No Romeo (My Kind of Hero #1) Read Online Donna Alam

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Chick Lit, Contemporary, Funny Tags Authors: Series: My Kind of Hero Series by Donna Alam
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Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
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“Well done.” I slowly straighten at the compliment that’s not in Bob’s voice. “We have a pool shark in our midst.”

“I believe it’s called billiards.” My gaze slides Bob’s way as my mouth tips apologetically. The old man shakes his head, amused.

“Billiards shark doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” Oliver says.

I find myself chuckling, though I wince as the weighted end of the cue strikes the floor harder than I’d intended.

“What’s so funny,” he asks, strolling closer.

I scrunch my nose. “You have bed hair.”

He reaches up and slides his hand through his hair, a sudden warmth rising in my chest. For once, it’s not the tight flex of his physique. It’s the affection in his eyes and the way that he’s dressed. The eccentric billionaire, wandering his hotel, his hair askew, dressed in navy pajama pants. And a T-shirt too.

“I left you a note. I couldn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t see a note. It was probably victim to Bo’s rear end.”

“Oh, no.”

He comes to stand next to me, adopting a low, confidential tone. “I almost mistook his tail for your hair.”

“Yikes.” I pull another face, though it softens as his hand cups my cheek.

“You should’ve woken me.”

“So we can both lament my parentage?”

Oliver’s expression flickers into sympathy, and I tighten my grip on the cue as my heart tip-taps.

“Families are complicated.”

“Are they? Mine seems pretty simple. Toe the line, or get ridiculed. Why do they have to be so . . .”

“Set in their ways?”

“Obsessed with money. So arrogant. Why do the wealthy think money makes them better than everyone else?”

His mouth cants, and he half turns, leaning back against the table. “Arrogance lives at all levels of financial status,” he says carefully. “Wealth is just an amplifier.”

“Oh, I’m aware,” I say, adjusting my grip on the cue. “Have you ever had to deal with a plumber in the depths of winter? The attitude? Immense. Huge! But my experience is, the wealthier the person, the bigger the asshole.”

“By that edict, I’m not quite sure where to adjust my monocle.”

I huff out a laugh, tipping forward to rest my forehead against his shoulder.

“What about Nora? She’s quite arrogant.”

“Nora’s a special case.” I stand straight again and reach over for my glass. Taking a tentative sip, I offer it over. “Besides, I’m not sure she’s arrogant as much as she is a grump.”

“Eve,” he begins over the rim of the glass, “you know she looks down on everyone.”

“Unless you’re wearing a fur coat and have four legs. She’s had a hard life. Of course she’s going to be prickly around people. She gets a pass from me for all that she does.”

“What about me?” He sets the glass on the table, tsk, tsk, and turns to me. “Do I get a pass?”

“No matter what I’ve accused you of,” I say, my tone turning soft, “there’s no deficit in your empathy. What you said earlier . . .” My words trail away. I feel like if I speak, my heart might overflow, and my tears might never stop flowing. And I hate crying. It makes me feel weak—makes me look like a frog!

“I only spoke the truth.”

“I’ve never had someone stand up for me like that.”

“That is not what I wanted to hear.”

“It is what it is.” The words. I can barely force them past the ball in my throat. “Can’t help the way I was made.”

“Bob.” His gaze holds mine as he pitches his voice just loud enough for Bob to hear. “Would you leave us, please?”

“No worries, boss.” A clink of metal against wood, the shuffle of shoe leather, and the doors to the bar close with a quiet thunk.

“It must be nice when people do as you say,” I whisper, even though we’re the only ones here.

“I used to think so. Recently, I’ve revised my opinion.”

“Liar,” I say, biting back a smile.

“It’s true.” Warmth licks at my stomach as his own lips tip.

I inhale deeply. I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to say. Never said the words out loud, at least. I mean, who’d want to hear the poor little privileged girl lament her upbringing? But I feel full, like there’s no more space for this bottling up. “When I was growing up, we had a Labrador. Dilly. She was amazing. I was an only child with a four-legged sibling, and she was my best friend. We would run and play together, and she’d let me fall asleep on her like she was my pillow. I told you my dad died, but my parents divorced before that. I was seven, and the night they decided they’d had enough, I just hid in my room with Dilly, burying my tears in her fur as they shouted and screamed, their unhappiness reaching its climax. Losing her a few years later was almost unbearable. I’ve never cried like I did that night, and I still miss her every day.”


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