My Dark Romeo: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance(91)

“Is this about our conversation earlier?” His light, unbothered tone might as well have been a dagger. “Dichotomy is a simpleton’s best friend. You should aim higher than that, Shortbread. Love isn’t in the cards for us, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company. If I truly couldn’t suffer through our brief encounters, I would have granted you the divorce you desire so much.”

I don’t want a divorce, you stupid, selfish fool.

I wanted dinners in front of candlelight, movie dates, and inside jokes that no one else understood. I wanted kisses, comforting words, to be his shining light when gloom seized him.

I flung the duvet over my head. “Just get out.”

“What’s the matter with you?” The temperature in the room dropped, indicating his shift in mood. “You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“You know,” I murmured into my pillow. “I don’t think Leonardo DiCaprio truly made it big in Romeo and Juliet. I think what put him on the map was Titanic. And I think everybody felt sorry for him. That dang door clearly could’ve fit both him and Rose.”

The silence that followed sent a wave of panic into my gut.

Surely, he didn’t actually leave.

Alas, he did not.

“I’m sure there is logic behind your words, though for the life of me, I cannot find it.”

“I want to have sex with someone who’d grant me a place on the door!” I tossed the comforter away, glaring at him in the dark.

He appraised me as if we were meeting for the first time. Sizing me up, taking notes, deciding how he wanted to approach the matter.

“We don’t have to go on cruises. Personally, I have a strong dislike of yachts—”

“Arghh, Romeo.” I bolted out of bed, pushing his chest. Desperation practically oozed out of me. For what, I didn’t even know. “I’m not talking about yachts right now.”

He flicked the light on.

Neither of us said anything.

He waited for me to make sense. I decided to put him out of his misery.

“Congrats.” I stomped to the door and opened it, waiting for him to leave. “I got my period.”

Romeo just stood there. Silent.

I didn’t get the sense that he was happy.

I didn’t get the sense that he was sad, either.

“I’m sorry.” The words dripped obligation.

“No, you’re not.” I swung the door wider. “Now leave.”

“Will I be invited back in the near future?”

“Only if you want to have sex like a married couple.”

“Boring, fast, and every other week?” I could tell he didn’t want to argue, didn’t want to return to being foes, but also didn’t want to meet me halfway, however that might look.

“Without a condom.”

Before, I’d considered the emptiness inside me bottomless. But as he left, as stone-faced as he’d come, it grew and grew, until I was certain if someone screamed into my mouth, a terrible echo would follow.

I knew he wouldn’t return.

Not tomorrow.

Not next week.

Not even next month.

He’d dodged a bullet, and he wouldn’t dare mess with a loaded gun again.

I had one chance.

And my body blew it.





I found the will to lure my husband into unprotected sex on the fifth day of our cold war.

With the end of my period, I woke up re-energized, eons before my two p.m. alarm, and spent an obnoxious amount of time prettying up, even shaving everything south of my chin.

Since our fight, Romeo had avoided me at all costs.

That ended now.

I arrived at the dining room with flourish, at six in the morning on the dot, knowing Romeo would be there after his five-mile run and ice-cold shower.

Truly, I should be the one wary of breeding with him. Weren’t psychopath genes hereditary?

When I tornadoed in, Romeo flipped his newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee to his lips.

I helped myself to a croissant, Vermont butter, and two Danishes from the pastry tray Hettie baked each morning. Then I slipped into the seat across from him.

Romeo didn’t look up from his paper. “Good morning, Shortbread. Am I hallucinating, or are you out of bed before three?”

“You’re definitely hallucinating.”

“Seeing as you swathed four fingers of butter on a single croissant, I don’t think I am. This is too you to be a mirage.” He closed the paper and folded it in crisp squares by his side. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, no thanks to you.”

He set his coffee down. “Believe it or not, I intended to check on you this weekend if you hadn’t shown your face by then.”

I rested a hand over my heart. “And they say romance is dead.”

“Romance is dead. Dating apps killed it years ago. You’re the only one who still believes in it. I’m half worried you spend unholy amounts of time watching Ghostbusters in the event that you encounter a ghost.”

I wolfed down my croissant in two bites. “I want you to entertain me today.”

For a reason unbeknownst to me, I knew he’d humor me. He always gave me some kind of version of what I wanted without fail.

He finished his coffee. “I can visit your room at the end of the day, should my schedule permit—provided you loosen your intercourse rule.”