Sweet Rome (Sweet Home, #1.5)(14)

I couldn’t help it, but I laughed, and she said, “That’s not the only weird thing about our names.”

“Really? Because things have been all kinds of weird since meeting you today. I’m not sure I understand what it all means yet.” They really had. It was a sobering thought. They say your life can change in a matter of minutes, but up until now, I’d never really given that much thought.

“Well, get a one-way ticket to freaky-ville, my friend, because my middle name, Romeo, is Juliet.”

Man, that was a mindf*ck right there. It was a setup, had to be. We couldn’t really be that tragic, that pathetic… could we? Romeo Prince and Molly Juliet Shakespeare… Pass me the f*cking bucket. Or was it an omen, a big f*ck-off neon sign shouting, Stay the f*ck away! Tragedy awaits! Damnit.

“Are you serious?” I finally asked.

“Yep, my dad thought it would be a fitting tribute to our family surname.”

“Very fitting.” But all that came to my drunk-ass mind when I thought of Romeo and Juliet was death, f*cked-up parents, and that dude from Gangs of New York looking at that chick from Homeland through a fish tank.

“Yeah, but at the same time, kind of embarrassing.” I shook my head, re-concentrating on Mol. Molly f*cking Juliet.

“Well, Shakespeare, you going treat me differently now too? Now that you know I’m Romeo ‘Bullet’ Prince?” I asked, trying to see if her attitude toward me had changed from earlier today.

“Bullet?”

She didn’t have clue.

“Yeah. Football nickname. Because of my arm.”

Blankness. Complete blankness on her pretty face.

“My throwing arm…”

Still nothing.

I tried a new tactic, pointing to myself, talking slowly. Maybe she wasn’t getting the accent. Mine is pretty strong. “Quarterback… Quarterbacks throw the ball… in football… to the other players… They control the game.”

“If you say so,” she delivered with an equally patronizing tone.

She was serious. I’m guessing you could throw a pigskin at her head and she wouldn’t recognize it. “Shit, you really know nothing about football, do you?”

“Nope. And no offense, I don’t want to either. It doesn’t interest me. Sports and I don’t mix.” Shit. Would’ve thought knowing the Tide would have been a requirement to even step foot in the state. Obviously not. I wondered what the hell British folks did for fun.

“I like that you know nothing about football. It’ll be a change, talking to someone about something other than the new blitz defense or spread formation.”

“Eh…?”

“I love that you have no clue what I’m talking about.” I shifted closer, feeling the heat off her smooth skin.

“Happy to be of service,” she said with a bewildered smile.

It felt freeing, speaking to someone new. She didn’t know who I was, didn’t understand the level of my sport or who my parents were, and it felt insanely good. I relaxed, completely chilled the hell out for the first time in months, and reached for another couple of beers, flicking off the tops against the table, and started talking, determined to find out more.

“So, Shakespeare, what’s your deal? I take it you’re a brainiac if you’re already on your master’s and been Professor Ross’s research assistant for the last couple of years. In fact, you must be f*ckin’ unreal for her to bring you all the way to Bama with her?”

“Err, yeah. Something along those lines.”

“You don’t like to talk about how great you are in school, do you?” Modest too. I’d won the f*cking lottery.

“Not really. It gets embarrassing, talking about being good at something. Anyone who enjoys that kind of attention, I think, is weird.”

“Then that’s something we have in common.” The phrase “putting the * up on a pedestal” came to mind, but I couldn’t believe she was this good, and I was still waiting for some kind of fault in her, something to make me walk away.

“Well, that and our Elizabethan epic playwright names,” she teased, and I watched as her gaze darted down to our touching arms, a bright-red blush covering her entire face and chest. I tried to not focus too much on that area.

“That too,” I replied with a reluctant smile.

And then Shelly piped up from the lawn. “Rome? Rome? Has anyone seen Rome? Where’d he go?”

That bastard girl was going to end me. She slaps me, then comes looking for me to f*ck her. Crazy. As. Shit. I suddenly remembered why I avoided nights like tonight.

Molly abruptly launched herself from her chair, the whites of her eyes shining bright in the twilight, her breathing shallow. “You going somewhere?” I asked immediately.

I watched as she moved to the balcony rail, peering over the top. She was going try and split. Fuck that. She was staying. I wanted her to stay with me. To feel this connection for a little while longer, even if it could just be for tonight.

“Are you not going to go to her? She’s pretty wasted by the looks of things.”

“Am I f*ck! She can just want. She’ll sleep it off with some other guy,” I threw out bluntly, kicking the chair she’d been occupying her way, pointing for her to sit down. “Sit your ass back down, Shakespeare, and have another beer with your most famously tragic character. You’re not leaving me yet.” For a moment, I thought I’d gone too far, my abrupt insistence too much, too soon.