Blue-Blooded Romeo (The Royal Romeos #6) Read online

  Table of Contents

  What people are saying about Jenny Gardiner's books:

  Blue-Blooded Romeo

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Big O Romeo

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Big O Romeo

  About the Author

  What people are saying about Jenny Gardiner's books:

  "A fun, sassy read! A cross between Erma Bombeck and Candace Bushnell, reading Jenny Gardiner is like sinking your teeth into a chocolate cupcake...you just want more."

  —Meg Cabot, NY Times bestselling author of Princess Diaries, Queen of Babble and more, on Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

  "With a strong yet delightfully vulnerable voice, food critic Abbie Jennings embarks on a soulful journey where her love for banana cream pie and disdain for ill-fitting Spanx clash in hilarious and heartbreaking ways. As her body balloons and her personal life crumbles, Abbie must face the pain and secret fears she's held inside for far too long. I cheered for her the entire way."

  —Beth Hoffman, NY Times bestselling author of Saving CeeCee Honeycutt on Slim to None

  "Jenny Gardiner has done it again—this fun, fast-paced book is a great summer read."

  —Sarah Pekkanen, NY Times bestselling author of The Opposite of Me, on Slim to None

  "As Sweet as a song and sharp as a beak, Bite Me really soars as a memoir about family—children and husbands, feathers and fur—and our capacity to keep loving though life may occasionally bite."

  —Wade Rouse, bestselling author of At Least in the City Someone Would Hear Me Scream

  Blue-Blooded Romeo

  (book six of the Royal Romeos series)

  by Jenny Gardiner

  Copyright © 2017 by Jenny Gardiner

  Cover art by Kim Killion, The Killion Group, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  http://jennygardiner.net/

  Chapter One

  There were times in her life when Stella Whitaker wished she could drop all pretenses of civility and speak her mind, and now was decidedly one of them. She’d spent the last several days with minimal sleep, working late into the night to complete her first commissioned wedding cake for a bride getting married in Florence, Italy. After training in pastry for half a year at the elite French school of culinary arts, l’école Marondi, this was her first freelance hire, and she’d felt enormous pressure to succeed wildly with this project. It had the potential to lead to more such jobs. The cake turned out exceptionally well, the bride was elated, and now she and her friend Alexa Hanigan, who’d helped transport the masterpiece, were in line to board their flight back to Paris, where they would both begin their final class at Marondi. Yet out of nowhere, the rudest man accosted Stella.

  “Scusi, signora.” At first, she thought maybe he was trying to make small talk, maybe coming on to her. He was a handsome man: tall, with a broad chest that narrowed down to slim hips, highlighted by—let’s face it, it was impossible not to notice—a well-endowed bit of window dressing. She was starting to think she could find plenty of ways to have a little fun with a guy like that. Until he pointed at her boarding pass and ruined that fleeting fantasy. “I’m afraid you’re in the wrong line.”

  Stella squinted at him, wondering what business it was of his what line she was in, although she was in the right one anyhow. As she looked at him, she noticed he had the warmest brown eyes, with thick, long lashes that were, to be truthful, wasted on a guy. Though they looked damned good on him.

  “Pardon?” she said, wanting to get the ninety-minute flight from Milan to Paris over with so she could get some shut-eye.

  He pointed again at her boarding pass. “Ecco. Here. Your boarding pass has you in ‘zona quattro,’ zone four, but you’re standing in the group for zone two. I’m afraid you need to go to the end of that line.” He pointed to a queue that had a good thirty people in it. She counted the number of people in front of her in the current line in which she stood: only about six. She furrowed her brow. Who was this clown, trying to police the airport line? So maybe she hadn’t looked at her boarding zone and instead simply followed Alexa without thinking. What was the harm to him?

  “Look, uh, signor,” she said with emphasis, “my friend is in zone two and we’re sitting together so I got in line with her, assuming we’d be boarding at the same time. See, look at her boarding pass.” She pulled the slip of paper from her friend’s hand and held it up next to hers. “See, she’s in seat 27A and I’m in... I’m in...”

  “Ah... It appears that was the confusion,” he said. “You’re in seat 14D.”

  Stella shook her head, her long, auburn waves dancing angrily across her shoulders. “Wait a minute. That’s not right. We’re supposed to be seated next to each other. What the—”

  She was about to stomp over to the gate agent to fix the situation when an announcement was made that the flight was overbooked and the airline needed volunteers to change flights, which meant there would be no correcting of wrong seating assignments. Stella groaned. She still didn’t understand why the guy had to be such a bossypants about it. Who died and made him the head of airport security?

  Nuisance Man nodded to the bags Stella was hauling. “You know you’re only allowed one carry-on item.”

  She glared at him. “Of course. And I have one carry-on item.”

  He then pointed to her shoulders, one of which held a purse, the other a computer bag. “They’re not going to let you on with both of those.”

  She frowned. “They’re my personal items.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head, which made Stella more crazy. The old “silent-but-I’m-right” treatment. How on earth had she ever found herself in a weird little queue war with this complete stranger?

  But he was on to other topics of discussion.

  “What a coincidence—it looks like your friend and I are seated next to one another.” The man combed his fingers through his thick, wavy dark hair. As much as Stella wanted to hate him for being such a buzzkill, he was awfully easy on the eyes. Even her overly tired, void-of-a-good-night’s-sleep green eyes. She smiled one of those smiles you’d force onto your unhappy face after the nurse tells you you’ve gained ten pounds at your annual physical. Woo-hoo. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Rigid gets to sit next to her friend and she’s stuck in zona quattro, waiting forever to get on the plane. Grrrr.

  The man reached his hand out to Alexa. “Forgive my manners. I’m Domenico. Domenico Romeo.” He turned and nodded as well to Stella and attempted to shake her hand, which she ignored and instead crossed her arms and tucked said hands neatly beneath her armpits. Zona quattro my ass. Those airline zones were bo
gus, anyway. Every time she flew, she got stuck in the one that was the last to board. It didn’t matter where she sat on the plane, it was always the wrong damned zone. All she wanted was to get on the plane, put her seatbelt on, and have the plane take off so she could finally settle in for a cat nap, which would have to suffice until she returned to her apartment.

  Ugh, but the Nudge seemed to want to engage in conversation for some reason, which was plucking her last nerve.

  “Yeah I had hoped to get a seat in first class or at least business class, but I had to change flights at the last minute, and this was all they had.”

  Stella turned so that only Alexa could see her and pretended to be him talking, taking great joy in mocking him. Pretentious git. First class, schmirst class.

  It was a shame she couldn’t tell the guy to go to hell, but that wasn’t in her nature. She grew up in an environment of conflict, with warring parents and quarreling stepparents and combative step siblings. She’d become quite practiced at hiding her animosity toward anyone who pissed her off, and she would do so yet again now. But still, it irked her. Especially as she dragged her tired ass to zona quattro.

  The gate agents announced that boarding was about to begin, and she stood helplessly and watched as Alexa and Mr. Romeo cruised right on to the Jetway. Mr. Romeo—as if. He was about as Romeo as, well, hmmm. Actually he was sort of Romeo-handsome. And he was tragic, in that his personality obviously sucked, so that fit into the whole Romeo thing. Maybe he’d swallow some poison over the loss of his first class seat. Isn’t that what that Romeo guy did for Juliet? Then Stella could reclaim his seat on the plane. Did they serve strychnine on airplanes? She could send him a complimentary glass, on the rocks.

  She stood there with the weight of her overloaded purse tugging on one shoulder, her computer bag on the other, watching as streams of people were being allowed onto the plane while her miserable zone-four line stood, constipated. It took forever but finally, they called her group, the last one, naturally, and passengers elbowed their way to get on board. As she wheeled her carry-on suitcase forward, a gate agent halted her right before scanning her ticket.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” she said. “You’re only allowed one carry-on item.”

  Stella frowned. “Yeah. I know. And that’s all I have—this suitcase.”

  The agent pointed at her shoulders. “What are those?”

  “My laptop and my purse.”

  The gate agent pinched her lips shut and shook her head. She held up her pointer finger. “You’re allowed one personal item. You’re going to have to gate-check that suitcase.”

  Stella rolled her eyes. If she’d have just boarded before half the city of Milan got on the plane, no one would have breathed a word about that. But with all those people hauling all that luggage—most of them far more than she had—it figured they were going to run out of room for carry-on bags. Meanwhile she had all of her precious cake-decorating equipment in the suitcase, which she’d brought along to Florence in case of last-minute repairs to her cake. She couldn’t afford to lose those supplies because she couldn’t afford to replace them. This was her livelihood. But what could she do?

  She heaved a sigh, grabbed the baggage-check ticket from the gate agent, and relented, handing over her luggage.

  It wasn’t till she was on the plane, her luggage long separated from her, that she remembered she’d tucked her breakfast into the rolling suitcase, in which she’d also stashed some of her favorite Italian cheese and salume. And wouldn’t you know, when she arrived at her seat, she was sandwiched between a very large man, whose spread legs had spilled into her personal space by about five inches, and a child, whose middle name, she was sure, was “contagion,” what with a whooping cough sound wheezing from his chest and a booger-encrusted nose that totally grossed her out to look at.

  At the rate things were going, this day could only get better. Or at least that was the optimistic take she was going to try to pretend to believe.

  The upside was minus the rolling luggage, at least there was no last-minute desperate search for enough overhead bin space to jam her supersized carry-on bag. But of course she had to wedge her laptop bag into a compartment in the far back of the airplane, which meant she’d have to wait for everyone else to get off the plane before she could walk the opposite direction of exiting passengers to recoup her bag. Lovely. Sleep was guaranteed to elude her for as long as humanly possible today.

  Once she finally settled into her seat, she carefully inspected the safety card. If there was to be a crash landing, she wanted to know how to get out of this tin can in the air. Then, taking care to turn her head away from Typhoid Tommy next to her, she discovered the airline offered up a clever little app called Seat Chat, which allowed passengers to send messages to friends who were in other sections of the plane, using the screen in the headrest in front of them. If she couldn’t sit next to Alexa, at least she could communicate with her. Far be it from that goon to have done the gentlemanly thing and offer his seat so that she could sit next to her good friend.

  She pressed the screen and typed in the seat number she wanted to send to.

  Hey, girl. It’s me. Stuck in passenger hell between a diseased boy determined to take advantage of my sleep-deprived immune system and share his germy air with me and a space-violating man even more obnoxious than that cranky seatmate of yours, the blue-blooded Mr. First Class Jerk who kicked me out of line with you. What a douche. This guy next to me has, by the sheer dint of his size, taken over half my available space and I am not amused.

  She paused for a moment and shoved back at the invasive man’s leg that was closest to her before she resumed typing.

  But getting back to that guy next to you—I mean seriously. Who died and made it his business where I stood or what zone I entered through? I hate arrogant men like that. If he was actually a nice man, he’d have done the gentlemanly thing and offered to switch seats so you and I could sit together. Instead I’m sure he’s sitting there looking all hot with his bedroom eyes and ugh, I couldn’t help but look—with Italian men and those tight pants, how could you miss it?—he was seriously packing.

  Hope that thing doesn’t get in the way of your seat. Ha ha! Now that makes me laugh—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. In your personal bubble, no less. Omigod, that thought sends shivers down my spine. I needed a good laugh after the past few hours. Man, I’m so freaking exhausted. I cannot wait to burrow under my duvet and crash out for about twenty-four hours. By now I’d be napping happily were it not for the jerk with the big dick. Or is he the big dick with the big dick?

  She snickered and the infectious boy next to her looked at her oddly.

  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. But you’re too smart for that. Maybe when he’s not looking, you can spit in his drink or something. I’d appreciate the passive-aggressive gesture on my behalf. Oh well, I wish I had one of those hospital masks to cover my nose and mouth against the crud little junior here is spewing my way.

  She reread it and laughed again at her smart-ass comments. Oh, God, Alexa will be peeing her pants cracking up at this message. She hit the “send” button, put her seat in its upright position, and awaited takeoff, hoping the rest of the day would be drama-free and filled only with sweet dreams.

  Chapter Two

  Domenico Romeo was frazzled. First he missed his flight because he felt horrible watching the elderly woman trying to manage herself and her gargantuan suitcase at check-in at the airport. How could the poor woman not have anyone in her life to help her out? After watching her nearly fall in the parking lot and then
twice drop her suitcase—the last piece of luggage on the planet without wheels, apparently—he had no choice but to offer his assistance. By the time he got her checked in and to her gate, they’d closed the doors to his plane and he was out of luck.

  He waited at the airport for three hours for the next flight to Paris, choosing to relax with a cappuccino and two espressos at the coffee bar nearest his gate while catching up on the news. Eventually he settled into a comfortable reclining chair and listened to a fellow passenger who decided to sit down at one of those pianos that airports use to keep the flying public from becoming too animalistic when things got bad, which seemed to happen a lot these days. At least in America, from what he could see on the news. He figured Italians were too civilized to stoop to that sort of behavior.

  That meant people needed to be respectful of the rules of air travel, and it was one of those pet peeves he had when people acted as if they were above those guidelines. Maybe it was a relic of growing up in a house with much mayhem after his father passed away. It seemed that some level of civility devolved after his father’s unexpected death. Domenico was young enough to be powerless over how things unfolded, how each of his six siblings reacted to the loss of their father, some acting out badly, and how the light in his mother’s eyes switched off overnight. It was then that he determined that rules would make him feel more safe and secure—structure, predictability. These things helped him fend off the fear that lurked deep in his soul about how life could change in an instant, and you’d be left with no control over the outcome.

  His siblings fed him enormous amounts of shit for being this way. Lorenzo always said he had a stick up his ass. Valentina called him Domenico the Dominant. Ha ha. Francesco said he was uptight and needed to get laid. But that wasn’t the problem—he’d had plenty of sex with a variety of women on a regular basis. Granted maybe it was a little overly controlling sex, and maybe that made the women he’d dated somewhat annoyed with him, but oh well. He needed control over things in his life. Period.