Romeo (Payne Brothers Romance Book 6)

by Sosie Frost

  In the past, that had included corn whiskey. However, as Sawyer County had gone dry, the alcohol was banned, and the crowds, amazingly, were sparser than usual this year.

  This didn’t bode well for my grand plan at uniting the Paynes and Barlows.

  “Where is everyone?” I asked. “I hope more of the town shows up.”

  Quint shrugged. “It’s still early. Don’t worry.”

  “Did you switch out the cards?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did anybody see you?”

  He didn’t answer as quickly. “Not anyone who would care.”

  “Quint!”

  “Easy. I was stealthy.”

  Quint was about as stealthy as two randy squirrels trapped in a chimney, and he was just as nutty. This was too important of a task for him to fail. Every year at the Butter Festival, two townsfolk were selected to represent Butterpond for an entire year. It was supposedly an honor. Completely randomized, but still a position of great importance.

  The Butter Monger and Mistress.

  And this year it was going to be me and Quint.

  Finally, the town square slowly filled with people, families seeking out the best places to sit around the fountain containing more geese than water ever since Gretchen Murphy, the town’s only patrolling member of the Geese Police, had gone on maternity leave. The prattling of ducks and flapping feathers offered Quint and I some cover, but it was time to make our move.

  “Okay,” I said. “Once they call our names, we have to act surprised. We’ll get on stage, accept our award, and give the most heartfelt and beautiful speech this town has ever heard.”

  Quint nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Most people don’t give a speech.” He frowned. “Most people don’t even admit to winning.”

  “Well, this year, you and I will make it special. This is our only chance to talk in front of the town about how important it is to set aside differences, forgive the past, and come together as one.”

  “Sounds sappy.”

  “Bonus points if we make people cry.”

  “There’s only one problem.” He glanced skyward. I had yet to acknowledge the heavy cloud cover. “How the hell are we supposed to melt the sculpture?”

  The excitement deflated from me. It wasn’t fair. I had everything planned to the minute. We’d written our names on the card for Butter Monger and Mistress, and Quint took care of sneaking it into the pocket of the butter sculpture. We had thought that would be the hardest part, but the seating arrangements for organizing our families proved far more difficult, and the speech had taken all night to write. We’d accounted for everything—the timing of the ceremony, a contingency in the event of any fights or quarrels, in any foreseeable issue with wayward family members, barnyard animals, or drunken townsfolk. I’d even crafted diagrams and uploaded spreadsheets to both of our phones.

  But the only thing I hadn’t considered?

  The weather.

  Traditionally, July in Butterpond meant scorching temperatures, oppressive humidity, and rain at the most inopportune times. But today?

  Overcast. Windy. A couple people even wore jackets. It was like the summer forgot to show up on the one day we needed it to melt the butter statue into a kiddie pool.

  I didn’t want to say it. “It’s not very warm, is it?”

  “I’m sure you could heat it up.”

  Ever the optimist. I sighed. “I might have to. How bad will it look if I hump a statue made of butter?”

  “How bad will it look if I took his spot?”

  “Quint.”

  “Well, it would certainly draw a crowd. You could make your speech naked. Not sure a lot of people would pay attention, but it might resonate.”

  I surveyed the town square. Enough people had finally funneled into the event that it was time for us to part ways. Winning needed to seem spontaneous. A quirky, ironic surprise. But if my family saw me fraternizing with Quint Payne, I’d spend the rest of my time in town cleaning out the deli case that housed the market’s funky, mold-inoculated, fancy-pants cheeses that smelled like feet and tasted even worse.

  I abandoned the statue, hurrying to greet my family and reserve a picnic section on the opposite end of the square from where Quint herded his siblings.

  Only one problem.

  “Where are Duke and Marquis?” I asked.

  Duchess, Contessa, and Regent were never thrilled to attend the ceremony, even on the best of days. They glanced at the blanket and bottled water I’d reserved on the concrete, took one look at the statue, and nearly walked out.

  “They had the common sense to stay in the market,” Duchess said. “And I think that’s where we should go too.”

  “Where’s Grandma?”

  Regent threaded her fingers through her braids. “Grandma disapproves of this event.”

  They had to be kidding. Grandma was a fixture of the historical society.

  “Since when?” I asked.

  “Since last year, when Butter-Jedediah melted everywhere…except for the unfortunate bulge in his pants.”

  Contessa laughed. “Gained a newfound respect for Jedediah. No wonder he had so many wives.”

  Great. No brothers. No Grandma. At least my sisters would hear the speech. It was better than nothing, and, once I had them in our corner, they could help convince Duke and Marquis to end the feud.

  I forced them to sit, patting the blanket. “Well, I’m excited. I think this will be pretty fun.”

  “You’re only saying that because you get to escape town soon,” Duchess said. Her eyebrow arched. “When are you leaving again?”

  I didn’t like her I-told-you-so tone. I liked even less that I didn’t have an answer.

  “Soon,” I said. “All the more reason to spend an afternoon with my sisters.”

  Regent hid behind her sunglasses and lay down to sleep on the blanket. “You’ve got one hour.”

  I’d take it.

  Unfortunately, I needed a lot more time.

  After sixty minutes, Jedediah’s mustache hadn’t even moved. Thick clouds rolled in, but they didn’t have the decency to rain and help erode away the butter. I convinced my sisters to stay for another two hours. But, by mid-afternoon, Jedediah had only melted one creamy finger.

  Butterpond lost most of its patience in the Great Sewage Backup of 2002. Now, we prided ourselves on ruthless efficiency and subsidized plungers available at the municipal center. After three hours of staring at lifeless butter, most of the kids started crying, the band packed it in, and my sisters had gone stir crazy.

  Duchess paced circles around us, hands over her face. “Oh, my God. This is extreme, even for Butterpond standards. I’m out.”

  I dove over the blanket, wrapping my fingers around her ankle before she could get away. “You can’t leave now!”

  My eldest sister dared me with a raised eyebrow. I released my grip.

  “I have a wedding cake I need to sketch so that Emily Barnes can tell me, for the third time, the cake I baked exactly to her specifications was not the red velvet dream she wanted after all.”

  I didn’t want to beg, so I only rose to my knees. “Just a little longer. This is so much fun.”

  “This isn’t fun. This is only marginally better than watching paint dry. The butter man hasn’t even broken a sweat.”

  Shoot. The town square was rapidly clearing of the sparse crowds, impatient children, and sleeping seniors. I spotted Quint, attempting to keep the Payne family in attendance. He did his best to entertain his frustrated nieces and nephews, offering the little ones a song and dance which only seemed to amuse Gretchen.

  This was not going well.

  I blocked my sisters before they could escape. “Come on, guys. This is peak Butterpond. I mean, how often do we get to see a man made out of butter?”

  Duchess counted on her fingers. “About three times a year.”

  That was true. “But how often is he sculpted this intricately?”

  Regent til
ted her head, studying the slug of butter. “I don’t know. I think Labor Day Jedediah is better.”

  Contessa disagreed. “No, I’m partial to Armistice Day. That’s the sculpture of his death, right? When he stood alone against the union troops, and Butterpond was restored to a United States territory?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Duchess said. “It’s butter. Unless this town is going to whip it with a bunch of sugar and flour, I’ve got forty pounds of the stuff coming to room temperature in the market’s kitchens right now. And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I’d rather waste my day in that cramped, hot, thoroughly depressing corner of Duke’s market than sit here any longer.”

  Regent frowned. “It’s not that depressing.”

  Contessa nearly pouted. “You’d think since he was spending our money in the renovation, he would’ve given us a new oven.”

  Duchess didn’t take action, she got even. And Duke would eventually regret banishing his sisters into a tiny, ineffective cubby of a grocery store bakery.

  “You can join us, Lady,” Duchess said. “We’ve got no room for another person between all the ovens, mixers, and fifty-pound bags of flour, but you’re welcome to hang out with your sisters if you’re that homesick already.”

  “I won’t get homesick.”

  Duchess and Grandma were a lot a like—they saw too much, took pride in their intuition, and tolerated very little bullshit.

  “Sure, you won’t.” Duchess smiled. “Because you’re never gonna leave. Face it, Lady. There’s a reason you’re still in Butterpond, and it’s not because your travel arrangements fell through.”

  I ignored my eldest sister and pleaded to Contessa and Regent instead.

  “What if I call you when he’s about to melt?” I asked. “Will you come back?”

  They shared a concerned glance. Great. My sisters were always their own little clique—less a girl squad and more pack of raptors. I’d never quite fit in with them, though they gave me no reason to doubt how much they cared. But we were different. I was bread and water, and they were sugar and spice. I could never understand why they lived their life peering through ovens, and they couldn’t figure out why I wanted to leave Butterpond so badly.

  Of course, I’d never actually told them either.

  Even if they might’ve listened.

  I couldn’t delay them anymore. They gathered the blanket and bottles of water and bolted from the festivities…

  Only to smack directly into the pack of Paynes.

  Cassi herded her nieces-to-be, Gretchen and Micah pushed their strollers with their men in tow, and Glory and Pastor Varius swung baby Lulu between them. It was a beautiful family. Unfortunately, they were still Paynes. My sisters were not as thrilled to bump into them.

  Contessa had a bad habit of saying exactly what was on her mind. Unfortunately, those thoughts always escaped her smart-ass mouth.

  “You know,” she said. “Maybe it would be fun to own a farm.”

  I groaned. Like the day wasn’t cold enough. My sisters had a talent for making situations icy.

  Quint dove for Cassi, but she spoke before he could cup a hand over her mouth.

  “The day a Barlow steps foot on our land is the day this town loses one of their pastry makers.”

  Regent had yet to forgive her for their spat at the church. “We wouldn’t waste any sugar on you.”

  Glory was the minister’s girlfriend and the new wildcard of the family. She hoisted her daughter onto her hip and offered my sister a serpent’s smile.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Glory said. “We wouldn’t eat anything you bake.”

  “Good thing too. With a mouth like yours, we couldn’t stuff enough inside.”

  Okay.

  I guided my sisters away before Cassi leapt over the kids and throttled Regent.

  “Go back to the market,” I said. “I’ll call you when he starts to melt.”

  Contessa sneered. “Don’t bother. If they’re going to be here, we should keep our distance. God knows what else might go up in flames.”

  Julian, Marius, and Pastor V were wise enough to escort their families away from the argument. Cassi, however, needed a little extra encouragement. With one burly, flannel covered arm, her fiancé, Rem, gathered his nieces. In the other, he hoisted her around the waist, carried her a few steps, and gave her a smack on the ass that encouraged her to walk.

  “Not sure I can bail you out of jail for a wedding,” he warned.

  Cassi snarled, staring at my sisters. “It’d be worth it.”

  The families parted. I nearly collapsed. My temples throbbed with a classic Butterpond headache, and I migrated back to the festivities to claim one of the many empty picnic tables.

  Something told me we had run out of time. Our families were not the only ones to leave. A steady stream of people begrudgingly filed from the town square, packing up kids, chairs, and uneaten corncobs that had gone unbuttered.

  Quint kept a respectable distance, sitting at an adjacent picnic table. Not that it mattered. The only ones who remained in our desolate town square were a few very old members of the historical society, two seniors who had fallen asleep in their lawn chairs, and Mayor Desmond determined to make the most of his campaign opportunity.

  “Hey…” Quint wasn’t subtle, masking his question with a giant stretch as he leaned back to catch my gaze. “What the hell have you been texting me all afternoon?”

  I peeked at my phone and sent another swatch of color. This one was a delightful cinnamon, matching the tone of my own skin. I thumbed through the previous texts, admiring the images beige, eggshell, and off-white.

  “Nudes,” I said.

  Quint’s phone clattered onto the picnic table. “Jesus Christ. I never knew I liked being teased so much.”

  “I’m not a tease.”

  “Every single thing you do is a tease, woman. What do I gotta do to make it a promise?”

  If he could have conjured some sunshine to melt the butter, I would’ve hopped into bed with him right then and there. Unfortunately, the temperature dropped yet again, and a blustery wind whistled through the town.

  “You’re a smart guy,” I said. “I’m sure you can figure out what I like.”

  I could almost hear him thinking.

  He hesitated. “Diamonds? Gold?”

  I was a Barlow. How much more jewelry did I really need?

  Besides, I was cheaper than that, though not easier. “How about promises of fidelity and declarations of love?”

  He grunted. “Are you sure I can’t buy you flowers?”

  “I drive a hard bargain.”

  He shifted backwards, and I turned only enough to ensure it didn’t look like I was conspiring with my family’s enemy.

  That only made it more fun.

  “What if I told you I haven’t been with any woman since we started this insanity?” Quint asked.

  I feigned concern. “Oh my God. Do you think you’ll survive?”

  “And here I thought you’d be impressed.”

  “I am surprised you had the restraint,” I said. “I figured you would’ve called some nurses from the hospital by now.”

  Quint did his best to hide the bruise on his arm left by the IV. “I was only looking for your tender loving care, Lady.”

  “You were only looking for a sponge bath.”

  “Still am.”

  Quint abandoned his picnic table and invaded my own. He sat across from me, hands folded, a look of absolute determination on his face.

  “I have a new plan,” he said.

  God save us all.

  I shrugged. “We’re still in the middle of the old plan.”

  “Everyone’s gone. We need a new strategy.”

  As much as I hated the thought of forsaking all my ideas, plans, and intricately drawn diagrams, he was probably right. And, at least for the moment, Quint appeared to be utterly serious. Like he had devised the perfect solution to ending this feud.

  �
�Okay, I’ll bite.” I’d regret this. “What are you thinking?”

  “We have sex.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  He grinned. “You haven’t even heard the possibilities yet.”

  Oh, I knew every possibility. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about those possibilities.

  When a girl got desperate enough, she started thinking all sorts of crazy, beautiful, problematic things.

  “And what would sex with you solve?” I asked.

  Quint offered a cheesy smile. “Well, my dry spell, for one.”

  “You poor thing.”

  “It’s been rough on me these past couple weeks.”

  I offered him my sympathy. “I’m surprised you’re still standing.”

  “You joke, but I made a pretty big sacrifice for this little project of ours.”

  I slowly clapped for him, but I supposed I was being too hard on the playboy. “I guess keeping your pants on is a difficult challenge for you.”

  Those dimples dared to tease me. “It’s been just about as hard as getting yours off.”

  I wouldn’t be shamed for having a modicum of self-control, restraint, and whatever other virtue I could claim without acknowledging that I was terrified by the prospect of giving into him.

  “So, let’s say we have sex.” I wished the word hadn’t given me a thrill. “Then what happens?”

  “It will help us think a lot clearer.” Quint jerked a thumb toward the butter statue. “And that will help us concoct better plans.”

  “All in the spirit of town peace?”

  Quint nodded. “I promise, I will fuck you every which way. On your knees, on your back, on top, and from behind, whichever way will ensure that one day the people of Butterpond can walk down the street without fear of this godforsaken feud.” He placed a hand over his heart as a promise. “I will take that responsibility on for the town.”

  “You’re the hero that nobody needs, Quint.”

  He grinned. “You haven’t heard the best part of the plan.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “We have sex.” He raised a finger before I could interrupt. “And I knock you up.”

  One picnic table was not nearly enough space between us. Did they make full-body condoms? I needed a good half-dozen to make it through this conversation.