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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“Only, vaginas are the bomb, while he lacks the warmth and depth. That turd deserves to wear a wooden onesie. Let’s put him in a fucking coffin!” she adds to clear my possible confusion.

“I know scrubs are kind of like prison wear, but I don’t want to wear them all of the time.”

“Not murder, then. Seriously maim.”

“I’d rather just move on.” I give a half-assed shrug.

“What we need is the Gulabi Gang.”

“The what?”

“The stick-wielding aunties in pink saris? Vigil-aunties!” She snorts. “We could start a London group. I know Tasneem would be in,” she adds, mentioning her sister’s name.

I shake my head with a smile.

“My God, Evie. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” she says, her expression turning serious as she reaches for my hand.

“At least you know you can catch the playback all over the internet.”

“That’s so fucked up.” Her brow creases with the kind of sympathy I need to keep at arm’s length. There will be no tears today.

“I bet my wedding was more eventful than yours.” Her cousin got hitched in Leeds on the same day, which is why she wasn’t there. On reflection, that might’ve been a good thing. For Mitchell, at least.

“What the fuck was he thinking?” She scrubs her hands over her face, pushing the dark bangs away.

“You might need to ask his penis that. Book ahead. I hear it’s been pretty busy.” My maid of honor, Oliver’s PA . . . “Also, take tongs,” I add, scrunching my nose.

“More like a scalpel. I just don’t get it.” She slumps back in her chair, her long legs inelegantly angled. A little like a chalk drawing of a murder victim. “Why do men cheat? Surely the fucking you get is not worth the fucking you take.”

“Take your house, your kids, half of your 401(k)?” I give a bitter shake of my head. “You have to be married, and I swerved that one good.”

“He lost you, Evie,” she says with such intensity.

I swallow over a knot of emotions tangled too tightly to separate. Yara is the kind of person you’ll meet once in a lifetime, if you’re lucky. Loyal, honest, real. For me, London and Yara go hand in hand. I can’t imagine one without the other, and I know without a doubt both will always be part of my life.

“He was about to win big, and he lost everything. People will remember what he did for a long time. It’ll totally fuck him over—fuck him up.”

Her words seem to echo something Oliver said. Oliver, urgh! Why am I thinking about him? The rich are so self-involved. They will always put themselves first.

“So sweary today.” I hold a crumbly Hobnob between us like a peace offering, when the reality is, I’m just done with this conversation. If I’d known Mitch the lying asshole was rich, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. “Anyway, who needs a tropical beach setting when you can treat a husky with a suspected obstruction?”

“Fun,” she deadpans.

“Or a Persian kitty vomiting on your shoes because you didn’t move quickly enough?”

“Good times.”

“He’s hooked up to an IV now.”

“Seems like a fair punishment.”

I give a fond shake of my head. “For fluids while we wait on his blood workup.”

“Of course.”

“I’m leaving Prince Fursal in your tender care,” I say, pushing to stand.

“People should be birched for landing their pets with stupid names.” A pause. “You okay?”

“It’s been a day.” Arching my back, I give in to a stretch. “The looks I’ve gotten . . .”

“Cats are such suspicious creatures.”

“I was talking about the people.”

“Eh. People. So overrated. Zero stars. Would not recommend. Present company excepted.”

“Same.”

“So, do you want me to neuter him?” she asks, snatching another cookie from the packet.

I know she’s not talking about the cat, so I appear to consider it for a beat. “Would I have to help? Because I don’t ever want to see those testicles again.”

“Fair,” she says, then crams the cookie into her mouth.

“I thought I might just overdose him on ketamine.”

Yara coughs, laughs, and then begins to choke. “Whatever works,” she croaks. “What’s discussed in the break room stays in the break room.”

“Except for the crumbs.” Leaning over, I brush the remains from her face.

“And the drugs we steal to off a certain someone.”

Twenty minutes later, I pull on the hoodie I’d raided from Riley’s closet this morning and step out into the rainy afternoon.

“Give me a break,” I mutter, my brows lowering as I notice the shiny Bentley in the parking lot. I forcibly ignore the way my stomach flips. Those swanky wheels are probably just a coincidence.

The clinic is in Knightsbridge, which is a pretty tony area of London. We deal with a lot of pet advocates (not owners, because the term was judged demeaning to pets last year. Pets are people too . . . even though they’re not) worried about Fido’s gluten intake or inquiring if we offer cat Reiki. We see a lot of poodles in Gucci sweaters and fluffy cats in bejeweled neckwear, so the lot is no stranger to fancy vehicles.


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