No Romeo (My Kind of Hero #1)

Chapter 1

EVIE

Pockets. The one day in a woman’s life she’s denied a purse, she should at least have pockets.

This gown was probably designed by a man.

Words hum around me like a tune I can’t catch, the papers jammed down the front of my dress prickly and annoying. I should’ve decreased the font and printed them out again or just used my phone. I should’ve—

“Marriage is the union of two people ...”

I shake off the unfinished thought as the celebrant’s declaration yanks me back to the moment with such clarity. I shouldn’t be here at all.

“... voluntarily entered into for life and to the exclusion of all others.”

A wave of rage washes over me. I thought those were the rules too! It takes everything I have not to burst She-Hulk-style from my dress. Hulk smash! Hulk maim! Hulk rip off the groom’s testicles and wear them as dangly earrings!

“Are you, Evelyn, free lawfully to marry Mitchell?” Her tone is sweetly resonant as she turns a warm smile my way.

She-Hulk needs to concentrate.

My gaze slides to the man at my right, my fiancé, as handsome as he’s ever been, in an impeccably cut dark suit. His hair gleams russet in the light, his faint smile meant to reassure as he mistakes the tears that suddenly well in my eyes.

Oh, honey, that’s not love shining there. Try murderous intent.

It’s good for him that I, as a veterinarian, swore an oath to use my skills for good, because I was sorely tempted to swing by the clinic this morning to pick up a little something to put him out of my misery.

“Evelyn?”

Jerked from my thoughts, I notice the celebrant’s worried frown. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Are you free to marry Mitchell?”

“I am.” My husky-voiced answer is technically correct. I am free to marry him. Whether I will is another question.

“And are you, Mitchell, free lawfully to marry Evelyn?”

“I am.” He smiles again, because ignorance is bliss. Ask me how I know.

“Now that you have both declared ...” The celebrant’s words trail away, the room suddenly echoing as I raise my hand. “You have a question, Evelyn?”

“Um, yeah.” So many, the first of which is, How did it take me until this morning to see Mitchell for what he really is ? You might say the veil was plucked from my eyes right before its pearl-encrusted comb was poked into my head.

“Evie?” Mitchell’s expression falters, his eyes darting over my shoulder to Jen, my maid of honor. She needs a new title. A few unflattering options spring to mind, but first:

“Before we get to the ‘I take thee’ part, I’d like to read my vows.” My answer carries clearly through the hall.

“That part comes in a moment, dear.” The celebrant’s eyes ricochet between us before she adds a quiet “Remember?”

“I do—” I almost roll my eyes. “I mean, I know. But I need to read them now.” I reach into my neckline when Mitchell tries to stop me.

“Babe, there’s a way this has to be done.”

“There’s what’s meant to be,” I say, snatching my hand back, “and then there’s what is.” My fingers tremble as I unfold the sheets of A4 paper with the ridiculously large print as I prepare to make what my mother would call (gasp, horror) a scene. “Mitchell”—my voice is clear and calm—“you are the french fry to my chocolate shake.”

The congregation hums a collective “ ahh ,” and Mitch blows out a relieved breath. I’d call his smile tentative. Short lived, anyway.

“What a shock it was this morning to find you’ve been sticking your french fry into other milkshakes. In other yards.” I shoot a glare Jen’s way. She looks like she’s about to barf.

A giggle or two echo from the small crowd, but when the punch line doesn’t arrive, you could hear a pin drop. Meanwhile, Mitchell looks confused. Time to ditch the subtlety. I give the papers a shake and scan the long line of anonymous text message screenshots I’d gotten this morning.

“Apparently, ‘that thing you do with your tongue is uh-mah-zing .’”

“What?”

“That’s exactly what I said. I feel shortchanged.”

“Evie?” He reaches for me, but I pivot away. Balling up the first sheet of paper, I aim it at his head. Bull’s-eye!

“‘I have never had this kind of connection before,’” I kind of yell. “That one’s from Jen. Which is weird, given I’m the one in the damn dress.”

Color leeches from Mitchell’s face right before I bounce another ball of scrunched paper off his head.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” His words come so quick, they almost trip over themselves.

“I’m thinking you’re a deceitful, two-timing, unfaithful piece of shit!”

Cue an intake of breath from our audience. It seems Mitchell isn’t the only one a little slow on the uptake today.

“Sweetheart, you’ve got this all wrong.”

“I have?” I hold the paper in front of me. “So, when you said you ‘couldn’t wait to get your mouth on Jen’s pussy,’ you were talking about her cat?”

“Give me those.” He grunts as he reaches for the papers.

Oh, hell no. I snatch them away. “Do you think Jen’s cat would be into—oh, wait. Jen only has a dog. I guess she has two now.”

I step backward into the aisle, thankful I didn’t choose a dress with a train. Dropping the first printout, I glide between our guests, who are silent and gawping in their jaunty hats and pastel dresses. Is it weird how I’m only just noticing they’re mostly Mitchell’s friends?

“‘I can’t wait to give you my rock-hard eight inches,’” I announce, flicking the next sheet away. “I hope one of you thought to gift that man a new ruler. Whatever he’s using right now is lying to him.”

Someone snickers. Another barks out a laugh. At the end of the aisle, I swing around to face my lead-footed groom, delivering my finale with, I like to think, aplomb. If my mother was here, she’d probably have a coronary.

“This one’s a doozy ... ‘Next time I see you, I’m gonna suck your brains out from your dick.’” I press a pondering finger to my chin. “I do wonder if Jen achieved her aim. Your brains have obviously migrated to your balls, so that’s like, what?” Holding my finger and thumb a little apart, I add, “Four inches to travel, give or take?” Done, I throw the rest of the printouts up into the air.

I see the moment that this all sinks in—the moment Mitch realizes this isn’t a bad dream. The color that drained from his face moments ago comes rushing back with a vengeance. My heart leaps in my chest as, through the flutter of oversize confetti, he begins to move, sidestepping those who’d stop him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am done with this man. Done with this wedding. But please help yourself to the champagne being served in the anteroom. Raise your glasses to close calls and anonymous text messages.” I swing around and tug the door open, my heels ringing against the marble floor as I brush past a server and his silver tray.

Mitchell bellows my name, and a burst of adrenaline courses through my veins.

“Not today, whorey Satan,” I mutter as I pick up my pace, caterers rocking like pins as I bowl past them.

Dammit, I was looking forward to those Thai-spiced prawn canapés.

The sun is almost blinding as I explode from the town hall’s Victorian front doors and almost roll my ankle as I slip on the steps I’d imagined having beautiful wedding photos taken on. I tug off $600 worth of Jimmy Choos, regretfully pitching them behind me.

“Evie, come back!” Mitch yells as the doors bang open a moment later.

I don’t spare him the breath of an answer as I gather the front of my froufrou dress and burst into a barefoot sprint.

“Please, let me explain!”

Not on your life. And his life is right. I’m not running away because I’m afraid of him. It’s more like I’m afraid of what I might do to him. There is no rationalizing this. It’s just a choice between undignified behavior and homicide, and he’s not worth going to jail over.

Where the hell is the car? The wedding venue is on a busy intersection in a no-parking zone. Not that a 1928 Daimler would make any kind of high-speed getaway.

“Evelyn!” Mitchell bellows with a change of tone. “Get back here—we need to talk about this!”

Where is a bus when you need one?

I scan the two lanes of traffic, the lights up ahead set to red. Without a second thought, I slide between two stationary cars and edge my way along the row of vehicles.

“Look, Mummy, a princess!” squeals a little girl from the open window of a car.

“Oy! Cinders! Did your carriage turn back into a pumpkin?” A burst of deep laughter sounds from a nearby van, but flipping them off would be unprincessly. No need to ruin everyone’s day.

When the asshole shouts my name again, I panic and stumble, catching myself on the door handle of a car. I barely register my reflection in the darkened window as I pull myself upright, but I do register the door isn’t locked. I don’t know which of us is more surprised when I tug it open.

“What the—”

“Please help me,” I plead, channeling my best damsel in distress as I throw myself across the back seat, only to realize the man I’m looking at isn’t a driver. He’s the driver. And the man whose lap I’ve literally just thrown myself into?

Well, hot damn.