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)
It was the most patronizing, backhanded, terrible compliment I’d ever been paid. And I couldn’t even tell him that, because then he’d know how much he’d hurt me.
“Hey, Romeo?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you noticed you haven’t been chewing on gum excessively in the last few days?”
I had.
I noticed everything about him.
Romeo tilted his head. “That’s right. It’s been a few days.”
“One of these days, you’re going to have to tell me why you like gum and silence so much,” I teased, my foot finding his under the table.
“Why are you so fascinated with it?”
“Because our habits tell us who we are. Your quirks are a piece of you.” I paused. “And I want to piece you together, Romeo Costa. That is, if you’d let me.”
He shot up, taking his bottled water with him. “I’ll be in my office, working. Thanks for the fuck, Shortbread.”
Thanks for the fuck, Shortbread?
I deserved to be slapped by every woman on Earth.
Still, I meant what I’d said.
Though her feelings did matter, it would be wrong for Dallas to mistake our cordial relationship for a romantic one.
To be honest, Morgan had nothing to do with it. My heart had long decayed by the time she’d entered the picture.
No. What alarmed me wasn’t my dead heart.
It was the danger of what my wife might do to it. Blow off the dust with her sweet breath. Soap off its tombstone with her capable hands. Breathe life into it with her unbearable, undeniable sweetness.
From her portrait in my study, Shortbread loomed over me. Her eyes clung to my profile as my loafers flattened the rug.
Back and forth.
Sure, we had something good going on. I trusted her. Enjoyed her company, even. Her cunt was by far the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted—perhaps as a result of the industrial amount of sugar she consumed.
But there would never be more than that. And how could I keep my wife while offering her a fraction of what we both knew she deserved?
I didn’t enter her room that night.
Or the next night.
Instead, I drove to Oliver’s mansion with Zach. They’d just returned from our annual pre-Christmas snowboarding vacation in Colorado, which I’d skipped out on for the first time.
Ever.
The guys played pool while I nursed a bottle, perched on the vintage Pac-Man machine. A Commanders game danced on the television in front of them.
All in all, a pleasant night.
I should have missed these gatherings with them, now that I spent most of my scarce free time with Shortbread.
Yet, somehow, I didn’t.
“So, when do you think you’ll grant her a divorce?” Oliver lit a cigar and plucked a thong from the crease of his cedar leather couch, tossing it into the trash.
Christ. I’d forgotten his place was an STD lab designed to create new diseases.
I strode to the bar, studying his impressive selection. “Who said we’re going to divorce?”
Zach chuckled from the pool table. “You.”
“Several times, in fact,” Oliver added.
“Six.” On top of being a genius, Zach also appeared to possess the memory of an elephant herd. “I can recite them if you so wish, including dates and contexts.”
Oliver scratched his temple. “I think your exact words were, ‘Art rarely hangs on the same wall forever.’”
I opened the liquor fridge. “Dallas and I have reached a mutual understanding.”
“Nice try.” Oliver tucked a red-lace thong into his pocket, a swirl of smoke escaping his mouth. “You and your wife barely even speak the same fucking language.”
I tried another tactic. “If we get a divorce, it will be some time from now. I’m in no hurry. Neither is she. I have more pressing issues to tend to.”
Zach and Oliver knew my plans for Costa Industries.
And why.
I hid nothing from them, other than my complex feelings toward Dallas. But these were a recent development, and there wasn’t much to tell.
“Not that far off.” Oliver orbited his media room, unearthing pieces of lingerie in different sizes, styles, and colors, throwing them into his trash can. “She’ll want kids at some point.”
“I’ll give her that,” I snapped, annoyed.
Zach missed the cue ball, striking the side rail. Half a dozen bras tumbled out of Oliver’s hands. Both their brows kissed their hairlines.
Zach digested the news first. “Will you, now?”
I grabbed a beer bottle by its neck without even reading the label, unscrewing it. “I need an heir. She needs a hobby.”
“Since when do you need an heir?” Oliver tipped his head back and cackled. “Last we spoke about the subject, you developed a crust of hymen over your cock to avoid children.”
“Someone needs to inherit my fortune.”
Zach re-racked the pool table. “Pull a Gates and MacKenzie Scott. Donate most of it.”
“Do you know me?” I scowled. “If Philanthropy met me in a dark alley, it would play dead, and I would still kill it just for the blood sport.”
He clucked his tongue, chalking the tip of his pool cue.