Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
“And you didn’t steal one for me?” I nearly shrieked. “You know I’ve never tasted authentic British shortbread. What’s the matter with you?”
“Oh, there’s still plenty more there.” Frankie dug her fingers into her tight updo, massaging her scalp. “And people are lining up to talk to these jerks like they’re the Windsors or something. Just go there, introduce yourself, and casually take one. There’s a mountain of them.”
“Shortbread or people?”
“Both.”
I craned my neck above her head. She was right. A line of guests waited to kiss the rings of these two men. Since I wasn’t above lowering myself for something tasty, I marched to the cluster of people haloing Costa and von Bismarck’s table.
“… disastrous tax plan that would create economic mayhem …”
“… surely, Mr. Costa, there must be an off-ramp for all this spending? We can’t keep funding these wars …”
“… true about their lack of technological weapons? I’ve been meaning to ask …”
While the men of Chapel Falls blabbered their way into giving these two a coma and the women leaned down to show off their cleavage, I weaved into the thick crowd, my eyes on the prize—a three-tier tray full of mouthwatering shortbread. First, I casually planted my hand on the table. Nothing to see here. Then I inched deeper toward the British treats—the centerpiece. My fingers skimmed a square when a biting voice turned my way.
“And you are?”
It came from Leather. Or rather, Romeo Costa. He sat lounged back on his chair, staring at me with all the friendliness of a Nile crocodile. Fun fact: they considered humans a regular part of their diet.
I bent my knees with flourish. “Oh, I’m sorry. Where are my manners?”
“Not in the shortbread tray, that’s for sure.” His voice was dry and disinterested.
Okay. Tough audience. But I did try to steal his biscuits. “I’m Dallas Townsend of the Townsend family.” I flashed him a warm smile, offering him my hand to kiss. He appraised it with repugnance, ignoring the gesture. Totally disproportionate to my alleged crime.
“You’re Dallas Townsend?” A tinge of disappointment marred his godly face. Like he’d expected something entirely different. That he would expect anything at all was a stretch. We didn’t move in the same circles. In fact, I was ninety-nine percent sure this man only moved in squares. He was a sharp-edged kind of guy.
“For the past twenty-one years.” I eyed the shortbread. So close, and yet so far.
“My eyes are up here,” Costa bit out.
Von Bismarck chuckled, snatching the largest square, possibly to spite me. “She’s darling, Rom. Quite the pet.”
Darling? Pet? What did he mean? With much reluctance, I dragged my gaze up the length of the table, from the shortbread to Romeo’s face. He was so handsome. Also—dead in the eyes.
He leaned forward. “Are you sure you’re Dallas Townsend?”
I tapped my chin. “Hmm, now that I think about it, I’d like to change my answer to Hailey Bieber.”
“Is this supposed to be funny?”
“Is this supposed to be serious?”
“You’re being obtuse.”
“You started it.”
Gasps pinged from every corner of the table. Romeo Costa, however, appeared more indifferent than offended. He sat back, forearms meeting each seat handle. The posture—and his perfectly tailored Kiton suit—granted him the aura of a terse king with a flavor for war.
“Dallas Maryanne Townsend.” Barbara Alwyn-Joy rushed forward to intervene. Emilie’s mother was a chaperone for the event. She, like the rest of them, took the job way too seriously. “I should get your father to escort you out of this ballroom right this minute for speaking to Mr. Costa like that. This is not the Chapel Falls way.”
The Chapel Falls way would have every redhead in this town burn at the stake.
I made a show of lowering my head, tracing the shape of a round shortbread on the marble with my toe. “Sorry, ma’am.”
I wasn’t sorry. Romeo Costa was a prick. He was lucky we had an audience, or he would have gotten the unfiltered version of me. I turned, about to extract myself from the premises before I caused even more commotion and Daddy canceled my black card. But then, Costa just had to speak again.
“Miss Townsend?”
Bieber, for you.
“Yes?”
“An apology is in order.”
Swiveling on my heel, I glowered at him with every ounce of wrath I could muster. “You’re high if you think I’ll apo—”
“I meant I should apologize.” He stood, buttoning his blazer with one hand.
Oh. Oh. Dozens of eyes ping-ponged between us. I wasn’t sure what was happening, but I did think my chances of getting my hands on that shortbread just increased tenfold. Also, I really needed to get in on his talent for being controlled and confident to the nines, even when delivering an apology. Apologizing always made me feel so helpless. Costa, on the other hand, treated an apology as a tool to catapult himself further up the hierarchy of humans. Already, he seemed an entirely different species from his peers.