Royally Screwed
Page 10

The “sorry mess” raises a silver flask. “And on my way to four.”
I’ve seen my share of sloppy-drunk frat boys in the thrall of an after-party, late-night food binge. This guy hides it well.
The redhead closes his menu. “I’ll have tea and the cherry pie. And peach. And hell, give me a blueberry à la mode as well.”
His friend snorts, but he’s unapologetic. “I like pie.”
I turn to the other one.
“Apple,” he says softly—managing to make the benign two-syllable word sound totally sexy. My pelvis swoons like a romance novel heroine who just saw her Brad Pitt circa Legends of the Fall–like hero riding toward her on horseback.
Either he’s got a lust talisman for a voice box or I’m in serious need of a hookup. Oh, who am I kidding—of course I need a hookup. I punched my V-card when I was seventeen, with my high school boyfriend. Since Jack, there’s been no one—it’s distinctly possible my hymen has grown back. I’m not into one-night stands, and who has the time for a relationship? Not this girl.
The redhead’s phone rings and when he answers the call on speaker, the conversation follows me into the kitchen while I get their order.
“Hello, darling! It feels like I’ve been waiting ages and I was frightened I’d be asleep when you finally called, so I called you instead.”
The woman on the phone also has an accent—she speaks very fast and sounds very awake.
“How many energy drinks have you had, Franny?”
“Three, and I feel amazing! I’m going to have a bubble bath soon and I know how you love me in bubbles, so now we can FaceTime while I do!”
“Please don’t,” that sensual voice says sarcastically.
“Is that Nicholas, Simon?”
“Yes, he’s here with me. We’re grabbing a bite.”
“Poo, I thought you were alone. The bubbles will have to wait, then. Oh, and I’ve made you two new shirts—they turned out marvelous. I can’t wait for you to see them!”
There’s a shrug in Simon’s voice when he explains to his friend, “She’s taken up sewing for a hobby. She likes to make me clothes.”
And he replies, “Can she make herself a gag?”
Which Franny, apparently, overhears.
“Piss off, Nicky!”
After Simon gets off the phone, with a promise to bubble-bath together back at the hotel room, the two men continue to talk in a hum of lowered voices. I catch the tail end of the conversation when I back out of the kitchen door, teacup in hand and pie plates on my arms.
“…learned the hard way. Everything is for sale and everyone has a price.”
“My, but you’re a delightful ball of sunshine when you’re pissed—it’s a shame you don’t drink more often.”
The sarcasm game is strong with Simon.
I feel those gray-green eyes watching me as I place the plates on the table. It’s possible he’s hotter now that I know his name. Nicholas—it’s a nice name.
“What do you think, dove?” he asks me.
I slide his slice of pie in front of him and Simon digs into his blueberry.
“What do I think about what?”
“We were just having a debate. I happen to think that everything and everyone can be bought, for the right price. What do you think?”
There was a time when I was younger, stupider, and so much more innocent about life—like Ellie—when I would’ve said no way. But out in the real world, idealism is the first thing to go.
“I agree with you. Money talks, bullshit walks.”
“Bloody hell, now you’re both depressing me,” Simon says. “I may need another slice of pie.”
Nicholas smiles, slowly—gorgeously. It makes my head feel light and my knees feel weak. And he has dimples—how did I not notice them before? They’re the perfect foil to his fuck-hotness, adding a playful, boyish handsomeness to his already devastating impact.
“I’m glad you said that, sweets.”
And I’m a nanosecond away from giggling like a fool, so I start to beat it out of there. Until that voice—that I’d enjoy hear reading the phone book, if anyone still used a phone book—stops me.
“Ten thousand dollars.”
I turn around, head tilting.
He clarifies. “Spend the night with me and I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”
“To do what?” I laugh, because he’s joking, right?
“The bed is empty and large. Let’s start there and see what happens.”
I glance from him to Simon—to the two guys by the door. “Is this a joke?”
He takes another swig from his flask. “I never joke about money or sex.”
“You want to pay me ten thousand dollars to have sex with you?”
“More than once and in a dozen different positions. I could” —he makes air quotes— “‘woo’ you, but that takes time.” He taps his watch. A Rolex, diamonds and platinum—easily $130,000. “And I’m pathetically short on time these days.”
I snort, getting over the shock. “I’m not sleeping with you for money.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not a prostitute.”
“Of course you’re not. But you’re young and beautiful, I’m handsome and rich. The more applicable question is why aren’t we fucking already?”