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“‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou, Romeo?’”
He squinted at the dark corner where the voice had come from. “Cloe?”
She stepped out of the shadows. The tower of hair had fallen and a mass of reddish-brown curls surrounded her face and fell around her shoulders. Her glasses were gone and so were her boots. She swayed on bare feet littered with straw. In her hand was the champagne bottle that had been missing from the bucket.
She waved it around. “Yes, it’s me. Invisible Cloe Holiday.”
Rome glanced back at the shadows. “Are you alone?”
“Why, yes I am. Completely and utterly alone. And you know what? I’m probably gonna die alone. Because I’m not the right woman. I’m the wrong woman. All wrong.” She lifted the champagne bottle to her lips and tipped it. But it looked like she had already drained it dry. She lowered the bottle and sighed. “Well, shit.”
Rome didn’t know what surprised him most—the cussing or the drinking. Both were completely out of character for Cloe. At least, she hadn’t used to cuss and drink . . . or plan sexual rendezvouses with men.
Maybe this had more to do with the breakup. He knew for a fact that getting your heart broken could make you act out of character. He had gotten drunk and hooked up with a number of random women after Emily had left him. He was lucky nothing bad had come from it. Randomly hooking up right after your heart got broken wasn’t a good idea. Especially when alcohol was involved. And while Rome trusted most of the men in town to act like gentlemen with an inebriated woman, there were a few men he didn’t trust as far as he could throw them. Like Cob Ritter. Cob had somehow finagled an invitation to the wedding. No doubt as someone’s plus one. The thought of him taking advantage of Cloe didn’t sit well with Rome.
“Who are you waiting for?” he asked.
“My Romeo, of course. Isn’t that who all girls are waiting for? The one man who can’t live without them and is willing to scale garden walls and recite sonnets and go against their entire family just for a chance to let lips do what hands do.”
Rome squinted. Where was the levelheaded, practical girl he’d been talking to earlier?
“So who is this Romeo?”
She tossed the empty bottle at the ice bucket. It missed and rolled across the floor. “Well, it wasn’t Brandon. Now was it?” She wobbled her head from side to side. “Nope. I waited around for him to pop the question and all he popped was my heart with all the reasons I’m not the woman for him. And maybe waiting around was my problem. Maybe I should do what my sister Hallie does and just take the horns by the bull.” She gave him a thorough once-over. “Do you have a horn, bull?”
He couldn’t help grinning. This side of Cloe was unexpected . . . and intriguing. “I do, but I don’t think I can let you take a hold of it when you’re as drunk as Cooter Brown.”
“Who is Cooter Brown, anyway? And why has the poor man become synonymous with intoxicated people? What if he had a broken heart and was just drowning his sorrows? And now the entire world thinks of him as a perfect analogy for a drunk.”
He should have known Cloe would be an intelligent drunk. “Okay. Why don’t you sit right down there on that blanket and I’ll go get you some water?”
“I don’t want water. I want . . . a margarita! I’ve never had one and now I want one. And you know why I never had one?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Because I’m always the designated driver. It’s my job to watch out for my sisters. To make sure they have a good time, but don’t drive drunk. But you know what? Maybe it’s time I have a good time. Maybe it’s time I drink and dance and have fun.” She awkwardly twirled around before she stumbled to a stop and fanned herself with a hand. “Is it hot in here? Because I feel extremely hot.” She tugged at her scarf, but all she succeeded in doing was pulling it tighter around her throat.
Worried she was going to choke herself, Rome walked over to help. But the way she had attached it wasn’t easy to figure out. He finally located a small knot at the back of her neck. He turned her away from him and pushed the pile of curls out of the way. It was hard not to notice the way the silky strands slid through his fingers as he shifted the mass of hair over her shoulder.
It wasn’t just a dull reddish-brown. It was a wealth of auburn curls that reflected the lanterns’ glow like a bushel of shiny burgundy apples.
Why would she hide such glorious hair in ties and clips?
The knot was tight and it took him a while to loose it. She stood perfectly still with her head bowed. After a long moment, she spoke in a soft whisper that he had to strain to hear.
“You know what else is hot? You. Your touch makes me feel . . . scorched.”
His fingers stilled at the nape of her neck. Her skin was as soft as a baby chick’s downy feathers and he wanted nothing more than to run his fingers over it. Instead, he pushed the thought away and concentrated on not touching her as he continued to work on the knot.
And she continued to talk.
“I’ve never felt burned by a man before . . . not even Brandon. He wasn’t hot. He was lukewarm at best. Brushes of his fingers never made my tummy tingle or my insides feel like they’re melting.”
Talk about hot. Rome suddenly felt like the loft had turned into a furnace. One he needed to get out of before he did something he would regret later. Hank would never sell him the ranch if he seduced his daughter.
He heaved a sigh of relief when the knot came undone. His relief was short lived when he pulled the scarf free and Cloe turned around. Her hair wasn’t the only thing she’d been hiding. Above the low neckline of the dress, mouthwatering breasts swelled like two pale loaves of rising bread.
Rome was dumbstruck.
Cloe Holiday was stacked. Like jaw-dropping, brick-shithouse stacked. And Rome didn’t know if he was more stunned by the fact she had big boobs or the fact he had never noticed.
“Holy shit.” He hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud, but . . . Holy Shit.
