From the start, Dallas scheduled Christmas with her family while I spent it with mine.
An arrangement we had made in the rare times we’d spoken before shedding our clothes. One we thought would work well.
Problem was, I’d wondered how I would tolerate five entire days without Dallas beside me.
The haunting prospect urged me to try an experiment.
I planned to avoid Shortbread for a few days to prove to myself that I could, indeed, live my life without sinking my cock and tongue inside her, just as I had the thirty-one years prior to meeting her.
On the first day, I came home late enough that she’d already fallen asleep.
On the second, I arrived with a guest. Oliver. That would surely keep her at bay.
To my surprise, Shortbread wasn’t in the kitchen when we entered, her natural habitat. She wasn’t in the living room or my study, either.
(In the latter, she enjoyed reading and leaving snack crumbs, just to remind me I’d never have a tidy house again.)
Oliver helped himself to whatever Hettie had prepared earlier, while I pretended not to be puzzled by Dallas’s behavior.
“Hettie,” I barked, interrupting her struggle into a puffer jacket. “Is Shor—Dallas here?”
She turned, frowning. “Isn’t it the official first sale of the fourteenth Henry Plotkin book? She’s probably lined up in front of the Potomac Yards Barnes & Noble, trying to snatch a signed first edition.”
Of course.
She loved those silly books.
I peered outside, scowling. Snow piled in giant white boulders. “Was she bundled up when she left?”
Oliver’s head shot up from the bowl of pepper pot soup. He gaped at me, a spoon tumbling out of his lips.
“Oh, I didn’t actually see her leave. I’ve been present shopping.” Hettie triple-wrapped a scarf around her neck, shoving her hands into mittens.
It was so cold, she wore layers for her short walk across the lawn to her residence.
My nostrils flared. “She probably wore a baby doll and sandals there.”
Hettie laughed. “Knowing her, probably.” She waved to me and Oliver before leaving.
I remained rigid for a few more beats while Oliver ogled me.
He ladled his spoon inside the dish, gulping down a bite. “You can just call her, you know.”
I could.
But she wouldn’t answer.
I suspected she didn’t like that I’d disappeared the last few days.
“I’m going to grab a coat and scarf for Jared to drive to her.” I shook my head, feigning exasperation, though I was more worried than infuriated. “I’ll be right back.”
On my journey up the stairs, I reminded myself I owed Dallas nothing. We’d always been an arrangement, and she knew it.
So what if we hadn’t seen each other for days? She hardly sought me out, either.
When I reached Dallas’s room, I was surprised to find her still inside it. Even more so that she laid in bed.
Shortbread didn’t contemplate sleep before one in the morning. Yet, a neon-red seven glared at me from the alarm on her nightstand.
The rose beside it had wilted, with only two more petals clinging on for dear life. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t gotten rid of the stupid thing by now.
“Let me guess.” I tromped into her room. “You hired someone to stand in line for you, so you wouldn’t have to move your precious ass—”
The rest of my sentence died in my throat as I finally caught a full glimpse of her.
Probably for the first time in her life, Dallas Costa looked terrible.
A cherry flush stained her cheeks, but all color had drained elsewhere, leaving her as pale as her dying rose. White flakes peppered her lips, depleted of moisture, while a dull glaze coated her eyes.
I rested my hand on her forehead.
Furnace-hot.
“Jesus.” I pulled back. “You’re burning up.”
She was too narcoleptic to speak. Or move.
How long had this been going on? Was she like this yesterday? Had I missed her illness in my quest to prove to my brain that my dick wasn’t the one behind this train wreck’s wheel?
I touched her forehead again. It sizzled.
“Sweetheart.”
“Please get out.” The words clawed past her throat.
“Someone needs to take care of you.”
“That someone definitely isn’t you. You made that clear these past couple days.”
I said nothing.
She was right. I hadn’t bothered to check on her. Perhaps I’d wished she’d check on me.
In truth, she’d already gone beyond any expectations in trying to make whatever it was between us work.
Meanwhile, I’d shut her down. Repeatedly.
“Shortbread, let me get you some medicine and tea.”
“I don’t want you to nurse me to health. Do you hear me?” She must have hated that I’d seen her like this. Weak and ill. “Call Momma and Frankie. It’s them I want by my side.”
I swallowed but didn’t argue. I understood she didn’t want to feel humiliated. To be taken care of by the man who ensured she understood her insignificance to him.
How did her bullshit meter not fry? How could she think I really felt nothing toward her?
“First, I’ll get you medicine, tea, and water. Then I’ll call for Hettie to stay with you. Then I’ll notify your mother.” I tugged her comforter up to her chin. “No arguments.”
She tried to wave me out, groaning at the slightest movement. “Whatever. Just go. I don’t want to see your face.”
I gave her what she wanted, though as always, not in the way she expected. The sequence of actions didn’t proceed as promised.
First, I contacted Cara to dispatch the private jet to Georgia.
Then I called my mother-in-law and Franklin—separately—demanding their presence.
Only then did I enter the kitchen to grab water, tea, and ibuprofen for Shortbread’s fever.
Naturally, like the chronic idler he often proved to be, Oliver still sat at the island, now enjoying an extra-large slice of red velvet cake I was pretty sure was meant to be consumed by Dallas.
“What are you still doing here?” I demanded, collecting the things I needed for her.
He scratched his temple with the handle of his fork, brows pulled together. “You invited me here. You wanted to watch a soccer game, remember?”
I did not remember. I didn’t even remember my own address right now. “Get out.”
“What about the—”
I snatched the plate from his fingers, admitting to myself that I’d treaded into feral grounds. “This cake wasn’t for you to eat.”
“You’ve gone insane in the ten minutes you were gone.” Oliver gawked at me, wide-eyed. “What happened to you? Did Durban not get her hands on the latest Henry Plotkin book and take her anger out on you?”
Shit.
The Henry Plotkin book.
I shoved Oliver out with a fork still clutched in his grimy fist, dialing Hettie with my free hand.
She half-yawned, half-spoke. “Yes?”
“Dallas is ill. You need to come here and take care of her until my in-laws arrive in about two hours.”
“Oh, yeah?” Her energy returned tenfold. “And what the hell are you gonna do during this time?”
“Freeze my balls off.”
I could have sent Cara to do this.
It wouldn’t have been the most gallant thing I’d ever done—Cara straddled the thin border between fifties and sixties, suffered a busted back, and deserved her time off on Christmas—but not unheard of either.
Hell, I could’ve sent any of my six lower-grade assistants.
But I didn’t.
Something compelled me to join the three-hundred-strong line outside my local Barnes & Noble for a chance to get my hands on the brand-new fourteenth and final book in the Henry Plotkin series.
Henry Plotkin and the Cadaverous Phantoms.
And by “chance,” I meant I would definitely get it for Shortbread. Even if I had to pry it off the hands of a terminally ill, orphaned kindergartener.
I had no qualms about setting the entire place on fire if it meant returning with the treasured book.
It was what she wanted—what she had planned to do with her time tonight—and by God, she was going to get it.
A scowl stamped on my face as a few reporters interviewed people in the freezing cold about how long they’d been standing in line (four to seven hours), how they planned to pass the time until the store opened in the morning (with hot drinks and sleeping bags), and what they thought would happen in the book (I tuned out that part).
I pondered how I’d reached this new low in life.
I’d never done anything remotely as uncomfortable for anyone. Even for my ex-fiancée, whom I thought I’d tolerated.
Morgan could only dream I’d stand in line an entire night for her. I used to get furious whenever she sent me on a tampon run if it was past nine at night.
Maybe guilt could be blamed for making me suffer in twenty-five-degree weather, but I didn’t think so.
For one thing, I had no conscience.
For another, even if I had one, I’d put it to work forcing her to marry me—not failing to check on her for forty-eight hours.
Every now and then—re: seven-minute intervals, on the dot—I texted Hettie, demanding an update regarding Dallas’s health.
ROMEO COSTA
How is she feeling?
HETTIE COOK
Not well, but you already know that.
She took Tylenol and drank some water.
I’m making her avgolemono soup right now.
ROMEO COSTA
Is her fever down?
HETTIE COOK
Between five minutes ago, when you last asked me, and now?
No.
Fevers always spike in the evening, so don’t worry about it.
ROMEO COSTA
I called the doctor. He is going to pay her a visit in the next forty minutes.
HETTIE COOK
Forty minutes?
I hope she’s going to make it till then.
ROMEO COSTA
???
HETTIE COOK
I’M KIDDING.
SHE IS JUST A LITTLE SICK. JESUS.
CHILL.
I was so chill, I couldn’t feel my nose, let alone my balls.
ROMEO COSTA
You’re fired.
The night crawled, minute by minute, refusing to disperse into morning.
The doctor arrived and determined Dallas’s fever needed to break, winning the Most Useless Doctor Award in my head. He prescribed her rest, fluids, and cold compresses.
For what it was worth, Hettie agreed with my analysis.
HETTIE COOK
Did you have to hire the Director of EMERGENCY Medicine at Johns Hopkins?
The poor dude looked so confused when he realized Dal isn’t on her deathbed.
ROMEO COSTA
You thought he was useless, too?
Hettie left when Franklin and Natasha arrived, which forced me to tone down my texts.
I attempted to be reserved with my sister-in-law, seeing as Dallas particularly enjoyed talking shit about me with her.
ROMEO COSTA
Is she feeling better?
FRANKLIN TOWNSEND
Like you care.
ROMEO COSTA
It’s a yes or no question.
FRANKLIN TOWNSEND
No improvement.
ROMEO COSTA
Keep me posted.
FRANKLIN TOWNSEND
You’re not the boss of me.
ROMEO COSTA
God, you’re a brat.
I wish very much for Oliver to end up with you when you finally come of age.
FRANKLIN TOWNSEND
What?
A decade after the night had begun, the sun finally cracked through the silver sky, pale and reluctant.
The store opened. People rushed in.
It took me fifteen excruciating minutes to make it to the register.
The prepubescent cashier opened the book, leafing through it while he rang me up. “Can’t wait to see how Henry handles The Duke of Hollowfield, huh?”
I yanked my card from my wallet. “Mind the spine before I break yours.”
He gaped at me, almost fumbling the hardback in his rush to close it. “Bag?”
“Give it to me. I don’t trust you not to wrinkle the book any further.” I tucked it inside the bag and wrapped it tight.
As Jared wove through tree-lined streets, passing mammoth mansions, manicured lawns, and lavish holiday decorations, I couldn’t help but feel a little unsteady about my newly acquired Christmas gift for Dallas.
Originally, I’d purchased a spa weekend in Tennessee for her to enjoy with Franklin, but this seemed so much more significant.
I would not call the unsettling rush coursing through me giddiness, but I was definitely not unhappy in this moment.
When I reached the house, it was still early enough that Vernon hadn’t arrived. A sleepy-eyed Hettie stumbled into the kitchen, retrieving the pastry dough she prepared each night for Dallas’s breakfasts.
I stopped by the island, clutching the book in a death grip as though it was in danger of being stolen by the furniture. “Is Dallas in her room?”
“She was asleep when I came in, but Frankie said her fever went down.”
“How’s she feeling?”
Hettie yawned, collecting her pink-tipped hair into a high ponytail. “Good enough to reject every brand of cough syrup we’ve given her.”
“Why?”
“Says they taste bad.”
“It’s medicine. It’s not supposed to taste good.”
“It’s pretty bad. The label says it’s grape, but it smells like pickles and spam.” Her nose scrunched. “Between Vernon, her family, and several of the staff, we checked every pharmacy in the DMV for pills. Sold out. The pharmacist says there’s a nasty bug going around.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I snatched the offending bottle from the counter. “Are her sister and mother with her?”
“Frankie, yeah. Natasha went to sleep in a guest room. Guess she felt like she could take a break because Dal’s feeling better.”
I took the stairs two at a time.
With each step I climbed, my spirits lifted.
The lilt of Shortbread’s sweet, bell-like voice filled the corridor. Quiet, but unmistakably her.
Why did it take me until today to realize I enjoyed her voice? Her sound? Her general existence?
Maybe because it marked the one thing that wasn’t complete silence that my ears cherished.
When I reached her door, I raised my fist, intending to knock. I couldn’t wait to show her the book.
Childish pride filled me. I supposed this was what kids felt when they did something they knew would grant them their parents’ approval.
I wouldn’t know.
My parents rarely paid attention to my existence.
“…can’t believe you didn’t tell me you two were having S-E-X.” Franklin abbreviated the last word, whisper-shouting in excitement.
A chuckle lodged in my throat.
I wasn’t one to eavesdrop, but staying back for a few moments to hear Dallas’s response wouldn’t enter the list of top ten-thousand worst things I’d done in my life.
“How’s the sex?” Franklin demanded.
“It’s okay, I guess.” Dallas coughed, still weak. “I’m not suffering.”
Understatement of the generation, sweetheart.
“Does that mean that you like him?” Frankie gasped, holding her breath.
For an odd reason, I did the same.
There was no pause, no hesitation, in Dallas’s response.
“My Lord, Frankie. Of course not. I told you, he is the human answer to a potassium-chloride injection. That didn’t change one bit.”
It hit like a punch straight into my stomach.
So much so that I staggered back a step.
What did you expect? For her to fall in love with you after you forced her hand in marriage and spent months berating her?
“Then, why are you having S-E-X with him?”
Why, indeed?
“Because he’s never going to release me from his arrangement. I might as well get some fun out of it, right?” Shortbread sniffed. “Plus, I really want a baby. You know I’ve always wanted a big family, Frankie. Just because I don’t like my husband doesn’t mean I cannot raise a family I love. In fact, the sooner I get pregnant, the sooner I can return to Chapel Falls. He won’t want me around him when I’m pregnant, anyway. He hates children.”
I didn’t hate children.
Okay, I did.
Only recently—the last few days, to be precise—had I begun to think it wouldn’t be so terrible if Dallas and I had a child. Particularly if that child inherited her exploring hazel eyes and endearing laughter.
Except now I’d come to discover the only reason my wife had been riding me like I was her favorite roller coaster was because she wanted to flee to Chapel Falls.
“That’s the plan.” Dallas’s voice drifted into the hallway. “Keep coming here to get knocked up and run back to Georgia until I have three or four children. I’m sure he won’t miss me, either.”
My fingers shook, tightening around her book. Tense, labored breaths billowed in my throat.
I’d offered her a divorce—why didn’t she take it and leave?
But the reason flashed before me in neon lights. She’d be a ruined woman, just as I’d pointed out.
She would need to start from scratch, settle for the scraps Chapel Falls offered, and endure a terrible reputation for the rest of her life.
If she got pregnant with my child, she could come and go as she pleased. She would still be the wife of one of the wealthiest people in America.
No one would dare utter a negative word about her. Her family’s respect, dignity, and good reputation would remain intact.
“I hope you get knocked up soon.” Frankie giggled. “I miss you so much. I can’t wait for you to come home.”
“Me, too, Frankie. Trust me.”
It shouldn’t have felt half as bad as it did to find Morgan sprawled on my dining table, being eaten out by my father. Yet, it felt a thousand fucking times worse.
It felt as if Dallas had taken a knife, carved out my guts, then fed it to the wolves. The level of betrayal was incomprehensible.
How ironic that I thought her disloyalty would come in the shape of Madison Licht, when all along, Dallas did not crave someone else.
She simply didn’t want me.
Turning, I zipped through the hallway and down the stairs, dumping the stupid book in a random trash can on my way out the door.
If she wanted nothing to do with me, she did not have to say it twice.
I’d give her all the space she needed.
And then some.
