My Dark Romeo: Chapter 7

The residents of the Townsend home weren’t among my rabid fans, to say the least.

They considered it impolite to kick me out, but definitely didn’t offer any entertainment.

With my fiancée locked in her room, I invited myself to a tour of her childhood home.

It was impressive, yet boring.

Or so I thought until I reached the end of the hallway.

The library.

Sensing Shortbread’s sanctuary, I stepped inside.

I was right.

It smelled of her. A scent I recognized from the debutante ball. Of baby powder, roses in bloom, and a deranged woman.

I ran my finger along the spines as I strolled past books, crushing gum between my teeth to relieve some annoyance. They were cracked, the leather abused.

Shortbread clearly wasn’t gentle with the things she cherished.

She had a fitful nature, a goliath temper, and a tongue that could slice through metal. I couldn’t imagine her with someone like Licht, who was the human answer to a radish.

Dallas was a versatile reader. The genres varied. From romances to thrillers. Fantasies to detective mysteries.

The only thing to stand out was the fact that she was the proud owner of all thirteen books in the Henry Plotkin world. A blockbuster series even I knew about.

It revolved around a young wizard learning to use magic to transport late loved ones back into the land of the living.

Henry Plotkin and the Mystic Potion.

Henry Plotkin and the Girl who Dared.

Henry Plotkin and the Magic Wand.

I bet that last one sounded better in the author’s head.

“Don’t touch that.” The bite in her voice lashed across the room.

I grabbed the book on principle and turned to find Franklin in front of me. She marched forward, snatching it from my hand. Her puffy eyes told me she’d spent the past hour crying.

“Dal is a huge fan of this series. She pulls all-nighters outside of bookstores on Christmas Eve to buy the new books when they release. No one’s allowed to touch those. No one. Not even me.” She guided the book back to where it belonged, then pivoted to me. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Not interested.”

“Take me, not her. I’ll be your girlfriend…your wife…your whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m strong. I can take it. And you’ll never be bored with me.”

Franklin was a less refined version of her sister.

Not as beautiful.

Not as tempting.

And—probably—not as reckless.

She was also very distinctly a girl. Though I possessed no morals to speak of, putting my dick in a high schooler’s mouth was where I drew a limit.

“Your offer holds no allure for me.” I slid a hand into my front pocket. “I’ve already got more Townsend on my hands than I desire.”

“Please.” It came out as a demand instead of a plea. She stood tall, staring me dead in the eyes. I wondered where the Townsend sisters got their spine from, because it sure wasn’t from Daddy dearest. “We fit better, you and me. I’m more pragmatic, she’s more…”

“Unhinged?”

She bared her teeth. “Impractical.”

I leaned a shoulder against the shelf. “There’s only one problem.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not a pedophile.”

“First, I’m nineteen, you jackass. Second, you don’t want to marry her. Trust me.”

I had to give her one thing—she was smart enough not to appeal to my heart, probably sensing I didn’t have one.

“And why’s that?”

“Because she’s in love with Madison.”

That caught my attention.

Unlike her father, I assumed Franklin discussed such things with Dallas. I also remembered Shortbread complaining about Madison’s infidelity.

I studied her, almost interested for once. “That so?”

“Yes.” Ire singed her eyes. “Take me. I’m unattached.”

“Also: unfit.”

“She’ll never love you.”

“I’ll try to carry on.”

Her demand metamorphosed into a desperate plea. “Romeo.”

She sauntered into my space, running her hand down my tie. Her fingers stopped just above my navel—and only because I snatched her hand before she cupped my junk.

I’d sooner be seduced by a rotten egg sandwich than this child.

Franklin leaned closer, still, pinning her flat chest against my upper stomach. “Let me prove myself to—”

Stepping back, I let her fall and tumble onto the carpet, face-first.

She groaned, her mouth inches from my loafers. “You sick bastard.”

I used the tip of my loafer to kick her phone away. The device turned on its back.

On her screen, the recording app flashed.

A setup.

Very One Tree Hill.

Franklin scrambled to her feet. A deep frown stamped on her face. “Know what? I’m actually happy you’re marrying her. She won’t stop until your life is ruined.”

“That, I can believe.”

Her lips parted, preparing to launch into more verbal diarrhea, but my phone’s ringtone informed me that Shortbread’s two hours were up.

“Go call your sister.”

“I’m not your secretary, ass-face. You go get her.”

It’d be my displeasure.

I saw my way out of the library and up the winding staircase to the second floor. Shortbread’s room stood at the end of the hall.

I knocked. “Time’s up.”

No response.

Rather than repeat the entire process again—I knew she wouldn’t budge—I pushed the door open. If she was indecent, fine. Nothing she hadn’t offered to show me before.

But Shortbread wasn’t naked.

Nor was she crying hysterically in a heap of emotions, perched on a windowsill like a damsel in distress.

She was, in fact, sleeping peacefully on her queen-size bed, still in her dressing gown, Cheaters dancing on her television.

A single snore rattled her shoulders.

Words failed me.

For the first time in my life, it occurred to me that my vocabulary might be insufficient.

Needless to say, Dallas had not packed a single item. There wasn’t even a suitcase in sight.

As if sensing the impending storm, Shep and his wife materialized at her door.

Shep clutched the frame. “Remember, Costa, honey attracts more bees.”

I waltzed to Dallas’s bed, perching on its edge. Her hair—thick and wavy and impossibly soft—framed her face.

I skated my knuckles over her spine. She fussed, her exposed skin pebbling with goose bumps. A soft moan fled her lips.

“Wakey, wakey, Shortbread.” My voice glided over her skin like velvet. “It’s time to say goodbye.”

She was so disoriented, she actually followed instructions for once, opening her eyes. Then the small serene smile on her face twisted into a frown.

I didn’t break character, though.

I picked up her hand from under the covers and slipped the 20.03-carat emerald-cut engagement ring onto her finger. “Sleep well?”

Behind my back, Shep released a relieved exhale.

Dallas eyed me skeptically, ignoring the ring. “I guess. Sucks that I woke up, though.”

Trust me, sweetheart, I am disappointed, too.

“Our plane departs in forty minutes. We should leave right away.”

“Fine.” She rose, duvet pooling around her waist. “Let me just pack—”

“Sorry, Shortbread. As I said before, you had two hours.”

“Stop calling me Shortbread. I have a name.”

“One that is arguably more ridiculous.”

“Dude, your name is Ro—”

“Do not call me dude.”

“Lord. Okay, go away. I’m packing.”

“You’re coming with me right now, or I withdraw my engagement offer.”

Her eyes flared. “You think that’s a threat?”

“Certainly.” I stood, fishing my phone from my pocket to call an Uber. “If I retract now, you’ll be a ruined, sullied girl with no prospects of marriage to a respectable Southerner. One infamous for getting fingered by a stranger at a ball, only to be dumped by two men in twenty-four hours. How do you think that’ll work for your family? Your reputation? Your life goals?”

She didn’t answer.

She understood the gravity of her situation.

I snatched her by the elbow and escorted her downstairs. Gentle but firm.

She stumbled into the hallway, now fully awake. “At least let me get dressed.”

“You’re perfect just the way you are, darling.”

I valued punctuality. My wife didn’t even know the definition. Yet another reason our marriage would be a miserable one.

There would be no time to sign the prenup. We could do it when we arrived in Potomac, I supposed.

“I need clothes. I need underwear. I need—”

“Better time management. As for all the rest, you’ll have a credit card and access to shopping centers and the Internet. You’ll survive.”

Much to my dismay.

We descended the stairs. The Uber would be here any minute now.

Shortbread swung in the opposite direction, trying to beeline for the shoe closet.

I tugged her back to me. “The rumors were wrong. You aren’t lazy at all. When incentivized, you’re a ball of energy.”

She faced me, fuming. “I’m not leaving here without shoes.”

“Care to bet on it?”

“Let my sister put shoes on.” Franklin galloped toward us, fists waving in the air.

She rained those little balled hands down on my chest.

I didn’t feel a thing.

“She had two hours to put on shoes. She chose to watch Cheaters.”

Mr. and Mrs. Townsend hovered before the landing, arguing.

Natasha covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “Oh, Shep, who cares about our reputation? Stop this nonsense right away.”

He patted her back. “You know as much as I do that Costa is her best bet right now.”

“I really hate you right now.”

Shortbread threw herself into her mother’s arms. “Don’t worry about me, Momma. I’ll be okay.”

“Oh, honey.”

More wailing, arm-clutching, and general theatrics.

I looked away.

Not because I was uncomfortable by the Jerry Springer production, but because I wanted to see through the window if the Uber had arrived.

It had.

Oliver and Zach were probably already on the plane.

“Time to go.”

Shortbread swiveled to me. “Can I at least take a book to keep me company on the flight?”

I couldn’t help but notice her face was dry and stoic. Her entire family cried behind her, but she had not shed one tear.

A strange pang of respect zinged through me.

I opened my mouth to say no, then realized she’d try to make conversation if she was bored. “Pick a classic. Your head is already full to the brim with nonsense.”

She rushed to the library and returned a minute after with Anna Karenina tucked beneath her bicep.

Shortbread made one last attempt to retrieve her shoes, but I scooped her up and hurried out the door, depositing her into the Uber before she could get away with more bad behavior.

The driver put the car into gear and pulled from the curb when the vehicle slammed against something.

Or rather, someone.

It sounded serious. What did they feed the stray cats in Georgia?

“Frankie!” Shortbread rolled her window down, heaving half her body out of the car. “Are you okay?”

Franklin banged her palms onto the hood, stopping the car. “Here!” She shoved a small suitcase through the window. “No way was I going to let you leave without them.”

So Dallas managed to escape this hellhole with clothes and undergarments, after all.

Shortbread hugged the case to her chest. “Are they all inside?”

Franklin nodded. “All of them. Arranged by date of publication.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

What?

“Henry Plotkin will keep you safe.” Franklin squeezed her sister’s hand. “House Dovetalon for the win.”

My bride spent our journey to the airport hugging her suitcase to her chest, eyes everywhere but on me.

The woman was a certified agent of chaos.

And now Oliver and Zach would see what I had to deal with.

I would never live it down.