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)
“Cara emailed me the background checks this morning.”
Ah. Cara. The only remnant of Costa Industries in Romeo’s life. When he left (okay, was fired), she left, too. He rewarded her loyalty with a massive raise.
Turns out, my husband is better at selling stocks than, well, stocks.
Romeo rolls through our iron gates, up the quarter-mile driveway, and past a forklift.
“Why is there a forklift on our property?” I swivel my head to stare at the obnoxious thing as we whizz past. “Is there construction going on at the house? I didn’t break anything before we left. Not this time.”
He frowns. “They were supposed to be gone by last night. I paid them an extra mil to get it done by the time we arrived.”
“How much work are we talking here? It’s only been three months since we left on our food tour.”
Three months of bliss. Hopping from country to country, eating everything we could, from street food to high-brow Michelin-starred restaurants.
Not only did he remember every country on my To Eat list from our Chapel Falls date, he also set up a food itinerary for each.
It helps that Romeo is currently unemployed. Okay, fine. Trading stocks. (He swears it’s a job. I’ll take his word on it.)
“I hired a team to redo the home.”
My jaw practically unhinges. “The entire thing?”
Without consulting me?
Romeo kills the engine in front of the door, handing the keys to a waiting Vernon.
Hettie swings my door open, giggling when I launch into her arms. “I can’t wait for you to see it. It’s amazing.”
I send an accusing glare to Romeo. “Did everyone know about the renovations but me?”
Hettie loops an arm through mine, leading me to the entrance. “You’re gonna melt into a puddle of chocolate. It’s everything you ever wan—” At Romeo’s expression, her words die.
“Out.” He pries her arm from mine and nods in the direction of the staff’s quarters behind the main house. “Before you ruin the surprise.”
“Fine, fine.”
It’s too late.
I’m already racing toward the double doors, thrusting them open.
I know what lies inside, because I know my husband. The man is hell-bent on making me happy.
Just as I expected, he turned our home into a library. Every inch of wall space is covered in floor-to-ceiling shelves.
The living room. The halls. The theater room.
Even his study.
My legs carry me from room to room at the speed of light. Though I hurry about it, my eyes don’t miss a thing.
How he catalogued everything by genre, by spines, exactly the way I envisioned it. Horror and mystery in the study. Travel and cooking in the kitchen. Romance and erotica in the bedroom.
I spin to Romeo, who has finally caught up to me, and fling myself onto him, showering kisses all over his face. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I’m already regretting it,” he informs me as he carries me up the stairs and into our bedroom. “The books in the shower will probably mold.”
“I’ll waterproof them.”
“The ones in the kitchen may catch on fire.”
“I’ll fireproof them.”
He presses a kiss to the tip of my nose. “Is it exactly how you wanted it?”
“Even better.”
A Year Later
Romeo Costa
Rain check for tonight.
For some reason, my wife has locked herself in her reading room with three pints of Morgenstern’s egg custard ice cream.
Zach Sun
Maybe she is homesick?
Romeo Costa
Maybe your brain is homesick.
THIS IS HER HOME.
Ollie vB
Take Daytona to eat KFC.
She’ll cheer right up.
Romeo Costa
She’s from Georgia, not Kentucky, you uncultured buffoon.
Zach Sun
Is there really a difference?
Ollie vB
KFC = KOREAN Fried Chicken.
You uncultured buffoon.
I pocket my phone, taking large strides to Dallas’s former bedroom. Loud wails seep into the hallway from the crack beneath the double doors.
My wife, who has only cried when I almost died, is bawling.
“Dallas?” My palms meet the wood, slamming down. “Open up.”
No answer.
“Dallas.”
Still nothing.
My fists pound harder, but they’re drowned out by her cries.
“Dallas Maryanne Costa.”
Wretched panic sails down my throat, sinking to my gut like an oversized anchor.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
And still.
No answer.
“Damn it, Dallas. I will blow down this door if you do not open it right now.”
She doesn’t.
True to my word, I lift my leg and kick it at the seam, splintering the wood into pieces.
Splayed across the floor, surrounded by a séance circle of ice cream tubs, Dallas clutches a clear glass display box. The one with the fourteenth Henry Plotkin book inside.
She usually keeps it on the opposite side of the room, hanging beside the pressed petal painting Vernon made from the remnants of her white rose.
Sheets of tears shoot past her cheeks and ricochet on the pearl marble, where they plunge into an ocean of their peers.
Okay, not really.
But my legs don’t get the memo as they lurch forward at the sight of three tiny tears chasing one another down her cheek.
I take the box from her, set it aside, and lift her onto my lap, her legs on either side of my thighs. “What happened, baby?”