Royally Screwed(10)

“You have a baby sister.”

He has three, actually—triplets—Bibbidy, Bobbidy, and Boo. Marty’s mom was still flying high when she filled out the birth certificates, a little mix-up with the meds during delivery. And Marty’s dad, a rabbi from Queens, was smart enough not to quibble with a woman who’d just had the equivalent of three watermelons pulled out of her.

“You don’t piss me off like they do. And because I love you, I feel entitled to say you don’t look like you just rolled out of bed—you look like you just rolled out of a garbage can.”

What every girl wants to hear.

“It was a rough morning. I woke up late.”

“You need a vacation. Or at least a day off. You should’ve come out for drinks last night. I went to that new place in Chelsea and met the most fantastic man. Matt Bomer eyes with a Shemar Moore smile.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “We’re supposed to get together tonight.”

I pass him the coffee filter when the delivery truck pulls into the back alley. Then I spend the next twenty minutes arguing with a thick-necked meathead about why I’m not accepting or paying for the moldy fucking Danish he’s trying to dump on me.

And the day just keeps getting better.

I turn on the front lights and flip the CLOSED sign to OPEN at six thirty sharp. I turn the bolt on the door out of habit—it’s been broken for months; I just haven’t had the chance to buy a replacement.

At first, it doesn’t look like the snow will be a total disaster—we get our coffee-craving, on-the-way-to-work local crew. Along with little Mrs. McGillacutty, the ninety-year-old woman from two blocks down who walks here every day for her “morning workout.”

But by nine o’clock, I flick on the television at the end of the counter for background noise as Marty and I stare out the picture window, watching the snowstorm become the blizzard of the century. There’s not even a faint pulse of customers—it’s dead—so I call it.

“Feel like deep-cleaning the fridge and the pantry and scrubbing behind the oven with me?”

Might as well get some housekeeping done.

Marty lifts his coffee mug. “Lead the way, girlfriend.”





I send Marty home at noon. A state of emergency is declared at one—only official vehicles are allowed on the road. Ellie bursts through the shop like a whirlwind at two, elated that school closed early, then twirls immediately back out to spend the storm at her friend’s apartment. A few random customers stop in during the afternoon, stocking up for their pie fix while hibernating during the storm.

At six, I work on the bills—which means spreading papers, ledgers, and bank notices out at one of the tables in front and staring at them. The cost of sugar is up—shitheads. Coffee is up—bastards. I refuse to scrimp on fruit. I send Marty on regular weekly runs upstate to Maxwell Farms—they grow the best produce in the state.

By nine thirty, my eyes start doing that closing-without-realizing-it thing and I decide to call it a night.

I’m in the back, in the kitchen, sliding a plastic-wrapped pie into the fridge, when I hear the bell above the door jingle and voices—two distinct voices—come in, arguing in that ball-busting way men do.

“My fingertips are frozen, you know. Can’t have frostbite—my fingers are Franny’s third-favorite part of me.”

“Your bank account is Franny’s first-, second-, and third-favorite part of you. And you sound like an old woman. We weren’t even walking that long.”

It’s the second guy’s voice that catches my attention. They both have an accent—but his voice is deeper, smoother. The sound of it feels like slipping into a warm bath after a long day, soothing and blissful.

I step through the swinging kitchen door. And I think my tongue falls out of my mouth.

He’s wearing a tuxedo, the black tie hanging haphazardly around his neck, and the top two buttons of his pristine white shirt are open, teasing a glimpse of bronze chest. The tux hugs him in a way that says there are hard, rippling muscles and taut, heated skin beneath it. His jaw is chiseled—fucking chiseled—like it’s made of warm marble. His chin is strong, beneath the planes of prominent cheekbones that a GQ cover model would kill for. His nose is straight, his mouth full and perfectly made to whisper dark, dirty things. Masculine eyebrows sit above gray-green eyes—the color of sea glass in the sun—framed by sooty, long lashes. His hair is dark and thick—a few strands fall over his forehead, giving him an effortless, edgy, I-don’t-give-a-fuck kind of look.

“Hi.”

“Well…hello.” The corner of his mouth inches up. And it feels…naughty.