My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(46)
Romeo Costa
How did that just happen?
Ollie vB
I have a software engineer on retainer.
@ZachSun hooked me up a few months ago when I had to deal with a dick-pic crisis.
Zach Sun
A crisis aptly titled .Mobi Dick.
Romeo Costa
ON RETAINER?
Ollie vB
@ZachSun, your copywriting talent is heartbreakingly wasted.
Romeo Costa
I repeat: ON RETAINER?
Ollie vB
You’d be surprised how often I get myself into hot water with some of the content I share.
Romeo Costa
Something tells me I would not be surprised at all.
Ollie vB
So, is little Townsend taken?
Romeo Costa
LITTLE TOWNSEND IS STILL IN FUCKING COLLEGE.
Ollie vB
I hate to say this, Costa, but you’ve always been a prude. Right, Zach?
Zach Sun left the chat.
Romeo Costa left the chat.
Ollie vB
So dramatic.
I bet my fifth yacht the girl is eighteen.
Dallas Townsend reminded me of a phoenix, rising from the ashes of her poor decisions. An inspiration to the idling masses.
In tonight’s episode, Shortbread drank herself into a stupor.
Ever since I’d broken the tragic news of our impending luxurious honeymoon, she’d guzzled down champagne, slurring her thanks to our guests while zigzagging through the room.
Aside from her agreeable looks, I’d met office furniture more lovely to spend time with.
It didn’t help that she embarrassed us both by channeling her inner designated drunk aunt at a Christmas dinner, babbling loud enough to be heard from the South Pole.
Her family didn’t interfere with the spectacle. Shep conducted business, whereas Natasha dedicated all her efforts into finding a suitable match for the other menace she’d spawned.
And Franklin…
Franklin knew exactly how drunk Dallas was. She let it happen, aware that I was allergic to public scandals.
That I managed to shuttle Shortbread into my private jet without losing an eye was nothing short of a miracle.
We were Paris-bound, and the excitement level sat somewhere between a three-day-long calculus marathon and a funeral.
“I think I’m going to throw up,” Dallas announced, clutching her stomach, still in her bridal gown.
Her face was extraordinarily green for someone who wasn’t the Grinch.
“Shocking.” I flipped the page of my newspaper.
She moaned, tossing her head back on the headrest. “I’m pretty sure I’m about to vomit on this dress.”
It appeared as though she suffered from alcohol poisoning. Just when I thought choosing unattractive, sixty-something pilots would ensure an event-free journey.
I dog-eared a page and moved onto the next. “No need to narrate your existence aloud. Truly, no part of me cares.”
“Aren’t you going to help me?”
“No.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ll just puke all over your private jet and stink it to eternity.”
With a groan, I slid off my seat and hoisted her up in my arms, carrying her to the bathroom honeymoon-style.
She was lifeless in my embrace. I wondered if it’d be a good idea to make a U-turn so I could get her straight to the hospital.
Then, in her signature Shortbread whine, she issued demands. “Make sure you pull all my hair up so nothing gets stuck on it…oh, and the dress. Take my dress off.”
The privilege. The sass. The blind belief that the world owed her something. She was fine.
“Try not to drink like the future of this nation depends on it next time.”
I plopped her on the floor before we reached the toilet, flipped her on her stomach, and began unfastening her dress. And there was a lot of dress to get rid of.
She swam in fabric. It took ten minutes to release her from the buttons, zippers, and frills.
Dallas being Dallas, she wiggled, clawing at the thin carpet. “Faster! I can’t hold it in anymore.”
“Is everything okay?” The stewardess poked her head in from the kitchen, where she prepared fresh fruit and mimosas.
It must have looked like I was wrestling a wild boar from that angle.
“Yes.”
“Excuse me, sir, but it doesn’t look—”
“Am I paying you for your eyesight or to clean my toilets and prepare my snacks? While we’re at it, toss the mimosas in the garbage. The last thing my wife needs is more alcohol in her bloodstream.”
All my employees, top to bottom, signed NDAs. A favorable arrangement, seeing as my manners lacked without a Bloomberg Finance mic directed straight to my face.
When Dallas finally escaped her dress, clad only in a strapless beige bra and matching thong, I rolled the elastic off her wrist and tried tying her hair up.