Royally Screwed(24)

“’S’up?”

She smiles so sweetly. “Good to meet you, Freddie.”

Out of the side of his mouth he says in a hushed tone, “You were right—she’s really pretty.”

“I told you so,” I hush back.

Then I address her directly. “Olivia, we have a problem that needs immediate rectification.”

“Sounds serious,” she teases.

“Oh it is,” Freddie pipes up.

“My friend Freddie here hasn’t had a decent dessert in months.”

“Months!” Freddie stresses.

My eyes meet Olivia’s. “You wouldn’t happen to have thirty extra pies around, would you?”

Warmth spreads across her face. And gratitude.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”





A few hours later, after Olivia’s stock has been completely demolished—and every pie paid for courtesy of the royal charity—Olivia and I stand side-by-side as the delighted, pastry-stuffed children waddle out the door.

Freddie high-fives me as he goes. “Catch ya later, Nick.”

“Not if I catch you first.” I wink.

When the last one is loaded on and the bus pulls away, it’s just Olivia and I, alone.

“Did you do this just to impress me?”

I slide my hands into my pockets, rocking on my heels. “Depends. Are you impressed?”

“I am.”

I can’t hold back my grin.

“Good. But, in all honesty, I didn’t just do it for you. The one perk of this job is getting the chance to make kids like Freddie happy. Even if it’s just for the day.”

She turns to me. “You’re good with them. With kids.”

“I like children. They haven’t developed ulterior motives yet.”

The air shifts between us, becomes thick with want and words not yet said.

“I’m sorry about flipping out on you yesterday,” Olivia tells me quietly.

“It’s all right.”

“No.” She shakes her head and a lock of hair falls from her topknot, drifting across her smooth cheek. “I overreacted. I’m sorry.”

I catch the curl, rubbing it between my fingers. “I’ll try to keep my nose out of your business.”

And I just can’t resist.

“I’ll focus on getting it into your pants instead.”

Olivia rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing. Because exasperation is part of my charm.

After a moment, her smile stills and she takes a deep breath—the way a first-time bungee jumper would the moment before leaping.

“Ask me again, Nicholas.”

It’s a bit frightening how much I like the sound of my name on her lips. It could easily become my favorite word. Which is damn arrogant, even for me.

“I want to take you out, Olivia. Tonight. What do you say?”

Then she gives me a word I like hearing from her even more.

“Yes.”





I HAVE A DATE. Holy shit.

“How does this look?”

A date with a gorgeous, green-eyed, walks-around-like-a-sex-god man who’s capable of making me orgasm with the sound of his voice alone.

“Little House on the Prairie called—Nellie Oleson wants her dress back.”

Oh, and he’s a prince. A real, live, actual prince—who kisses a lady’s hand and makes orphans smile…and who wants in my pants. Holy shit!

He doesn’t give off the white-horse-riding, one-hundred-percent-“nice guy” vibe, though. He definitely has some asshole tendencies. But that’s okay. I like a little jerky in my men. Sue me. It keeps things interesting. Exciting.

There’s only one problem.

“What about this one?” I hold up a hanger with a black pantsuit clinging to it.

“Great, if you plan on going to a Halloween party as Hillary Clinton from 2008.”

I have nothing to wear.

Usually when women say we having nothing to wear, we mean we have nothing new to wear. Nothing that makes us feel beautiful or hides the few extra pounds we’ve put on because we’ve been hitting the salted caramel ice cream a little too hard lately. And is it just me, or do they freaking make everything in salted caramel flavor these days? It’s my Kryptonite.

But anyway, that’s not the case here, as my darling sister helpfully points out while rummaging through my closet.

“Jesus Christ, Liv, have you even bought any new clothes since 2005?”

“I bought new underwear last week.”

Bikini style, cotton, in hot pink and electric blue. They were on sale, but I would’ve bought them even if they weren’t. Because if I happen to get struck by an Uber driver or hit on the head in some freak scaffolding accident, there’s no way I’m showing up in the emergency room in worn, holey panties. That’s one rock bottom I refuse to reach.