by Snow, Nicole
Accidental Romeo
A Marriage Mistake Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in January, 2019.
Disclaimer: The following ebook is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Rafa G. Catala.
Contents
About the Book
1. Special Delivery (Wendy)
2. We Hungry Yet? (Hunter)
3. Believe in Unicorns (Wendy)
4. Coming Clean (Hunter)
5. Salvage Job (Wendy)
6. Magic Woman (Hunter)
7. Waiting Game (Wendy)
8. Fishy Business (Hunter)
9. Ricardo! (Wendy)
10. Papa's Here (Hunter)
11. Everything We Thought We Knew (Wendy)
12. Phantom Pain (Hunter)
13. Proper Introductions (Wendy)
14. Oh, Brother (Hunter)
15. Old Friends (Wendy)
16. Fake, Fake, and Fake (Hunter)
17. Best Laid Plans (Wendy)
18. White Elephant (Hunter)
19. Aloha, Love (Wendy)
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About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
Accidentally his. Fun fact: Fate is a four letter word.
A perfect stranger just kissed away the worst day of my life.
Emphasis on perfect.
Hunter Forsythe is so far out of my league I can't even buy tickets.
And now he's insta-date to my stuck up sister's wedding?!
Brace for everything to go hilariously wrong.
But my mysterious new hero is no flipping joke.
Rich as sin. Knockout eyes. A snarlypants single dad. Muscle, muscle everywhere.
Too good for the quiet baker girl no one ever noticed.
Then I find out what – and who – put him up to this insanity.
I'm so mad I could spit nails.
Imagine my surprise when Romeo keeps coming.
Hear my door slamming in his face.
Witness my jaw hanging when he starts wooing me for real.
Dream dates, family dinners, and soul-branding nights.
I'm in full Juliet mode before I see the crack in his world.
The longing. The loss. The secrets. The danger.
Does love even fit in Hunter's jagged heart?
Or is a Shakespearean tragedy in our stars?
1
Special Delivery (Wendy)
Of course, I’ll deliver the cake.
Why not? It’s not like anyone – ANYONE – would possibly remember that Blake Paumer stood me up for junior prom. Or how embarrassed I was to go back to school that following Monday, after everyone had already heard about it.
Of course, no one remembers.
That's because it didn’t happen to Rochelle. If my sis was ever stood up for prom, the entire world would remember how crushed she’d been and who’d done the smooshing.
Just like today, when no one would ever make the golden daughter deliver a cake to the very person who’d left her waiting at the front door for hours all those years ago.
I wrap my fingers tighter around the steering wheel as a sense of self-reproach strikes.
Fine. So the cake isn’t technically for Blake, but it's for his father. And Blake will be at the retirement party, guaranteed.
I glance up, glaring at the red light that hasn't changed in the last century.
“C'mon! There’s no one coming in any direction!” I moan to myself, turning up the radio.
It doesn’t help. The light doesn’t change, neither does my mood.
How could it? I have nothing else to think about.
There’s a hulking marble sheet cake with Congrats on your retirement! written in buttercream frosting sitting on the seat beside me, and this red light perched on a chilly Saint Paul street just might be the longest in history.
The party hasn’t started yet, and whether it starts hours from now or not, Blake will be there, helping with the prep work. Along with his wife, Heather.
My best friend, once upon a time. She hadn’t even had the guts to tell me she’d convinced Blake to take her to the prom instead of me. When she did finally fess up, she’d had the nerve to say she didn’t think it would bother me because I wasn’t in love with Blake like she was.
“Finally!” I hit the gas as the light turns green and cross the intersection carefully because I don’t want the cake hitting the floor.
Heather was right.
I hadn’t been in love with Blake. But I had wanted to go to prom. Rochelle was at college then, so it had been my turn to shine. The mousy little sister. Who wasn’t nearly as pretty or smart as her older protégée.
To this day, it burns.
No, I don't care if it's a little irrational.
I don’t care if it was eight years ago, and that I was just sixteen. Missing that prom still pisses me off.
Almost as much as it pissed me off four months ago, when Heather asked me to bake her wedding cake because nobody could possibly do a better job than our small family-run bakeshop.
We did our job too well. That's why she's hit us up again for her father-in-law's party.
I glance at the cake on the passenger seat of my mother’s ancient mini-van and wonder once again, as I did while baking Heather and Blake’s cake, if I should have sabotaged it.
A cup of salt in place of sugar, or maybe just one egg, or a couple strategic tablespoons of cayenne pepper...
No, I'm not that bad a bitch. No matter how incredibly tempting it had been.
Wendy Agnes doesn't do passive-aggressive vengeance.
I shake my head as I focus on the road again, taking the corner slowly, and let out a thankful sigh that the road ahead is clear of traffic.
The day isn't all bad. I’ll arrive in plenty of time with an immaculate cake. I’d never do something like that.
Plus, acting on my revenge fantasies would hurt Midnight Morning far more than it would anyone else. The coffee shop and bakery will be mine someday.
And I've gotten over the whole prom ordeal, too. Mostly.
I wasn’t truly psycho upset over baking Heather’s wedding cake, either. I love baking.
It’s weddings I’m sick of.
So sick I could yak up my lunch in my own purse. That's thanks to Rochelle becoming the ultimate bridezilla, which shouldn’t shock anyone.
Especially not me. I’ve lived in her wake my whole life.
Too bad her wedding is only two weeks away, and just like her prom, I’m dateless. Again.
I close my eyes, trying not to hear the inevitable pecking at my future wedding-trial.
“Poor little Wendy!” Aunt Charlotte will say. “She’s still never had a real boyfriend, has she?”
Mother will just shake her head. “No. She hasn’t. Poor thing.”
No excuses, no rational, no offense taken. Just agreement so mortifying it already makes me want to shrink into the ground until I wind up on the other side of the Earth.
I hear Australia's nice. At least the kangaroos there will be friendlier than my relatives.
That’s how it goes, though.
And always has.
No one will point out my other accomplishments, like the two years I spent in Europe in culinary school, or that I baked pastries in Buckingham Palace. For the Queen’s birthday celebration, no less.
It's just as well, because if mother did say any of that, she’d follow it up by pointing out how I didn’t date anyone overseas. Then she’ll give her patented, cringe-inducing advice – if I’d simply wear some makeup and do more than clip my hair up, I’d stand a better chance.
Better chance than what? Being stood up again? No freaking thank you.
I'm still in my own muddled head when something flashes.
Movement, just outside the passenger window. Before I can make out what, it jumps the curb and flies out in front of me.
“Holy –” I slam on the brakes at the same horrible instant I realize it’s a kid, wrenching the wheel to keep from hitting them.
The van bounces like it's about to burst apart as it scales the curb before jolting to a stop.
Oh, God. My hands are shaking and my heart pounds up my throat as I look through the windshield, eye to eye at the boy standing mere inches in front of the bumper.
Thanking God all the while he is still standing!
“Hey, are you all right?” I ask, throwing open the door and jumping out.
“I-I d-didn’t see you. Sorry, miss.”
He’s clearly shaken.
So am I. I could have hit him. Flattened him.
“How'd you miss it?” I ask, pointing a thumb at the van. “It’s red! A huge red blob!”
Just like you could've been! I think to myself, shaking my head.
Sighing, I step forward and flip the black hood off his head to get a good look at him. He’s a good-looking kid. Young. Early teens, maybe.
I want to grab him, shake him, but that’s because I’m so upset. He is, too, so I try to pull myself together.
Take a deep breath. My nerves are literally shot. Breathing doesn’t help one iota.
His eyes are cast down at the pavement.
I glance in the same direction. Notice how one end of his skateboard is crunched under the van’s driver's side tire. The other end caught behind the bumper.
A sense of relief washes over me that it's only his skateboard.
“That could've been you,” I say, shaking in my boots all over again.
God, that was too close. This is all too close for comfort.
He nods and bites down on his quivering bottom lip. “I'm really sorry.”
I should let him go. We all make dumb mistakes when we're young, right? But something holds me back.
Feeling like I need to drill down how easily this could've been a whole lot worse, I ask, “What were you doing? Where were you going so fast that you couldn’t even see me?”
He glances around, as if looking for a place to flee.
Then I see more. Like the shallow, anxious guilt curdling his young face.
I know what I’m looking at. I also see the hands shoved in his coat pockets, fidgeting, far too much for just the cold. “Show me your hands.”
His eyes widen, and he looks around again.
I know what this is before he even moves.
Years working downtown in a business that's had more than one kid snitch something off the counter tells me. It also turns my terror at almost hitting him into anger.
“C'mon, kiddo. Hands. Now!”
Slowly, he takes a hand out of his pocket, holding something out.
I snatch the case he’s holding and flip it over. “A game? You almost got yourself flattened, killed, for a freaking video game?!”
Now, it's making sense. There’s a game shop up the road.
He probably stole it and was so focused on getting away that he couldn't see anything. An adorably annoying little rat, and a desperate one.
“A used twenty-dollar game, too.” I mutter, handing it back to him. “An old one from a series that's been around since I was a kid.” It’s based off a movie about robbing cars, and that makes me add, “Don't tell me this is practice. Thinking of upping your game? Learning how to steal cars instead of games?”
“No. I-I’ve never done anything like this before.” He shoves the game back in his pocket. “I don’t know why I took it. Really. I just...I wanted...”
Before I can blink, he goes stock-still. His face loses color. “Oh, no. Here he comes.”
I glance over my shoulder. A big black SUV is slowing down. The vehicle looks like an FBI rig, complete with tinted windows.
It’s not really the FBI or even the police, but this kid knows whoever's in that vehicle, and he's even more scared than before. “Who’s that?”
“My dad,” he answers, voice quivering.
Great. I’ve run into this before. I'll never deliver my cake on time without hearing the end of it.
Not when daddy dearest is probably one of those parents who think it’s the store’s fault for leaving things sitting out for their kids to steal.
It’s a store. Things are displayed for people to see them. Not steal them. But some people just don't get it. Don't want to get it. Especially when it comes to their precious kids.
“Please, lady, have a heart...he’s gonna be mad. Like, really mad.”
There's that hangdog my whole world just ended look on his skinny face again. Flustered at the empathy that rises up inside me, I roll my eyes and ask. “We'll see. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Ben.”
It's all he gets out before jumping at the sound of a car door slamming shut.
My insides jolt a bit at the sound, too. Drawing in a deep breath of Minnesota cold, I turn around and damn near choke. Not on the icy air, but the sight of the beast-man walking toward us.
Not beast as in jungle.
Beast as in built. Manly perfection. All muscles, five o'clock shadow, body halfway to the sky, and shoulders wide enough to give the horizon itself a good run.
The kind of primal, almost dangerously gorgeous man you see in ads. The ones you know are Photoshopped.
Except...this guy isn’t Photoshopped, and those long, thick legs of his carry his bulk and brawn with a swagger that can’t help but draw attention to the rest of him.
The closer he gets, the better I see, and the more I lose every wit I've got.
He’s insanely tall, dark-haired, as sleek as the luxury SUV he’d whipped into park behind my delivery van that should've found a permanent home in the junkyard years ago.
Holy Hannah. I’m probably shaking harder than this kid for all the wrong reasons.
Trembling, just at the sight of this guy’s icy-blue stare.
I have to remind myself to breathe again as he steps past me. Total mistake.
Because when I take a long breath, I get a subtle whiff of cologne and beast that's enough to cause daydreams for years. Then this hulking, too-perfect-for-life thing speaks.
“What’s going on here, Ben? You know the rules. Straight home after school.”
His voice is as smooth as the rest of him. Husky. Sexy.
What the hell am I thinking? Or doing?
I pivot, so I can look up at him without getting a kink in my neck, trying not to focus on those lady-killer eyes as I point at the skateboard. “Seems Ben here forgot to look both ways before crossing the street.”
Color drains from his face, too. Not as thoroughly as Ben’s, or mine, but noticeably.
He shoots forward, grasping his son by the upper arms. “Ben? Are you okay?” He pats down both sides. “Hurt anywhere? Hit?”
“No, I’m fine,” Ben answers, his eyes on me. Full of pleading. Begging for mercy.
“Well, I'm glad, but...” He huffs out a breath. “Damn it, Ben. There are rules for a reason. No skateboarding downtown. No skateboarding anywhere in the winter, and yeah, it still counts, even if we've only got ourselves an inch of snow. You know that. You know that’s the end of it, too. This can't happen again.”
Ben nods, almost on the verge of tears.
Then he gives his son a hug. And I mean a real, solid hug. One that seems to embarrass the boy as much as it hurts my heart because it's so deep and honest. Because this man knows how close he came to losing him.
The boy's reaction is natural. It happens with kids his age. Someday, Ben will realize how much hugs like that can mean, but today isn’t someday.
I’m a bit surprised by all this, not to mention the fact that big daddy hasn’t turned on me like a grizzly bear yet. Put the blame on me. That would be par for the course.
“Won't happen again,” Ben echoes weakly, still looking back at me.
Again, empathy for the kid runs me over. Little brat or not, he deserves his second chance at life.
“The skateboard got the worst of it,” I say.
I can’t really read the look the man casts my way, but if I had to choose, I’d have to go with a who the hell are you? translation.
It's a miracle I can even talk. He's even better up close.
I think it's those uniquely vicious, rare, pale-blue eyes of his that do it. Leave me delirious. Make it brutally hard not to stare into them.
It’s hard because they're so bold. So exceptional. So unreal.
Keeping an eye on me, he drops his arm away from Ben and steps forward, toward the van. A solid kick dislodges the skateboard from the bumper and out from under the tire.
“I'll handle this. Get in the truck, Ben, and take your board.”
That was a command. A stern one. Which Ben immediately follows.
In a blink of an eye, this guy went from caring father to drill sergeant. I’m not thrilled by the shift because I’m next in line. A little more empathy swells in my heart for Ben. My father can be a drill sergeant, too.
