dream I’d stand in line an entire night for her. I used to get furious whenever she sent me on a tampon run if it was past nine at night.

Maybe guilt could be blamed for making me suffer in twenty-five-degree weather, but I didn’t think so.

For one thing, I had no conscience.

For another, even if I had one, I’d put it to work forcing her to marry me—not failing to check on her for forty-eight hours.

Every now and then—re: seven-minute intervals, on the dot—I texted Hettie, demanding an update regarding Dallas’s health.

Romeo Costa



How is she feeling?





Hettie Cook



Not well, but you already know that.





She took Tylenol and drank some water.





I’m making her avgolemono soup right now.





Romeo Costa



Is her fever down?





Hettie Cook



Between five minutes ago, when you last asked me, and now?





No.





Fevers always spike in the evening, so don’t worry about it.





Romeo Costa



I called the doctor. He is going to pay her a visit in the next forty minutes.





Hettie Cook



Forty minutes?





I hope she’s going to make it till then.





Romeo Costa



???





Hettie Cook



I’M KIDDING.





SHE IS JUST A LITTLE SICK. JESUS.





CHILL.





I was so chill, I couldn’t feel my nose, let alone my balls.

Romeo Costa



You’re fired.





The night crawled, minute by minute, refusing to disperse into morning.

The doctor arrived and determined Dallas’s fever needed to break, winning the Most Useless Doctor Award in my head. He prescribed her rest, fluids, and cold compresses.

For what it was worth, Hettie agreed with my analysis.

Hettie Cook



Did you have to hire the Director of EMERGENCY Medicine at Johns Hopkins?





The poor dude looked so confused when he realized Dal isn’t on her deathbed.





Romeo Costa



You thought he was useless, too?





Hettie left when Franklin and Natasha arrived, which forced me to tone down my texts.

I attempted to be reserved with my sister-in-law, seeing as Dallas particularly enjoyed talking shit about me with her.

Romeo Costa



Is she feeling better?





Franklin Townsend



Like you care.





Romeo Costa



It’s a yes or no question.





Franklin Townsend



No improvement.





Romeo Costa



Keep me posted.





Franklin Townsend



You’re not the boss of me.





Romeo Costa



God, you’re a brat.





I wish very much for Oliver to end up with you when you finally come of age.