Romeo: A Payne Brothers Romance Read online

  “Quint?”

  My mind blanked. What would reach my mouth first—the practiced lines or the scrambled eggs I’d made for breakfast?

  I flinched away from the mess of melon, but cupid’s arrow had ricocheted off my heart and imbedded in my bum. Down I tumbled, slipping over the fruit.

  Quint hollered, but I missed his outstretched hand.

  And the sleeve of his shirt.

  And his belt…

  But I did manage to grab a fistful of what was probably the most unique part of him.

  My fist clobbered him between the legs, and that was how I gave the man-of-my-dreams a painful how-do-you-do.

  Some girls giggled when near the guy they liked. Others blushed. A few even swooned.

  But me?

  I’d accidentally crushed my crush right in the crotch.

  Maybe it wasn’t the traditional way to a man’s heart—but it was a greeting he wouldn’t forget.

  Quint collapsed to the floor, eyes pinched shut, teeth gritted. He waved me away with one hand as I scurried to his side. His other ensured I hadn’t turned all his kibbles into bits.

  “Next time…” He peeked at me, his sea foam green eyes churning with silent agony. “Have a heart—shoot me instead.”

  Oh, no, no, no.

  I covered my face with my hands. “Are you okay?”

  Quint hesitated. “…Did I throw up?”

  “No, but I might.”

  He rolled over, but his laugh comforted us both. That chuckle was always a prelude to some sort of trouble—the type only he could escape with his classic, sweet-as-sin smile.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here…” He tried to get up. Failed. “But ow.”

  He reached under his back and handed me half of the crushed watermelon.

  “Oh.” I sucked in a breath. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. Pretty sure the rest is lodged up my ass. Never pestering a girl to do that again...”

  I took the rind from him. Our fingers brushed. The juice stained his hand. Calloused. Rougher than they used to be. He rubbed his face, grimaced as pulp burned his eyes, and then resigned himself to the floor. I plunked down next to him, gnawing on my bottom lip.

  Even flat on his back, Quint was strong. I’d always admired that about him—the youngest of the farm boys working in the fields tossing hay and running equipment. Now that he was all grown up, the work suited him more. His shoulders were broad, his skin a deliciously tanned bronze, and his hair sun-kissed blonde. No matter what Butterpond said about him, Quint always had a trick up his sleeve and dirt under his nails. “Didn’t know the market got new security. What do I gotta slip you to let me stay for the party? A twenty? My tongue?”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder. Wanting this man was bad enough. Actually permitting him inside the store today? Bad news. “You Paynes like to play with fire.”

  He pointed at me. “Lies and slander, Lady Barlow.”

  I hoped. “This is risky, even for you.”

  He edged onto his elbows. “I’m looking for a little fun.”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  He peeked down, apologizing as he adjusted himself one final time. “Not that kind of fun. You guys sell ice, right?”

  “I’m sorry.” I leapt to my feet. “I’ll get you some. Stay here.”

  “Not sure I could walk if I wanted to.”

  “Can you hide?”

  Good thing his balls were made of steel. He wasn’t moving. “Believe me, Lady. Your brothers can’t do anything worse to me than you’ve already done.”

  Fantastic.

  I didn’t make it to the ice machine. Didn’t even pass the grapes. A chunk of watermelon lodged in my shoe, and I unceremoniously thunked onto the linoleum.

  “Whoa.” Quint moved quick now, hobbling to my side. “Know what? I’m fine. Taken worse hits from my family. Recently too.”

  What were the chances I could cram him into a shopping cart and wheel him away?

  “You know you really shouldn’t be here, Quint,” I said.

  “Afraid I’ll ruin your party?”

  “It was invite-only…”

  “What’s the point of having rules if you don’t break them?”

  Quint was the sort of man who’d seduce first, ask questions never, and roll with the punches because he always had more fun getting out of a fight then into the headlock. This event was no exception.

  His smile was wish-upon-a-star a girl could make, but it’d only ever get her a happily-ever-one-night-stand. And for most women with limited patience and an itch to scratch, he offered the best of all worlds.

  The last time I’d seen him was over Christmas break, when we’d both auditioned for the role of Sugar Plum Fairy in the church’s Christmas pageant. He’d stolen my part, but the women’s group hadn’t minded once he donned his magenta tights and performed the world’s only Tchaikovsky strip tease.

  The fairy’s plums were indeed the star of the show, and, though entirely inappropriate for a church performance, the town now understood exactly why Quint had such a well-deserved reputation.

  “You’re not gonna tell on me, are you?” he asked. The man should’ve come with a warning—don protective eyewear before gazing directly into the dimples—seek medical intervention or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s if burned. “I’m in your hands, Lady Barlow.”

  I’d practiced for this.

  I’d memorized the words.

  I was ready.

  Unfortunately, my confession retreated from my mouth and back to my stomach where it tussled and turned with my still queasy scrambled eggs.

  “I…Quint…you…”

  What was wrong with me?

  When a girl gave her heart away, her brain went with it. Rationality? Gone. Charisma? Too busy drooling to smile. And coordination? Since when did falling head-over-heels include landing on your butt in the middle of the produce section?

  Fortunately, Quint wasn’t the type to waste a moment in silence—even if it was asked of him. He talked enough for the both of us.

  “I know,” he said. “I don’t have an invitation. But I had to crash Butterpond’s finest social engagement since Mrs. Rutherford’s third wedding. I can’t believe I missed seeing her first husband return from the dead to stop the ceremony.”

  “Only so he could run away with the groom.”

  Quint groaned. “Come on, Ladybug. Help a bored man get some much-needed entertainment. You can’t kick me out.”

  “Don’t be silly…” The words breathed from my parted lips. “You’re the one I want here most of all.”

  I’d said it. Heard myself say it. Regretted saying it.

  Humiliation felt an awful lot like sticky watermelon drying over my skin.

  Served me right for going off-script. Couldn’t remember any of my practiced lines, but, God save me, I’d remember that idiotic statement for the rest of my freaking life.

  Except Quint leaned forward, his voice low. “I understand.”

  I doubted that. “You…do?”

  “You’re worried about this feud too, right?”

  The relief was orgasmic. I nearly groaned in pleasure. “Yes! The feud! That’s it!”

  “The shit between our families is getting crazy,” he said. “If I could, I’d sneak my brothers in here too—just so we could sort everything out like men.”

  And we could just tear down the walls and set the rest of the store on fire while we were at it.

  “You think World War Butterpond is the way to fix things?” I asked.

  “Couldn’t hurt,” he said. Ever the optimist.

  “Every time the Paynes and Barlows try to sort things out, someone gets hurt.”

  “At least I know you hit below the belt.” Quint reached for me, picking a watermelon seed off my shoulder. I held my breath, praying he wouldn’t notice the goose bumps chasing his touch. “Wouldn’t have expected a nice girl like you to fight dirty.”

 
My voice almost trembled. “Learned from the best.”

  “Duke?”

  “No. Grandma.”

  He ran a hand through his hair—closely cropped and toasty blonde. “One day, my family might learn to not piss with yours.”

  If they hadn’t yet, they never would. Our families had always existed in a state of uneasy peace—at least, until this past spring when all hell had broken loose. The Paynes’ nephew had gotten himself into trouble with a batch of fireworks, the market’s dumpster, and a considerable amount of damage to our electrical system.

  Now both sides drew the battle lines. Open warfare made it difficult for a girl to justify a crush on one of her family’s worst enemies.

  “Not sure either family will last the summer,” Quint said.

  “Not with this mess.” I kicked a fallen apple away. “We had a truce when I left. What happened since I was in Colorado with my parents? I come home, and someone’s dug trenches outside the municipal building.”

  “Technically…” Quint hobbled to his feet and offered me his hand. “That’s a new sewer line.”

  Was it the watermelon pulp sticking our palms together for that extra heartbeat, or had I imagined the perfect touch?

  “So, who put the barbed wire around it?”

  He had an innocent face that fooled no one. “That’s chicken wire, but it can’t even keep Helena in her coop.”

  “You did it?”

  “Thought it’d be funny.”

  “Did anyone else laugh?”

  It never mattered to Quint. “Butterpond is getting humorless in its old age.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I might have started a war.”

  I batted his hand away before he stole a grape from a nearby bin. “Again?”

  “One of the reenactment troops commandeered the trench during the night.”

  This didn’t surprise me at all. “Better than them sandbagging Main Street during the Fourth of July parade. Again.”

  “Problem is Nick’s N’Actors formed a coup and separated from Tony’s Troopers sometime last fall.”

  “This whole town is falling apart.”

  Quint shrugged. “Nick’s group decided to stage the trench for a World War II battle, and the public works guys fixing the line got pissed—especially about the mustard gas.”

  “You’d think Butterpond would know better than to play with chemicals—especially after the accident that blew up the equipment room at the community pool.”

  Quint flinched. “Yeah…that was us too.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Blame Tidus. He was the one smoking.”

  “Don’t tell me these things…” I plugged my ears. “I’d like to have a little plausible deniability.”

  “Don’t worry. This time it wasn’t chemical warfare. Just a fog machine.”

  I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “And where did they get one of those?”

  He feigned innocence. “Who am I to stand in the way of a reenactor troupe’s authenticity?”

  “You haven’t changed a bit, Quint Payne.”

  “And I won’t…not if I can help it.” He crossed his arms, and I pretended to ignore how his biceps bulged under his t-shirt. “What about you, Ladybug?”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ve changed.”

  I regretted not unfastening the top button of my blouse. “You think?”

  “You grew up. Busted out of Butterpond. And now, look what’s happened. The town’s gone to pieces without you.”

  Oh, he wasn’t pinning this chaos on me. “Butterpond lost its marbles long before I left.”

  “But now it’s worse. We’ve got two Pacific Theaters staging in the park, and neither of them is showing anything Marvel. The knitting clubs made scarves to hang each other. The mayoral race might make Butterpond secede from the union. And our families?” He arched an eyebrow. “Place your bets. It’s gonna get ugly.”

  “And that’s exactly why I left,” I said. “Butterpond doesn’t need newly renovated supermarkets or a bar that’s allowed to serve alcohol—it needs padded walls and happy pills.”

  “That’s what makes it great.”

  “That’s what made me leave,” I said.

  “Yeah, but every circus needs a ringleader…” Quint winked. “I shouldn’t have let you leave.”

  He had a variety of options available to tether me in place now. An engagement ring. Handcuffs. A simple please.

  But that fantasy was dangerous. It’d consumed too much of my life already.

  “I don’t belong here,” I stood and shuffled my way to a roll of paper towels next to the produce bags and started to clean up. “I want to see the world. Explore the exotic and wild. See what’s beyond all the small-town shenanigans and maybe…”

  Quint leaned closer. “And maybe…”

  No sense in lying. “Get swept away in a whirlwind romance in a faraway land.”

  “Much easier to get laid in the local Holiday Inn.”

  “Pass.”

  Quint didn’t understand me, but I didn’t think he ever would. “What does the rest of the world offer that Butterpond can’t?”

  Easy. Leaving Butterpond would grant me an escape from him, where I could end this crush, repair my heart, and hopefully find happiness beyond a girlish fantasy.

  “We’ll find out.” I did my best to puddle the pulp in one area for easier mopping. “I’m leaving in a week. Paris first, then Amsterdam, London for a month, then I settle at Edinburgh. Might start some classes at the university.”

  Quint snorted. “You want culture? Look around. Butterpond’s got culture coming out its ass.”

  He pointed behind me. Yes, Butterpond had a distinct history, one which my family had elected to tribute by constructing a life-sized effigy of our town’s founder, Jedediah Butterpond, out of carrots, cabbages, and potatoes. Grapes for eyes, cauliflower for teeth, and Xanax for all the kids he’d traumatize.

  Good ol’ Jedediah wasn’t our only questionable décor. Duke had commissioned an ice sculpture in the shape of a shucked ear of corn to celebrate our new contract with an area farm with prices that would ram that corn somewhere very unpleasant. Unfortunately, in the few hours it’d taken to finalize the grand opening preparations and pass one final electrical inspection, the ice had melted. What remained of the corn with a coquettish dip of its husk had transformed into a sculpture more fitting of Trisha Taylor’s infamous bachelorette party.

  “Think you’re gonna find something better than this in Europe?” Quint asked.

  “Maybe in a darkened alley.”

  “That’s the best kind of fun.”

  I wagged a finger at him. “We’re not looking for fun today. This grand opening is more important than fun.”

  “Nothing is more important than fun.”

  “And therein lies the difference between the Paynes and Barlows. One of many.”

  Quint possessed a rugged, secret-agent jaw line, but his near-permanent smile softened his features, even when insulting the Barlows.

  “Know what your family’s problem is?” he asked.

  This I had to hear.

  I hummed. “We aren’t flame retardant? We tend to smolder when Paynes set off fireworks in our dumpsters? That we worry when we’ve made a fruit salad out of brand new floors?”

  “Your problem is that you listen to unsubstantiated rumors.”

  I treaded lightly. “The sheriff told us what happened with your nephew and the fireworks.”

  “And you believe the police?”

  “Generally…but my family tends to stay out of jail.”

  At least he laughed, though he didn’t deny it.

  “Look, I know what the Barlows think of us,” he said. “And I know what we think of the Barlows.” He summarized two decades of pranks and fights, feuds and legal disputes with a casual shrug. “But I think you’re different, Lady.”

  That very much depended on his definition of different. “You do?”r />
  “You like me.”

  Uh-oh.

  My throat closed like I’d wandered too close to our pre-packaged shrimp. I stumbled backwards, crashing into the display of those damned bright red cherries.

  Just my luck.

  Quint didn’t let me speak. “And I know, I know. I’m a likable guy.”

  Did he have to say it while holding a bulging, overly ripe zucchini?

  “You and me can see beyond the family feuds,” he said.

  I took the vegetable from him before he attempted to juggle it with a tomato and radish. “You got me.”

  “We could actually be friends.”

  My heart lurched. The zucchini popped in my hand, and a jet of creamy seeds erupted from the end.

  “I’d…like that.” I cleared the panic from my throat. “Very much.”

  “Got a feeling world peace starts in Butterpond,” he said.

  “That’s a lot of pressure.”

  “Nah.” His eyes brightened, a flash of playful excitement. “Just gotta believe me when I say I’m not here to start any trouble.”

  “Good. Because I’d have to have to get tough on you.”

  “Tough, huh?” His laugh was unwarranted.

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “A nice girl like you?” He snorted. “But you’re such a…”

  “Such a what?”

  He didn’t answer, and I dared to poke his arm. God, every inch of this man was a prime cut of perfect beef.

  Quint was a goofball, but he wasn’t a dummy. “…Bookworm.”

  “Oh, yeah? I’d rather be a tough bookworm than a town nuisance.”

  Two dimples appeared in his cheeks. “Rather be a pest than a nerd.”

  “Trouble-maker,” I said.

  “Goody-two-shoes.”

  “Payne.”

  “Barlow.”

  How was a girl supposed to breathe around a guy like him?

  My heart thudded hard enough to bruise my lungs, and the rest of me just enjoyed the beating.

  I had to know.

  What harm could come from simply asking the question?

  My bags were already packed, my itinerary set. If I confessed my feelings, what was the worst that could happen? Either I’d find out my lifelong crush felt the same…or I could escape on my travels, heart-bruised but finally prepared to open for another.