Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Not tomorrow.
Not next week.
Not even next month.
He’d dodged a bullet, and he wouldn’t dare mess with a loaded gun again.
I had one chance.
And my body blew it.
I found the will to lure my husband into unprotected sex on the fifth day of our cold war.
With the end of my period, I woke up re-energized, eons before my two p.m. alarm, and spent an obnoxious amount of time prettying up, even shaving everything south of my chin.
Since our fight, Romeo had avoided me at all costs.
That ended now.
I arrived at the dining room with flourish, at six in the morning on the dot, knowing Romeo would be there after his five-mile run and ice-cold shower.
Truly, I should be the one wary of breeding with him. Weren’t psychopath genes hereditary?
When I tornadoed in, Romeo flipped his newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee to his lips.
I helped myself to a croissant, Vermont butter, and two Danishes from the pastry tray Hettie baked each morning. Then I slipped into the seat across from him.
Romeo didn’t look up from his paper. “Good morning, Shortbread. Am I hallucinating, or are you out of bed before three?”
“You’re definitely hallucinating.”
“Seeing as you swathed four fingers of butter on a single croissant, I don’t think I am. This is too you to be a mirage.” He closed the paper and folded it in crisp squares by his side. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, no thanks to you.”
He set his coffee down. “Believe it or not, I intended to check on you this weekend if you hadn’t shown your face by then.”
I rested a hand over my heart. “And they say romance is dead.”
“Romance is dead. Dating apps killed it years ago. You’re the only one who still believes in it. I’m half worried you spend unholy amounts of time watching Ghostbusters in the event that you encounter a ghost.”
I wolfed down my croissant in two bites. “I want you to entertain me today.”
For a reason unbeknownst to me, I knew he’d humor me. He always gave me some kind of version of what I wanted without fail.
He finished his coffee. “I can visit your room at the end of the day, should my schedule permit—provided you loosen your intercourse rule.”
“I meant during the daytime.”
“And what of the pesky thing that is my work?”
“So, take me to work.”
“No, thank you.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“I wasn’t offering.” There was a pause. He used it to exhale, so as not to strangle me. “Not today. There’s an arms demo, and I’m required to be there. It’s dangerous.”
“I like danger.”
“And I like you in one piece.” As an afterthought, he added, “As one of my most expensive possessions, of course. You cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to maintain. Per month.”
“I’m coming to work with you today.”
“No.”
I pouted, rolling a lock of hair around my finger. “You know what happens when I’m bored.”
I was, of course, being deliberately petulant, knowing it ground his gear.
My reflection shined through his dead shark eyes. In it, the past several months played out. The amount of crap we’d put each other through.
Ultimately, though, Romeo never feared my bad behavior. And this time, his intentions flashed across his forehead.
A concession for a concession.
What a foolish thought.
Naturally, I hoped he continued thinking it.
We stalled at an impasse.
Finally, he stood, checking his Rolex. “I’ll send Jared to pick you up at noon. The demo takes place on a tarmac outdoors. Expect wind, chill, mud, and a healthy dose of discomfort. Don’t wear anything to attract attention, including and especially high heels. While there, you will not leave my side, you will not wander around, and you will not do anything that is not in the instruction manual I’ll email you after I leave.”
“Okay, Zaddy,” I purred.
“If you behave, which I greatly doubt, we could go for a late lunch afterward. Do not make me regret this, Shortbread.”
I shot up, punching the air. “I won’t!”
He shook his head, draped his blazer over his forearm, and strode out. Could’ve sworn I heard him mutter, “I already am.”
Maybe Romeo needed to better define what an outfit that doesn’t attract attention meant.
Because when I sashayed from the Maybach through the endless tarmac, he did not look impressed.
And by not impressed, what I meant was, he’d gladly shove me off a cliff should one zip within his line of sight.
It marked the first time I’d seen fire in his eyes, and that fire wished to burn me to death.
If you asked me, there was nothing wrong with my strappy black mini dress. The tiny patches of sheer nylon that covered my modesty could only be described as high fashion.
I wore five-inch Louboutin boots to complete the look—and so Romeo wouldn’t tower over me completely. The patent leather stretched up my legs, cutting off midway at my thighs.
Nestled in the outskirts of Alexandria, dozens of uniformed men milled around the asphalt, where a house-sized Humvee had parked. And all of them were looking at me, mouths ajar, eyes glazed over.