My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(71)

That whip-quick tongue of hers ignited a single wick within me.

Impatience.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“Trust me—so long as I’m an unwilling participant, you don’t want me as your plus-one.”

Since she had a point, I spoke in the only language she seemed to understand. Food.

“The hosts flew in an itamae from Hokkaido.”

She finally offered her undivided attention. “Sushi?”

It wasn’t lost on me that she’d eaten just two hours ago.

“Yes. An eleven-course menu.”

“Hmm…prix fixe.” She considered it for a moment, pausing between Horror and Fantasy before moving on to Erotica. “I eat everything but roe.”

“There is something in the world you will not eat?”

“It’s more of a childhood aversion. Emilie and Sav once told me fish eggs hatch in bellies and swim around until they exit…down south, where they ride the pipes back into the ocean.”

“And once a year, a pot-bellied man with a white beard slides down billions of narrow chimneys in a single night.”

A wave of amusement crashed into her face. “I was young.”

“Youth is not an excuse for stupidity.” I forked over the dress box, depositing it on top of the hardcover she held with both hands—A Lover’s Thrust. “I suggest you keep your mouth shut once we reach the venue.”

“Afraid I’ll embarrass you?”

“Afraid you’ll embarrass yourself. Once you open your mouth, it will become abundantly clear to everyone that I did not marry you for your sharp wit. Whatever they assume after is neither my responsibility nor fault.”

“I never agreed to go.”

“It was never an option not to.”

She peered into the box. “Ohhh…this season’s Yumi Katsura. They sold out of the gown at Tyson’s Galleria. I called the flagship, and they said they were back-ordered.”

“Of course, you did.”

“I want this dress in every color.”

“That’s already been arranged.”

This had nothing to do with affection. The dress was truly magnificent. So was Dallas. They paired well together.

“Okay.” She shut the box and shoved it back in my arms, replacing it with another hardcover. This time: Blindfolded by my Professor. “I’ll consider attending.”

“Will you be considering it at the pace you typically process life? The event begins in an hour.”

“What did you say the charity was again?”

“I didn’t.”

“Romeo.”

In the interest of time, I caved.

“Friedreich’s Army.”

Shortbread’s lips parted.

I had no doubt she’d googled the charity after the wedding. That she knew about Friedreich’s ataxia. That she’d formed the connection between the disorder and Senior.

As expected, it clicked immediately, and she blurted out, “Fine. I’ll go.”

I chose not to inform her I wasn’t attending due to my sick father but rather the swarm of vote-holding board members that trailed him everywhere he went.

Let her think that—somewhere deep, deep, deep down—I cared about my sperm donor, so long as I did not show up to a public event without my wife.

She sailed past a row of curated sex-addiction self-help books, straight to the sign with five chili pepper emojis beneath a bolded Daddy-Dom-Little-Girl hashtag.

“I just need some reading material for when it gets boring.” She selected a hardcover that featured two shirtless blue men with horns and tails kneeling before a half-naked woman.

“Absolutely not.” I yanked the book from her hands, raising it beyond her grasp.

“Don’t be such a buzzkill. I’ll cover it with a dust jacket. We can pick one from the classics section.”

“We don’t have time for this.”

She moved onto a row of slip-cased books and slid one from its coffin, fondling the hardcover six different ways. I watched as she held it to her nose and sniffed.

Then she opened the pages and checked each and every one. Her fingers traced the case laminate, feeling for grooves. As if she wasn’t going to cover it with the dust jacket for Crime and Punishment later.

And finally, she elevated the book to eye level, angling it at every degree to check for—I didn’t know what. Dust? Dents? Her sanity? All of the above?

“Hurry up.” I lifted my watch, noting the long arm’s dangerous proximity to twelve. “I’ll purchase the bookstore. You can return after the charity gala and choose whatever you like. The entire store, if you must.”

“You’re rich. We get it.” She yawned. “The only billionaires I like are fictional.”

“Yet, the only people who can afford your existence are billionaires. And even then, just barely.” I made eye contact with the frizzy-haired manager, directing him toward us with a glare. “Is your boss here?”

“Yeah.” His hair bobbed with his nod. “Think so.”

“Find him, then call him out.”

He spoke into his employee radio, shifting from foot to foot. “He’s in the stockroom. He’ll be out in a sec, sir.”

I retrieved my Centurion card from my wallet when my stubborn wife breezed past me toward the exit. Not for the first time, I found myself following her.