My Dark Romeo: Chapter 37

Shortbread ignored my text.

That she’d texted me at all after the incident three days ago was nothing short of a miracle.

The read receipt glared at me, ten minutes into my meeting with a Pentagon contact.

Unfortunately, Bruce occupied the seat beside me. And also unfortunate was the fact that he was infuriatingly, incomparably phenomenal at his job.

In truth, Bruce’s only shortcoming was his function as Senior’s pet. When it came to business, he deserved his imposing reputation. Walkman, who worked directly under the Deputy Secretary of Defense, latched on to each of his words, promising to sway his boss in our favor.

An hour and a half later, I checked my texts in the elevator to the parking garage. Still no reply. It was obvious Shortbread had no intention of attending the gala.

As it was, she had no choice.

My father would be there, which meant Costa Industries’ entire board would be there.

Showing up without my new wife would confirm every tabloid rumor Dallas and I had conjured in the past couple months. It didn’t help that Shortbread’s party had made the front page of DMV society news.

Bruce unpacked a Treasurer Luxury Black, flipping the cigarette in his fingers. “Trouble in paradise, Junior?”

Sickly sweet peach perfume invaded the tight space. It came straight from Bruce. I was reminded, once again, that Bruce and Senior shared much in common.

Like the fact that they both considered adultery their daily cardio.

I pocketed my phone, wishing my penchant for death extended to the tobacco industry. That the cigarette in Bruce’s hand would discard of him faster.

“Is Shelley aware you’ve inseminated half of the DMV?”

“Not only is Shelley aware, she is also obedient enough to show up to tonight’s gala. What a trooper.” He slid the Luxury Black past his canines. “And your undomesticated wildcat? Will she be attending?”

Even if I have to drag her there by the hair, caveman-style.

When I arrived to my home, I found it empty.

I checked the kitchen first, then the theater room, and finally her bedroom.

No Shortbread.

But I did find the signature olive Yumi Katsura box with the gold rose flourishes on her duvet. Unopened. A handwritten thank you for shopping with us card still nestled on top.

The entire point of moving back in was to monitor my banshee wife, yet she returned home every night past midnight and woke at three in the afternoon, only to leave the house again.

This ended now.

I unsheathed my phone from my Kiton pocket.

It wasn’t a stretch that she knew this.

Afterall, I ate the same thing every day. Every meal. Three hundred sixty-five days a year. Even at our wedding.

Alas, her capacity for logical reasoning left much to be desired.

Exiting the messenger app, I speed-dialed her security team. I found Shortbread in a small indie bookshop on the opposite end of the county.

According to her detail, she’d spent the afternoon sampling every bakery on the block before settling on a mom-and-pop Tongan restaurant around the corner.

Then she’d made a pit stop at a children’s hospital, conjuring a donation so high I considered opening one of my own.

And for the past two hours, she’d picked up and put down every book in the Romance and Fantasy sections in this store.

I approached Dallas, dress box in hand. She would have to change in the car and thank her lucky stars that she required no pampering and pruning to be the most beautiful woman in every room she stepped inside.

She startled at my touch when I tapped her shoulder, slumping forward at the sight of me. “Oh. It’s you.”

Her fingers glided over another book, pulling it out.

His Filthy Touch.

“There’s a charity gala tonight. Attendance mandatory.”

She slid the book back into its slot and moved on to another aisle. “I know. I read the text. Pass.”

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.

“You’re not purchasing anything?”

She deposited herself in my passenger seat, a frown touching her full lips. “Now that you intend to purchase this place, I can no longer shop here. I don’t want to give you any business.”

Unbelievable.