My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(47)

“No time!” She punched me in the face, frantic. “I need to puke.”

I dragged her to the bathroom, flipped open the toilet, and gathered her hair in my hand from behind while balancing her with my other palm.

She began projectile vomiting everywhere. As I towered over her, cradling her head so she wouldn’t break her spine and introduce me to a world of legal pain, I questioned what kind of idiot married a woman like her.

I was normally ruthlessly rational. What on Earth made me think this was a good idea?

Even sticking it to Madison Licht wasn’t a good enough reason. Shortbread was the human answer to a category-six hurricane. Whatever she touched, she destroyed.

After a few minutes of emptying her gut, she collapsed into a ball on the floor, hugging the toilet. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her hue shifted from green to dead white.

I escaped the bathroom to bring her water and Advil, purely because I didn’t want our next stop to be an emergency one at an Irish hospital.

She accepted my offerings without gratitude.

After washing down the pills, she shot me a glare. “Why didn’t you bring my toothbrush and toothpaste?”

“For the same reason I haven’t drawn you a bath and trimmed your toenails. I’m not your maid.”

I tossed her empty water bottle in the trash. Not even Oliver had gotten this level of care from me when he’d shown up on my steps shit-faced after a Porcellian Club initiation at Harvard.

She scowled at me through bloodshot eyes, still on the floor. “My mouth reeks.”

“The rest of you is not so attractive, either.”

“Toothbrush.”

“Manners,” I instructed in the same grating tone.

“Screw you.” Perhaps she considered this a step up, since she didn’t scrape my eyes out while she said it.

“Regretfully, I decline. I’ll be reading the Wall Street Journal outside.” I strode away.

“This is all your fault,” she cried to my back. “I wouldn’t have gotten drunk if it weren’t for you.” I didn’t break my pace. “Oh, fine. Please, give me my toothbrush. Happy now?”

I wasn’t happy now.

I probably wouldn’t be happy ever after my unfortunate decision to marry this woman.

But apparently, I’d found my heartless sociopath limit, because I hauled myself to her suitcase, fished out a pack of toothbrushes along with a tube of Colgate, and brought them to Dallas.

I let her shower, brush her teeth, and get back to herself while I skimmed financial news in my seat, sipping lukewarm coffee.

She emerged thirty minutes later, hair damp and face scrubbed pink, wearing an MIT hoodie she must’ve stolen from my suitcase.

She seemed grumpy and dazed as she fell onto the couch beside me, digging into the fresh fruit and banh mi.

From the corner of my eye, I watched her polish off two trays of sandwiches and a Diet Coke.

Once she finished, she peered around and sighed. “I’m not tired.”

I kept my eyes trained on the newspaper. Maybe if I didn’t move, she’d think I was dead and stop talking.

“Let’s make out.”

Since she was still obviously and acutely drunk, and because eau de vomít wasn’t a scent I found personally enchanting, I ignored her less-than-stellar offer.

“Come on.” Shortbread jumped to her bare feet, padding to me. She flicked the newspaper in my hand away and straddled me. “I’m actually tanked up enough to tolerate you right now. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Maybe getting an orgasm will help me fall asleep.”

She draped her arms around my neck.

“Give me one reason to help you.”

She offered a toothy grin. “Happy wife, happy life?”

Something occurred to me then.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

“I think I accidentally gave myself one a year ago.” Her big, innocent eyes widened.

It was in moments like this when I remembered what had lured me into stealing her.

Where else in America could I unearth a twenty-one-year-old that was such a blank page for me to doodle, scribble, and mold as I pleased?

I gave Oliver a lot of grief for finding her sister alluring, but frankly, Dallas was just as virginal and off-limits. Still so sheltered from the outside world.

That piqued my curiosity. “Doing what?”

“Riding a dirt bike.”

I flattened my lips so as not to laugh.

“Don’t laugh.” She furrowed her brows, slapping my chest. “My whole family was there. A moan slipped out, and Momma thought I sprained my ankle. I had to pretend it did hurt and even faked a limp for an hour. It was very distressing.”

Was I really about to laugh for the first time since age four because of this little headache?

“Get off my lap.”

“Or you could get me off on your lap.” She wiggled her brows. And her ass.

“You’re too drunk. Not to mention, I’m not drunk enough.”

Her intoxication was the only thing standing in my way of making her come on my fingers.

Sadly, the fact that I’d seen that mouth purge out fully digested pieces of macarons, tarts, and custards did not deter me from wanting it wrapped around my cock.

I didn’t usually lower my standard to breathing: optional—that was more Ollie’s jam—but I found Shortbread strangely seductive.