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)
I pretended to gasp. “You mean, there exists something beyond Brussel sprouts and chicken breasts that you eat?”
My eyes glued to his sinewy forearm as he whisked the mixture. Good Lord.
“You’ll understand when you try it.”
To be honest, it could taste like liquid manure and I’d still demand seconds if only for the first-row seat to his forearm porn as he assembled it.
I feasted on the sight of him. Shirtless, gloriously powerful, and almost mine.
His taut muscles flexed every time he made the lightest move. A thin coat of sweat still clung to his tan body.
I watched him with pleasure from my spot on the chair Hettie had occupied only an hour ago.
“I ordered replicas of your engagement and wedding rings.” Romeo poured the drinking chocolate into my cauldron-shaped mug, littered with Henry Plotkin spells. “They should arrive late next week.”
My stupid heart fluttered in my chest. It was so hard to keep my feelings at bay when all I wanted to do was let them loose. Watch them grow, develop, and evolve.
I feigned boredom. “And what about your ring?”
He sucked his thumb of milk residue, setting the mug in front of me. Fresh whipped cream and peppermint shavings. Just as I liked it.
Had he been paying attention?
Romeo sat across from me. “My wedding band should arrive around the same time.”
I was hearing everything I wanted to hear. Why wasn’t I satisfied?
Was it the rose that was slowly dying before Romeo had time to fall in love with me? Was I just being moody? Hormonal? Homesick?
I spun the teaspoon in my hot chocolate, channeling all my concentration into it.
“Shortbread?”
My eyes snapped up. “Yes?”
He frowned. “Why do you look so glum?”
Because you still feel nothing toward me. You simply accept me as yours. As one accepts a new colleague or neighbor. Someone random who entered your life and was here to stay.
I tried to swallow my frustration, but I couldn’t.
The idea of slipping into bed with him tonight—of sharing my body with him without sharing a single thought—haunted me.
I motioned between us. “Because this isn’t real.”
“Elaborate.”
“This. Us.” I sighed, pushing the cocoa away from me. Things were serious when I wasn’t in the mood for something sweet. “We share so much together, yet nothing at all. You don’t know me. Not really. You haven’t even attempted to learn more about me. You’ve opened up to me, and for that, I am grateful. But you know nothing about me. No enticing bits and pieces that would make me more endearing in your eyes. You don’t know what my favorite color is. My favorite food. What my dreams are—”
“Your favorite color is blue.”
Lord, could he sound any more disinterested?
But he was right.
And I was shocked.
He reclined against the backrest, shrugging it off. “You always wear blue. It complements your tan. And you gravitate toward blue things. From your Henry Plotkin phone case to your favorite Chanel bag—all blue. As for your favorite food, that would be lomo saltado. Extra aji verde.” Even the tiniest smirk from him directed rays of lust straight to my bloodstream. “You order it in three times a week. The delivery guy practically has our gate code. You always switch things up for variety when you order from any other restaurant. Other than Peruvian ones.”
Spot on. Again.
Maybe I was more transparent than I’d thought.
I suppressed a smile, knowing if I unleashed it, he’d see how stupidly in love with him I was.
Oh, no.
I was, wasn’t I? In love with Romeo Costa. The coldest, least sympathetic man on Planet Earth. The God of War.
All moisture fled my mouth. The adrenaline in my body awakened me from my orgasm-induced sleepiness.
“But you don’t know about my dream. My real dream. Not the ones I joke about.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Children?”
I shook my head. “That’s a goal, not a dream.”
“Then, no. I do not. What’s your dream, Dallas Costa?”
To be Dallas Costa because it’s your choice and not a part of your plan.
I had a much older dream, though. “I want a house that is also a library.”
“A library in your house?” he corrected, frowning.
“I said what I said. I want a house gutted from within and turned into a library. Every inch of it. Every room would have shelves, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling. No matter where you walk. Kitchen. Dining room. Bathroom. Everywhere.”
He studied me like I was an intriguing piece of art he’d just stumbled upon at the museum. Completely new to his eyes.
Slowly, he nodded, unfastened his tin of gum, and placed a square on his tongue. “Now I know.”
Well, that was anticlimactic.
I swallowed hard, feeling stupid and childish.
I changed the subject. “So, you felt bad today and came to see me. Careful. I might suspect you’re developing feelings for me.”
The joke came out all awkward and wrong. More accusing than flirtatious.
“I needed a quick fuck to get rid of the excess pent-up rage.” He reached for his water bottle, taking a sip. “Do yourself a favor and don’t read into it. I’d hate to hurt your feelings, Shortbread. They’re so very precious. So are you, by the way.”