My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(123)

Turns out, there is no reason when it comes to love. It exists to destroy. Even logic.

I followed the church-bells laughter. The one I used to loathe and now, evidently, could not survive forty-eight hours without hearing.

It came from the kitchen. Naturally. Shortbread’s favorite room in any house she entered, excluding libraries.

Dread accompanied the anticipation swirling in my stomach. She was having fun without me, while I was incapable of doing the same without her.

I strode the length of the hall, then leaned against the kitchen doorframe, observing as Dallas, Franklin, and Natasha made an apple pie.

Shortbread rolled out the stripes. Flour dusted her freckled nose and cheeks. Her eyes glittered with happiness as she swirled in her spot, noticing my presence for the first time.

Her lips parted. “Romeo? What are you doing here? Is everything okay back home? Is it Senior?”

Home. Is that really what my mansion is for you?

“Everything is fine. My father is still depressingly alive.” I trained my eyes on her, refusing to see Franklin and be reminded of the harsh words Dallas used to describe me.

I had no idea if Shortbread made good apple pies, but she made darn perfect humble pies.

“What’s going on?” She rested the dough on the counter, approaching me.

I placed the white roses in her hands. Her fist wrapped around them, a million questions dancing in her eyes.

“Nothing.” I slipped a hand around her narrow waist, drawing her to me, not giving a single lonely damn that her entire family watched. “I just thought I’d take you up on that offer for the date.”

“The date was supposed to take place when I returned from Georgia.”

“That timeline doesn’t work for me.”

She scrunched her nose. “Why not?”

“Because I cannot stay away from you for longer than forty-eight hours.”

At last, she seemed pleased by my words.

By my presence.

She set a hand on my cheek, grinning up at me. I shot a quick glance at Franklin. She looked as though I’d just declared my intention to eat my own arm on live television.

Again, I found myself uncaring of what a literal teenager thought of my affairs. All I knew was, it felt ridiculously good to hold my wife again.

Dallas peered up at me. I couldn’t help myself. I kissed away the sprinkling of flour on her nose.

“We can have it now if that works for you? The date.”

“Now’s perfect timing,” I confirmed. “My schedule is wide open.”

“Let me just change.”

I kissed her forehead. “I’ll wait.”

Forever and beyond, if need be.

She squinted at me. “Last time, you timed me.”

“Last time, I was an asshole.”

She giggled, stars in her eyes. Stars I’d put there. “And what are you now?”

Now, I’m in love.





I understood now why men would go to drastic lengths to claim a woman. Why the Achaeans invaded Troy for Helen. Or, in my case, why I paraded through a provincial, coma-inducing small town for Dallas of Chapel Falls.

Shortbread beamed, bouncing with each step as she commandeered our date.

Our first destination: the public library.

“This is where I had my first date with Mr. Darcy.” She swooned over a chipped wooden bench by the cafeteria. “And this is where I had my first kiss—with Lars Sheffield, my high school’s quarterback.”

“Pity you mentioned him by name.” I laced my fingers through hers. “Now I have to kill him.”

She giggled. “Want to play a game?”

Naturally, my first instinct was to say no. “Sure.”

“I used to play it with Frankie all the time when we were kids. We write general topics—mammals, seasons, flowers, whatever—on slips of papers, fold each, toss them into a hat, and shake, drawing one subject at random. The first one to find five books in the theme wins.”

“Wins what?”

She wiggled her brows.

Ah. There was certainly a leap of logic in the reward system, since the loser and winner would both benefit from paying the price, but I saw little point in bringing it to her attention.

Shortbread jotted down a few subjects, landed a ball cap from a random stranger, and selected a subject.

Fruit.

She squealed. “This one’s good. I’ve never had it before.”

We ventured in search of fruit-themed covers and titles. I had to admit the game wasn’t completely stupid.

I picked Apples Don’t Fall, The Grapes of Wrath, and Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café. Tomatoes were a fruit like any other. And yes, that was my hill to die on.

Speaking of fruit, I became increasingly hungry. I hadn’t eaten prior to the plane ride here, too preoccupied to notice my hunger.

“Got it,” Shortbread announced in the middle of the library with no regard for her volume, the stack of books cradled in her arms concealing her face.

An old librarian shushed her. Dallas didn’t even notice as she hurried to me, showing off her finds.

“The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper?” I glared at her. “That’s a vegetable.”

“But it’s as sweet as a fruit.”

“That is a very loose interpretation of fruit. By that logic, vodka is a type of bread, since both contain grains.”