Blue-Blooded Romeo (The Royal Romeos #6)

by Jenny Gardiner

  He heard an announcement that the plane would be boarding shortly, so he stood, grabbed his briefcase, and joined the queue already forming.

  He hated waiting in those lines and wished like hell he could look forward to his customary first class seat where he could mind his own business and not be wedged into a tiny seat suitable for not much more than a chimpanzee. At six foot five inches, he couldn’t bear the idea of being bent like a pretzel into those economy-class seats, uncomfortably tight as they were these days. Good thing it was only a ninety-hellacious-minute-long flight.

  Meanwhile, the queue was filling up fast. He couldn’t help but overhear the two women in front of him yammering on about some cake or something. Hardly a topic of conversation that appealed to him. One of them was petite with wide brown eyes and short dark hair that hugged her face. She was cute but not his type. He didn’t go for the tiny ones. They seemed too fragile to him.

  The other one had a gorgeous head of long, auburn waves, with sea-glass-green eyes. She was probably five foot nine inches tall, with a great athletic build: broad shoulders, narrow waist. Long, lean legs. Her red sundress with a halter strap tied at the back of her neck and showcased her ample tits perfectly, the chill air providing the added bonus of hardened nipples pressed against the flimsy fabric. He tried hard not to stare at them but wow, they were hard not to steal repeated glances at, mere inches away from him as they were.

  He wanted so badly to talk to her, to get her name, her number, maybe ask her out for drinks. The more he thought about it, the more he needed to do it. But right when he was about to stir up the courage to say something, she caught him with his eyes laser-focused to her breasts. Busted.

  He needed to say something, anything, so when he instantly diverted his gaze and noticed the boarding pass in her hand indicated she was supposed to be in a different line, he figured he’d point that out to break the ice. He couldn’t have imagined she was going to practically jump up his ass with a hot poker. But no sooner did he say the words when her scowl told him all he needed to know about that potential offer of drinks.

  What the hell? Here he was trying to save her getting yelled at when it came time to scan her ticket, and she instead freaked on him because she thought he thought she was cheating the system. Now it was true that he didn’t care for people who didn’t follow the rules, but he wasn’t trying to be rude.

  In hindsight, he should have known she wasn’t going to be receptive when he pointed out she was carrying too much baggage. But he was only trying to help!

  “They’re not going to let you on with both of those,” he said as he pointed at her many bags.

  The look she threw him, with that telltale snarled lip, told him in no uncertain terms that if he asked her out on a date she would lop off his balls and serve them up, shish kebobbed, on a ceramic platter hand painted with his own blood.

  Sometimes Domenico’s tendency to live within the confines of societal expectations meant he could be socially awkward. Right now, he’d landed himself into social pariah territory, so he decided to quit trying so hard or he’d find himself with his dick tied in a knot and stuffed in his mouth if that woman had any say in the matter.

  He exchanged pleasantries with the crabby woman’s friend, Alexa, who, it turned out, was to be seated next to him. He’d been tempted to make everything right by offering to exchange seats with the woman to make amends, but he recognized hers to be a middle seat and there was no way in hell he could fit in one of those without panicking and demanding the cabin crew open the doors of the plane to let him off. Air travel could be claustrophobic enough in first class seating but downright torturous in cattle class, especially if you were tall.

  Once in his seat, he was taking a few minutes to respond to some emails on his phone before they made him turn it off when the small TV screen in front of him dinged, and a notification in bold red letters appeared on the screen: You’ve Got a New Message.

  A new message? What the hell did that mean? How does one get a message on a plane? And for what? He hoped it wasn’t the airline revoking his seat and giving it to someone else. He had to be in Paris for a meeting in the afternoon.

  As he sat there, perplexed, he saw the next screen come up, with instructions on how to access said message. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine how he had a message when he didn’t know a soul on this plane. Perhaps if he’d flown out of Florence he’d have recognized a couple of folks on the plane—it was a small enough world and his family’s vineyard wasn’t far from the city, but this time, departing from Milan had made more sense as it was a super-early flight and would give him the whole day in Paris. And he likely wouldn’t have run into acquaintances here.

  Had he known he’d have missed his flight, he’d have flown from Florence to begin with. Yet had he flown from Florence, he wouldn’t have been late because he’d not have encountered the struggling old woman and felt compelled to help her out. Oh, well. Such is life.

  He followed the instructions on the screen but had to stop midway because the flight attendants were going through those crash-and-die instructions no one pays attention to—the ones everyone would regret missing if something went awry with the plane’s mechanisms. He tried to listen to be polite since they’d temporarily disabled the screen anyhow, but he was terribly distracted trying to figure out the message situation. Finally they shut up and he pressed the star key to retrieve it and began to read, realizing quite readily it wasn’t meant for him since it started out with “Hey, girl.”

  What would be the protocol for something like this—an incorrect airplane mail message? He had no idea they had airplane mail messages. This was uncharted territory. Clearly someone sent it to the wrong person in the wrong seat.

  Of course as much of a by-the-books guy as he was, he also was too damned curious to not continue reading. It fascinated him that he could communicate with strangers on a plane, and he tried to recall if there was anyone, in particular, he’d noticed in the gate area he’d like to chat up. There was that pretty woman who snarled at him, Alexa’s friend, but no way was he touching her with a ten-foot pole. She would not be receptive to any overtures from him. In fact he wondered how long it took her to get on the plane—a glance back before he went through the gate showed that she was far, far from the front of the line. No doubt she was hurling invectives his way the whole time she cooled her heels in line.

  He continued to read the missive: ...the blue-blooded Mr. First Class Jerk who kicked me out of line with you. What a douche.

  Blue-blooded Mr. First Class Jerk? Whoever wrote this sounded awfully unhappy. And that douche thing. He always wondered about that word in reference to someone who is an asshole. Because if you think about it technically, it makes no sense. How is it that something intended for a woman to use when cleaning out her vagina would become a term for someone a person detested?

  Who died and made it his business where I stood or what zone I entered through? I hate arrogant men like that.

  Um... Hmmm. He paused to consider the chances. Nah. Impossible. It couldn’t be her.

  —he was seriously packing.

  Whoever it was, she certainly went right for the kill. Did women actually talk like that? And did they actually do that—blatantly stare at men’s crotches?

  Can you imagine him with his big old Italian Stallion cock spilling into your personal bubble? Alexa, honey, you’d best be careful or you’ll be bitten by his love snake.

  Domenico’s eyes grew wide. Alexa, honey? Love snake? Holy shit. It was from her—the mean girl. And she was talking about him! He couldn’t believe a woman would have such a brazen conversation about a complete stranger via a messaging system on an airplane—what if you sent it to the wrong person? Which is exactly what she did. He tried to remember what row she was in. He’d read it out loud back at the gate. Was it fourteen?

  Thank God he had the aisle seat and was tall, so he could strain to look toward the front of the plane to see if that was where she sat
. He wanted to make eye contact with her, but dammit, he couldn’t see a thing. He spotted a row he thought was hers: he noticed a little kid’s arm hanging over the side. He could barely make out the top of her head in the middle and then a really tall man next to her.

  By now I’d be napping happily were it not for the jerk with the big dick. Or is he the dick with the big dick? Ugh, promise me you two won’t fall in love in the next ninety minutes and then I’ll have to be nice to him for the rest of my life and go to your wedding and feel compelled to admire the babies you make together even though every time I hold your child and stare into its eyes, I will be reminded of what a complete prick your baby daddy is.

  Well. No mincing words there. Clearly he’d made a bad impression. What was that saying about a woman scorned? Oh, yeah, hell hath no fury like one. Clearly that was the understatement of the millennium.

  He pondered how to respond. Did he pretend he was Alexa? Except eventually she’d realize her friend had never received the messages and then she’d freak out wondering who had. Which would actually be awfully funny. But how could he pretend to be Alexa when he didn’t know her, had no idea how to speak like her. He’d barely exchanged a handful of words with the woman. As he mulled over his options, the seat-back screen dinged, alerting him that yet another message had arrived. He assumed it was from his secret admirer because surely there couldn’t be more than one passenger sending him missives.

  Geez. It’s taking you long enough to respond to me. Are you off in the lavatory with Bossy Big Dick Man? Maybe you’ve already discovered the joys of the Mile-High Club while I fester amid the fug of toxic, contaminated air up here with Billy Bacteria and Mr. Manspread, who I expect any minute to simply drape his giraffe legs on top of mine just to get more comfortable. What is it about men that they think they’re more important than women? I’m sort of over it, you know? We’ve had our share of the whole “man’s world” thing in pastry school. After all, everyone “knows” that the professional kitchen is a man’s domain, right? I’m ready for women to take over the world, dammit.

  Hmm, no wonder they’d been discussing cakes. He read on.

  But seriously. I’m halfway jealous of you sitting next to that Italian dude. Sure, on the one hand, I’m pissed at him, but in truth, he was pretty easy on the eyes and right now my eyes could use something better to look at than Booger Boy. Have you talked to him? What was his name again? Domenico? Ha! Maybe we can call him Dominic the Donkey from that Christmas song, what with him being well hung and all. Although, hmm, do donkeys have big dicks? Or is it just horses? For that matter—what about zebras? And now that I’m thinking deep thoughts: are zebra cocks striped? Or solid? In which case are they black or white?

  Domenico let out a snort. A zebra? A donkey? It was all he could do to contain himself.

  I’d like nothing better than to hear you cackle right now, so I know there is something entertaining happening on this airplane somewhere. Just as long as the entertainment isn’t you and Dominic the Donkey doing it donkey style in the tiny bathroom. Is there such thing as donkey style? I’ll have to Google that when I’m off this godforsaken tin can. If it’s anything like a horse—have you ever seen two horses going at it? Super violent. I feel awfully sorry for those poor mares. Although maybe they like those big horsey schlongs. I wish there was an emoji here for that cause I know you’d laugh if you saw that. A horse-sex emoji. Imagine.

  She seemed a bit focused on the animal members, he mused, fighting another snort.

  Hey—you up for going to that speakeasy tonight—the one in Saint Germain-des-Prés? I could kill for one of those cocktails we had there, with the grapefruit juice and bourbon and some other strange ingredients. Anything but that lousy wine I’m going to have to drink once classes resume. Ugh.

  He stopped reading, a mixture of confusion and amusement floating through his head.

  So she’s in pastry school. Interesting. But she calls me Bossy Big Dick Man. I don’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. Maybe she’d change her outlook if she got a firsthand look at it. Yeah, no. We’d be back to her lopping things off me, and that would not be a good thing. And what’s with the “lousy wine” reference? Surely the woman doesn’t hate wine? That would be downright insane. Not to mention uncivilized.

  Domenico mulled over his options, then decided a course of action and hoped like hell the woman didn’t have any sharp instruments on her. Little did he know that was a distinct possibility since she attended culinary school.

  Chapter Three

  Stella was beginning to wonder if that stupid chat thing was working. Maybe she’d spent all that time composing her masterpiece messages to Alexa and they evaporated into cyberspace. She needed something other than Mikey McIllness next to her to occupy the rest of the flight time. Finally her screen indicated she had a message. About damned time.

  Dear Alexa’s friend (never did catch your name back at the airport), apologies from this section of the plane. Somehow we must have gotten off on the wrong foot. Although perhaps it’s more like we got off on the wrong cock, judging by what seems to be your area of expertise. Based on your message to me, I’m presuming you have extensive knowledge about the male appendage, considering you write quite frequently about them. Mine, it seems, in particular.

  Stella blanched. Had she sent her Seat Chat message to him?

  Since you’re so curious, I thought I’d elaborate a bit to—excuse the pun—“flesh out” the situation more. As in to distend, enlarge, tumefy, “make bigger.” For one thing, something about this statement you made is not true: the big dick with the big dick. I’ll leave it to your imagination to determine which is false. But let’s just say it’s not the first time I’ve heard someone reference my “Italian Stallion cock.” And not in a bad way. So perhaps it’s in your best interest to learn more. And I will say you’re the first person I’ve ever heard refer to me in that disparaging manner.

  No denying it. This was the guy. Instead of Alexa, her message had gone to the big dick with the big dick. Who was pretty much telling her she was correct about that certain physical detail. She swallowed and read on.

  I don’t suppose you’d give me another chance, and maybe if we’re lucky, you’d have an opportunity to gauge for yourself whether indeed your musings about my endowment were spot-on or not. I for one would be happy to volunteer my services in the interest of civil discourse and in an attempt to make up for any misunderstandings back at the Milano airport. Perhaps we can have a drink in Paris? My treat. You can reach me at +39 0577 887766.

  Key-rap. This was so not good. It was one thing to dish about the guy to Alexa, but oy vey. She never meant for him to see it. How did she ever send that to the wrong person?

  She scanned back to where she sent the original message. She knew Alexa was in 27A. But argh, she clearly sent this to 27B. If she could shrivel up like one of those nighttime slugs she and her friends used to beg her mom to pour a beer over, she would. How could she ever face this man again? She was mortified. Except, wait a minute. As bad as this seemed, the fact was, she’d never have to see him the rest of her ever-loving life. Case closed. All was good with the world. She was going to be last off the plane anyhow since she’d have to retrieve her computer bag in the back. By the time she deplaned, he’d be long gone. Thank goodness!

  She heard a ding. Crapola.

  What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?

  And the man must’ve found the elusive emojis she’d been unable to locate because he put a little kitty face on the end of it for emphasis.

  She would simply pretend she never received the message. She’d keep her eyes forward for the rest of the flight, no more seat chatting, and pretend it all didn’t happen. He’d get off the plane, she’d retrieve her laptop bag, and all would be right with the world.

  It wasn’t much longer till the flight attendant announced they’d be landing. After the plane taxied down the runway and parked at a gate, passengers did their typical scramble to
grab their bags and queue up to get out of there. Stella, however, sat in her seat, enjoying the ability to spread out since her seatmates were both in the aisles already. She pulled out a nail file and cleaned up a few rough edges, relishing letting her elbows encroach on the other two seat spaces, counting her lucky stars she’d never see that man again.

  At last the crowd started moving forward. Stella tried to keep an eye out for Alexa while making certain she made no eye contact with her nemesis. It was kind of weird watching the parade of passengers press past her—from her vantage point, it was a sea of hips and waistlines and hmmm, that man walking past had a pretty nice behind. Her eyes slowly scanned upward to see if the rest of him looked as good, only to realize too late that she was gaping at none other than the man she needed to avoid at all costs. She let out a gasp as he turned and waved and gave her a wink.

  She thought she would die.

  And following behind was none other than Alexa, who generously handed Stella her laptop bag.

  “Hey! Luckily I was able to scoot back to get your bag and save you the hassle of working against the flow of traffic,” she said, giving her a thumbs up as she passed it to her.

  Stella gave her a wan smile. “Great.” She practically winced as she said it. “Thanks a bunch.”

  Alexa stopped the line of passengers from inching forward to allow Stella into the aisle. Which meant she had the great misfortune of trailing none other than the very person she planned to never see or speak with again.

  ~*~

  Domenico had spent the rest of the flight chatting with Alexa. He figured the best way to get to know something about that maddening woman in 14D who’d piqued his curiosity would be through discreetly pumping her good friend for information.

  “So your friend—”

  “You mean Stella?” Alexa shook her head in mock despair.

  “Ah, so that’s her name. Stella. Yes. So about Stella...”