by Alexis James
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by Alexis James
Copyright ©2017 by Alexis James. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying without written permission of the publisher or author. The exception would be in the case of brief quotations embodied in the critical articles or reviews and pages where permission is specifically granted by the publisher or author.
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
First Edition First Printing
Cover: Cover To Cover Designs
Editor: Maxann Dobson, Polished Pen
Formatter: Champagne Formats
Ebook: 978-0-9980618-5-6
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Other books by Alexis James
For Tom.
My second dad. My amazing father-in-law.
I love you.
I will miss you…always.
They call me Romeo. It’s not my given name, but that hardly matters.
I earned the moniker when I was a young little shit, maybe twelve. My friends and I were at the beach, like we were most every day during the summer, taking full advantage of the fact that we live near the water in Miami. We were cussing, simply because we thought it sounded cool (it didn’t), strutting around with fake bravado trying to impress all the girls we’ve known since kindergarten. My friend Raul dared me to talk to Missy Evers, the new girl who recently moved here from Idaho. An hour after that first chat with cutie-pie Missy, who by the way still rocks a bikini like nobody’s business, she was holding my hand. Two hours later my tongue was working hard to get into her mouth and I got my first feel of a female breast, even if it belonged to a relatively flat-chested twelve-year-old girl. That little make-out session happened strategically within eyesight of my group of boisterous friends, because at that age only two things matter: getting some action and making sure your friends know about it. And that’s all it took for the nickname to stick. Now, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, it’s something I despise.
I was a halfway decent guy even back then, so most of my time with Missy was G-rated. When she finally took off with her giggling friends in tow, she was starry eyed, hanging on my every word. My dumb buddies, who knew nothing about who or what the Shakespearian Romeo was really like, pranced around like a bunch of idiots, harping, “Romeo got him some!” Groping a girl with a bunch of onlookers was considered “getting some.” How messed-up is it that?
In all the years that I’ve carried the stupid nickname around, I’ve served it well. Even my sweet mama calls me that, though in her eyes I’ll always be her baby boy. Honestly, I’m a hopeless romantic. I believe in love and all the great things that come with it. I believe in monogamous relationships, unlike my older brothers, who up until a few years ago made bed-hopping an Olympic event. That’s not to say I don’t do my own share of bed-hopping, but mine is more about the … research, part of my daily quest to find my ideal mate. I date frequently, constantly searching for the one woman who stands above all others. The one woman who I have an immediate connection with and see myself standing next to when we’re old and gray. When I date we have some laughs together; I charm and wine and dine. We flop around on the mattress a few times and by week two I’m usually bringing the lucky lady home for Sunday dinner with my entire family.
No one has ever lasted past Sunday dinner.
It’s not that my family isn’t welcoming, because they are. But Mama figured out years ago that in my hunt for Mrs. Right, first I’d have to spend my time with all the Miss Wrongs out there. She’s gracious and kind to whichever woman I bring home, giving me a knowing look at the end of the meal that silently says, “Oh hell no.” Well … without the swearing, but you get what I’m saying. My devout Catholic mother would never, ever swear.
In the past few years I’ve brought upwards of twenty different women home to meet my family. Some don’t last through the entire meal. Some make the grave mistake of seeing dollar signs. While my family’s empire is considerable, I down play it as much as possible. I do well, I make good money, have a cool car and a decent place to live. But I’m not the millionaire my oldest brother Cruz is or the numbers guy that my other brother Marco is. I’m the black sheep brother, different in every way from the other two arrogant dicks I happen to be related to. I enjoy getting my hands dirty, wearing ratty jeans, and romancing women. Cruz and Marco are both suit-wearing hotshots who ooze over-confidence and up until Cruz got hitched to Mia and Marco shackled himself to Amita, they were both serious players. Well, to be fair to my oldest brother, I’m only assuming he was a player before meeting Mia. It’s not like he ever shared any tawdry bedroom happenings with me. That’s cool and all and to each his own, but it’s not my style. I see no point bullshitting my way between a woman’s legs, especially when I can say a few nice things and treat them decently and still get the same result.
I suppose I’ve earned the damned nickname, but that sure as hell doesn’t mean I like it. I have a hard enough time keeping up with my two older brothers without that damn label being tossed around. Maybe I’m being over-sensitive; my actions don’t exactly discourage the name. I just don’t think anyone takes me seriously anymore and who knows, maybe I’ve done that to myself. Maybe I really am Romeo.
What my brothers don’t know is that this Romeo found his Juliet years ago, more than three to be exact. He met her simply by chance, one of those meant-to-be moments that has sadly
turned out to be anything but. His Juliet is blind to his advances, businesslike and driven in everything she does. His Juliet is beautiful, ethereal, and totally and completely untouchable. So he continues to wine and dine, romance and sweet talk, all as a ruse to hide what’s really in his heart. It’s nothing more than a lame attempt to somehow figure out what makes Juliet tick and in doing so keeping all the unwanted family questions at bay.
Whether or not I am a true Romeo remains to be seen. What I do know is that I’ll be whomever I have to be to get to know the illusive Juliet.
Pulling into my designated parking space, I cut the engine and mutter a curse. This has been one long-ass day. And since my life is a series of long-ass days, I’m not sure why today of all days I’m feeling particularly disheartened with everything and everyone. I’ve got it good. I know that better than anyone. I’ve got a great job that pays well, a gorgeous new truck I purchased a few months ago, and I’m lucky enough to work with and for my brothers. Sure, there are days when having an older brother as your boss can be a major pain in the ass, especially since he insists on berating me about my choice of clothing. Glancing down at my tattered jeans and mud-encrusted boots, I suppose he does have a point. This company, our family business, is worth millions. Hell, it’s probably worth billions but since I’m not the money man, I have no fucking idea. At first glance I look nothing like a man with wealth and fortune at my fingertips. I look exactly like the construction worker I am.
Shoving the latest building revisions and notes into my tattered leathered bag, I step onto concrete and attempt to stomp gunk from my boots. Cruz will have enough of a shit when he sees how unkempt I am today (his words, not mine). I remind him, repeatedly and often, that I work out in the field. I don’t have the luxury of sitting in a corner office like he does, or even Marco for that matter, wearing two thousand dollar suits and shiny, expensive loafers. I actually know what it’s like to get my hands and my clothes dirty.
Darvel, the security officer who patrols the parking garage, offers me a two-finger salute as he moves past, eyeing my gorgeous black truck and giving it the once-over, grinning as he moves away. Yeah, my truck is bad ass, and I paid a damn fortune for all the bells, whistles, and whatnot to get it to look that way. It’s probably not the most practical mode of transportation, especially since it shows every single speck of dust, but I can afford to have it washed and waxed every week. I revel in the looks Darvel gives me; it’s a mixture of envy and simple male pride. And it feels good.
When the boots are as clean as they’re gonna get, I stroll to the elevator and push the up arrow. It’s close to seven at night, and the majority of the employees have left for the day. Sometimes I long for the days of coming in around nine, leaving at five, and taking months off at a time when the weather is just too lousy to work in. Being a construction grunt does have its perks, but I suppose being the boss does too. I come and go as I please, never punching a time clock but never really putting in anything less than a twelve-hour day either. I’m so used to it by now it is second nature, and I suppose it’s also something that comes naturally, simply because of who I am and where I come from. We’re all that way—my brothers and two younger sisters—purpose-driven and hard workers, just like my papa used to be before he retired and sold the company to Cruz. Mama’s never held an actual paying job, but she’s the hardest worker I’ve ever met, raising the five of us practically on her own while Papa lived and breathed the family business. Now that we’re all grown and out of the house, she still somehow manages to outdo us most of the time and on occasion has been known to even help at the office when needed.
The elevator door slides open slowly, and I’m pretty sure my heart stops beating for a breath. There she is, head dipped down as she types furiously on her phone, silky blond hair shielding her face from view. I know that face by heart, every soft line, every sweeping curve. She’s beautifully regal, understated, and I’d bank on the fact that she has no idea how she can knock a man off his feet with one look. She’s wearing a simple black skirt, a soft pink blouse, and low-heeled black shoes—similar to all the other outfits I’ve seen her wear to the office. And like always, she’s perfectly professional and completely unaware of me.
She starts to step out of the elevator, lifts her head, and gazes up at me with hesitant blue eyes as she gives me a wide berth. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Her gorgeous face is a mask of non-expression, eyes slightly narrowed in irritation. Now that my heart is beating again, I have to ponder if it’s me she dislikes or just men in general.
“No worries,” I reply, taking her place inside the elevator. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Morris.”
She doesn’t bother turning to face me, just moves with a purpose toward her car, calling, “Thanks. You too, Mr. Moran.”
“Fuck,” I snarl as the doors close, banging my head against the elevator wall. Yet another chance meeting that resulted in her ignoring me and me acting like a damn idiot. As usual. How ironic is it that I’m known for the way I can charm women and yet this particular woman doesn’t even acknowledge that I exist. I’m nothing but invisible to her.
This is not an ego thing. My ego is just fine, thank you very much. I have no shortage of women in my life but this … this nothingness that I get from her each and every time we speak is just baffling.
Face it, man, this is a lost cause. Always has been, always will be.
The elevator doors slide open on the thirtieth floor, and I make my way down the hall toward Mia’s desk. Mia is Cruz’s wife, but she’s also his assistant, which is how they met. Kinky, I know. She’s a great gal, sweet as the day is long and always ready and willing to greet me with a smile, which is exactly what she does when I step up to her desk.
“Hey, Roman. How was your day?”
“Good. Long. And yours?”
She shrugs. “Busy, like usual.” She tips her head toward the closed office door. “Go on in. He’s just wrapping things up for the night.”
Stepping into the enormous office, I see Cruz seated in his usual spot behind his desk, eyes narrowing as he peruses me up and down. “Christ, you’re a mess.”
“Really? Hadn’t noticed.” I pour three fingers of whatever amber booze he keeps on hand into a crystal tumbler then settle in the chair across from him and toss him my Romeo smile, just because I can.
“Help yourself,” he drawls.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Extracting the revisions from my bag, I toss them on his desk. “Lou wanted you to see these.” Lou is our head architect, a guy much smarter than myself who single-handedly runs an entire department with both hands tied. Not really, but the guy is a damn genius, and he has a way of making everything look effortless.
Cruz glances at the papers and sets them aside. “I’ll get to them in the morning. Anything else?”
“Two of the workers quit. I’ll need to get them replaced.” I share this information with him not because I have to but simply because I have nothing else to say, though it’s hard to hide the fact that I can almost predict what his response will be. I’m motivated merely by the hope that he’ll send me in the direction I’m dying to go.
Cruz nods. “Take it up with Sabrina. She’ll handle it.”
My heart stops beating again and this time I swear it takes a full two breaths for it to start. I resist patting myself on the back and casually reply, “Yeah, okay.” Tossing back the drink, I welcome the burn. I welcome anything that will tamp down my need for the blond, blue-eyed, and very illusive Ms. Sabrina Morris.
Mia strolls in, drops a stack of papers on Cruz’s desk, and perches her tight little ass on the chair next to me. Thank God Cruz can’t hear my thoughts or he’d have my head for even thinking about her ass. “You want to come out to the house and have dinner with us one night this week?”
I know she means well, but I don’t want to spend the evening watching the two of them bask in their love. Blech … it’s enough to make you gag. And it’s more than the reminder I need that
I’ll probably never have a fraction of what they have. Who knows, maybe that’s for the best? Maybe I am meant to spend my life being Romeo.
“Nah, thanks anyway.”
Mia frowns and shoots a concerned look at her husband before leaning toward me and saying, “Hey, what’s going on with you? You never turn down a free meal.”
Well, that’s true, but I’m so out of sorts about my life in general food doesn’t even appeal to me. “Can I take a raincheck?”
She pats my arm. “Of course. If you change your mind, just let either one of us know. Okay?”
Damn, my brother is one lucky son of a bitch. “Yeah, I will.” Rising, I shove my weathered bag under my arm and move toward the door. “See ya.”
Instead of the elevator, I take the stairs up two flights, headed toward my office. Unlike the posh offices and glistening wood of the thirtieth floor, this floor is all about the nuts and bolts of the company … literally. The space is mostly wide open, sectioned off into areas with large cabinets and desks to give it a cubicle feel without the cubicles. There are a half dozen actual offices, some boasting views of downtown Miami, others directly facing the large main floor. Those are rarely occupied because the foremen are always out on the job site.
My office is the last on the left, the largest by far. Unlike Cruz’s with all his expensive furnishings and plush area rugs, I’ve got a metal desk and a tattered high-back chair that’s seen better days. Filing cabinets line one wall and the opposite wall is completely covered in cork which allows me to hang plans for the buildings we’re working on. A large drafting table is tucked into one corner, but I only use it when Lou or one of the other architects comes to see me. My office is not a welcoming space by any stretch of the imagination, but I suppose that’s a good thing since I spend very little time here.
Dropping my bag next to the desk, I slump into the chair and fire up the computer. While I wait for the company email program to load, I rid my desk of old coffee remnants and other crap that has steadily accumulated over the past few weeks. I make quick work of the few emails I didn’t manage to get to out in the field and then pull up the company directory, finding her name almost immediately.
