My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(27)

Had I found my kindred spirit?

Maybe she’d be open to slowly poisoning him.

I made a mental note to dive into some murder-mystery books for inspo.

I shut the fridge, giddy from the prospect of having someone who actually talked and behaved like she was living in the same era as me.

She was just like a friend from home, only cooler.

And worldlier.

And probably sleeping with my fiancé.

“Think we can make something else?”

She quirked a brow. “What do you have in mind?”

“Truffle fries, bacon-wrapped pork roast, candied yam, and monkey bread.” I licked my lips. “You know, just as an example.”

Hettie stood, literally rising to the challenge.

Instead of preparing the meal alone, she doled out tasks to me. As we cooked, she told me about herself. That she hailed from Brooklyn, traveled the globe on a food tour, and would kill for another round.

She spoke of Romeo with respect and curiosity. Like he was an unsolved puzzle she still hoped to find all the pieces for.

Hettie slid the monkey bread into the steam oven. “So, can we address the elephant in the room?”

I stabbed a yam I was supposed to cube. “All right.”

“Hmm…who the hell are you?” She laughed. “Like, what are you doing here?”

Romeo hadn’t told her?

Actually, now that I thought about it, he hadn’t told Vernon, either.

I added poor communication skills to my never-ending list of things I disliked about him.

“I’m…well, I guess I’m Romeo’s fiancée.”

Her brows shot up. “You guess?”

“Can you ever be sure when it comes to men like him?”

Hettie poured the truffle fries into a basket padded with paper towels, signaling for me to try one. I picked one up and popped it into my mouth.

Heaven.

“You don’t look too surprised.” I studied her, stealing another fry. “Is this a normal occurrence? Romeo bringing a fiancée home?”

“No.” Hettie sucked honey off her thumb. “But his dad was on his ass about getting married, so I figured it was bound to happen eventually. I just expected something…different.”

“Mail-order bride?”

She snorted. “Girl, that man has women lining up and down his gate twenty-four seven. It’s a nuisance at this point. Can you water spray them away or something?”

Despite my good senses, I blurted out, “Who does he normally go for?”

Hettie frowned, setting the table with two plates. She was sharing the meal with me.

Stupid butterflies fluttered across my rib cage.

“Actually, I’ve never seen him with a girlfriend before. But the women that usually hang on his arm during events are kind of stuck up, I guess. Pencil skirts and season tickets to the opera. They barely say a word, and they definitely don’t indulge in truffle fries. Not that it should matter to you. He never brings them home.” She gestured around. “Guess he’s too freaked out about them dirtying up the place or something.”

I filed this as crucial information. I intended on being especially loud, uncultured, and tacky just to spite my neat-freak fiancé.

We tucked into the food, which was totally delicious.

I moaned, earning a grin from Hettie.

“So good, right?”

I nodded.

About the only decent thing about this place.





It was to my great disappointment that Romeo wasn’t here to admire my handiwork.

I’d stained his two-hundred-year-old restored sofa with French dip while watching pay-per-view. I didn’t even like boxing, but I was fond of wasting his precious money.

I hadn’t planned on messing up his place.

Truly.

It was never my intention. Then I saw how awfully clean it was and couldn’t help myself.

Where the heck was he, anyway?

It wasn’t like I had anyone to ask. I didn’t even have his phone number.

What I did have was his Centurion card, which I’d found on the kitchen island, along with a business card for a chauffeur.

Since I was one hundred percent sure the bastard hadn’t made a pit stop here, I gathered the elusive Cara was responsible for this sliver of humanity.

As a matter of principle, I didn’t buy anything wearable. I continued prancing around in my sleeping gown, even as it began to smell.

Hettie scrunched her nose, abandoning her fruitless attempt to erase my French-dip stain. “There’s a laundry room upstairs.”

“I know.” I spiraled my fork, reeling in pappardelle noodles. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“I ate dinner with you two hours ago.” Her eyes followed the arrabbiata sauce as it splashed onto my gown, followed by the wool upholstery. “Aren’t you worried Romeo will flip out when he sees”—she twirled her finger—“all this?”

“Nope.”

“Are you guys in a fight?”

If this is a fight, World War II was a neighbor dispute.

Sensing my mood, she stood, returning with an expensive bottle of champagne. “We can get drunk to forget about our woes.”

I shoved pasta down my throat. “So, I can continue to remember them tomorrow, but with a hangover?”