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)
Dallas Costa: Sorry, I have plans.
Romeo Costa: Inhaling pho in front of Dead to Me isn’t considered plans.
Dallas Costa: Okay, in that case—sorry. I don’t want to.
Romeo Costa: It’s for a charity gala.
Dallas Costa: The most charitable thing you can do is send the check and not be there in person to ruin everyone’s fun.
Romeo Costa: Be ready at eight.
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.
Romeo Costa: I am at the estate, and you are not.
Dallas Costa: I ate ota’ika and lu sipi for lunch. You ate Brussels sprouts and chicken.
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.
Romeo Costa:?
Dallas Costa: Were we not stating things we’ve done today?
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.