The Romeo Arrangement

“Miss Silk left a message. Perhaps if you’d agree to meet with her in person—”

“I don’t care,” I growl.

My agent, Bebe Silk, cares more about the money I’d make her if I ever returned to the silver screen than anything that has to do with my well-being.

Let her find another golden boy for Hollywood’s spider trap.

Tobin sighs. “You’re going to have to go out in public again eventually, Ridge. You can’t keep yourself exiled indefinitely, and I know Dallas isn’t big enough to satisfy your needs forever.”

“Needs satisfied. We went out yesterday. We had a grand old time with Grady and our new friends.” I stare out the window, wondering if I just saw someone walk past a window in the guesthouse.

Probably not. Unless I have eagle eyes.

“I believe you know what I’m suggesting. Time out, culture and conversation, away from somewhere other than an establishment with Bobcat in the name,” Tobin says dryly. “It’s not too late to meet someone who appeals to you romantically, either. You’re still a young man.”

I whip around from the window as a solid bout of anger rises.

“You done?”

“Forgive me,” he says softly, then turns his eyes back to the sizzling bacon and eggs.

I know exactly what he’s trying to do, and it pisses me off. My nonexistent love life is none of his goddamn business.

But I know he means well. I know he cares. I know he’s the only person on the planet who might even love me, like family, for being Ridge Barnet instead of Dane.

“I didn’t mean to snap. Sorry. But I like the Purple Bobcat, Tobin. I don’t like fucking dating—especially not anyone who’d laugh in my face at the idea of settling down in this town. We’ll still take trips when I’m good and ready. I give you plenty of vacation time; you must have like six months stockpiled since you’ve never taken a day off in ten years. You’re welcome to go wherever you’d like if this place is driving you stir-crazy. I’ll be fine here alone for a few weeks. I do whatever the hell I want.”

“That was perfectly evident last night,” Tobin mutters. “What if that man decides to press charges?”

I step over to the counter and refill my coffee cup.

“That dickhead, you mean? He’s not going to the cops. For Christ’s sake, his name was Jackknife. You don’t get a name like that by being Mr. Rogers.”

“All the more reason for you not to get mixed up with him,” Tobin says with his head stuck in the fridge.

I’ve had it with his lecture.

It’s in his nature, always looking out for me and my interests, often against my own judgment.

Sometimes it helps. Usually it’s nothing but mad annoying.

I don’t have a single regret about what I did last night, though, and won’t let him make me think I should.

“That’s not enough bacon,” I say, nodding toward the pan.

He closes the fridge and straightens to his full height. “How hungry are you?”

“We have guests. Make more.” I set my cup on the counter. “Please.”

He doesn’t respond, just like I’m expecting.

Still, I also know there’ll be plenty of food for Grace and her father when I come back downstairs after my shower. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Tobin may not always like my decisions, but he’s loyal to a fault.

That’s exactly how it happens after I clean up and head downstairs.

The table is set, full of food, and Grace and Nelson are sitting there with Tobin at the table within half an hour of when I’d left the kitchen.

Nelson doesn’t look any better this morning than he did last night.

In fact, he looks a shade paler if it isn’t just the light. There’s hardly any color to his skin. He resembles someone wearing the first layer of the special effects zombie makeup I used to see when I starred in a horror flick.

A frown pulls at my lips. This guy should see a doctor.

“We, um, really appreciate your hospitality, Ridge,” Grace says as the food gets passed around the table. “Last night and this morning.”

I’m glad because hospitality is the last thing on my mind.

Now that I can see her in the clear light of day? I wonder how a bona fide angel made it to this table.

My eyes keep drifting over to her heart-shaped lips as she brings a tall glass of orange juice up to her mouth. The dark blue of her shirt is reflected in her eyes, just a shade lighter, and her cheeks flush soft pink.

A stormy contrast that puts lava in my blood.

Fuck.

She may look like heaven, but my thoughts are in a lower, darker, dirtier place.

I rip my gaze off her, finally, not wanting to be the guy who adds to her woes by leering like a sex-starved dog.

“It’s no problem,” I say. “We like having company, especially this time of year.”