39
DALLAS
“…cost north of six figures to fix…”
“…need more cameras in the East Wing…”
“Does anyone know where the damn penis on the Roman statue in the middle of the fountain went?”
The words jumbled together, pinging against each curve of my skull. They came from every direction. From voices I didn’t recognize. In elevated pitches that suggested disbelief over the whole ordeal.
I popped a single eye open, blinking away blurry white dots. An army of restoration specialists sprawled across the entire living room, where I’d fallen asleep last night during a binge sesh of Friday Night Tykes.
They’d come in and out of the mansion over the past few weeks, doing their best to rehabilitate the historic property to its original condition.
Apparently, the tiny get-together I’d hosted had left major damage. Silver lining—at least Romeo made acquaintance with people who knew how to party.
Hettie materialized before me, a goblet of green juice stretched between us. I accepted the glass and downed it in two gulps.
My brain throbbed from hours of trying to sleep through a symphony of saws, forklifts, and nail guns.
“Romeo left a box on your bed.”
I sank back into the couch cushion, uninterested in whatever my husband had to give me unless it required frequent diaper changes and its first word was Momma.
“He mentioned something about you not getting to choose the books you wanted before the charity gala.”
I flung the throw off me, darting to my bedroom. Sure enough, a giant box of books rested on my mattress.
I dove toward it, piling stacks of hardcovers onto my Somerset duvet. There must’ve been a dozen of them. At least.
A frown touched my lips.
A Radical History of Finance.
The Psychology of Money.
The Savage Investor.
Each title was worse than the last.
We all knew the only books I consumed boasted a liberal dose of the words cock, pussy, and cum. What possessed him to think I’d ever read these?
Another form of punishment, no doubt.
Really, I’d done Romeo a favor, seeing as this place hadn’t seen a renovation since the 1800s and was in dire need of modernization.
In fact, while the restoration team was at it, maybe they could replace the ugly Lincoln-era crystal monstrosity hanging in the foyer with a shiny LED Sputnik chandelier.
I returned all the hardcovers back to their box. In addition to being full of books I’d rather torch my eyeballs than read, I couldn’t be certain Romeo hadn’t done something to them. Like coat the pages with rat poison.
I stared at the box, debating what to do. Whether to donate it or whether he’d tampered with the contents somehow.
It would be just my luck to end up behind bars after unintentionally sending poisoned books to the local Salvation Army.
I decided not to chance it, calling for Vernon through the intercom system.
His voice rasped past the speaker a few seconds later. “Vernon speaking.”
“I spotted a bonfire pit a few weeks ago. Is that available for me to use?”
“The one on the east side of the property? Overlooking the Potomac?”
“I think so. Can you set up a fire for me?”
“You got it, sweetheart.”