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)
Monica hovered on the cusp of exploding with joy. “Aww. Are you really that excited to show her off?”
I stared out the window. “Bursting at the seams.”
“Junior … Christ, kid.” And that was when I knew Bruce had found one of the viral videos from last night. “Mon, Romeo, I think you should see something. Remember Clinton Brunswick from the Pentagon? His wife forwarded a video to my Shelley. I regret to bring it to your attention, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable not addressing it since Junior did a terri—”
That was my cue to hang up. As I killed the call and watched Chapel Falls zip past me in all of its small-town glory, I thought marrying the Townsend girl wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I would leave her to tend to her own business—shopping? Luncheons? Botox parties?—only reentering her life periodically to drag her to black-tie events or important summits that required me to appear like a respectable family man. She’d probably slink back to Chapel Falls within a year or two and age ungracefully, spending her time drowning in materialistic extravagance and meaningless gossip to numb the taste of her own pointlessness.
I would return to my normal life in Potomac. My work. My friends. My plans. After a few years, ten or twelve, when the burn of becoming a mother really seared through her, I would consider granting Dallas a divorce. Depending on how useful to me she’d be by then.
She’d sign a prenup, though. That woman was not worth half the Costa fortune.
Yes, I decided. Marrying the Townsend girl will be an anecdotal incident in my life, not a pivotal moment.
It didn’t matter how loud she was.
My silence would always be louder.
Chapter Six
Romeo
It seemed fitting that a cookie-cutter mansion housed my cookie-obsessed bride. With its fresh coat of white paint, black shutters, imperial columns, and bright-red door, the pre-War Colonial could grace the pages of Southern Living.
On the second-floor balcony, two rocking chairs swung from the force of whoever had occupied them seconds ago. That confirmed my suspicion. Shortbread had waited for my impending arrival to claim my newest acquisition. Her.
I’d toyed with the idea of giving her the entire weekend to say goodbye to her family and friends, mainly to relieve myself of her burdensome existence. But it was best to get it over with as soon as possible.
Shep Townsend opened the door in his Sunday’s best. Of course, they’d just returned from church. Nothing screamed devout Christian like getting caught with a stranger’s hand between your thighs.
“Is the ring acceptable?” He snatched the jewelry bag from my hands, ripping it open. “Because I won’t let you humiliate my daughter any further.”
I might have been a deplorable human for dragging his daughter kicking and screaming into marriage, but he was a first-class prick for allowing it. And for originally fixing her up with Madison Licht, who was a bag of STDs draped in a Prom suit.
He popped the ring box open. His eyebrows shot to his hairline, throat bobbing with a swallow. “This’ll do.”
Shouldering past him without acknowledging his words, I surveyed his foyer. My future wife was nowhere to be seen. A smaller, scowling version of her—her little sister, I assumed—stood at the foot of the stairway, holding tight to the banisters, watching me like a woodland creature about to pounce on its prey.
I glanced at my Rolex. “Where’s Dallas?”
“Upstairs, resting.” Former Miss U.S.A. Natasha Townsend traipsed out of the kitchen in a respectable Gingham dress, appraising me with open hatred. Thankfully, Dallas had inherited her mother’s face rather than her father’s.
“From what?”
The girl sure didn’t have a busy schedule. She didn’t have any schedule.
“Stop goading her. You catch more bees with honey.” Shep placed a hand on my arm, ushering me to the drawing room. “Just yesterday, you disgraced her, killed her engagement, and strong-armed her into marriage. She needs time to process.”
It had never once occurred to me that Dallas Townsend was a three-dimensional character with needs, wants, and motivations. From where I stood, she seemed like a gorgeous, spoiled, petulant child accustomed to getting her way. One who nursed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with food.
I invited myself to sit at the head of the room in front of Dallas’s shocked family. “Tell her to come down right this second. We need to discuss schedules.”
Little Townsend surged forward. “Why don’t you go scre—”
“Go get your sister, Franklin.” Shep’s lips twisted downward. “And wash your mouth with a bar of soap right after.”
With a shake of her head, Franklin fled my periphery. Shep remained standing. So did his wife. They both glowered at me.
I produced my leather business case and began spreading the paperwork my bride needed to sign on the table. “A cup of coffee would be nice. No sugar, no milk, no spit.”