Royally Screwed
Page 11

That is a strong argument.
Wait—no—no, it’s not. It’s a bad argument. A bad, dirty, wild—crap!
Nicholas seems to enjoy watching me think it over.
And, God, do I think about it. I’ll be thinking about it on repeat down to the smallest—and most well-hung—detail after they’re gone. But fantasies aside, I’m just not the kind of girl to go for something like this in real life.
“No.”
“No?” He looks genuinely shocked. And disappointed.
“No,” I repeat. “It would be wrong.”
He rubs his finger along his bottom lip, sizing me up. Speaking of sizing, he has great fingers. Long, with just the right amount of girth, and with clean, trimmed nails. And freakily, Dr. Seuss pops into my head—Oh the places those fingers will go.
There’s something very wrong with me.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Lesbian?”
“No.”
“Then it’s the rightest thing you’ll ever do.”
My chin rises and my arms cross.
“My dignity isn’t for sale.”
Nicholas leans forward, eating me up with his eyes. “I don’t want to put my cock anywhere near your dignity, love. I want to put it everywhere else.”
“Do you have an answer for everything?”
“Here’s an answer—twenty thousand dollars.”
Holy shit! My jaw creaks open and if there were flies, I’d catch them all.
Those gorgeous eyes look deep into mine, pulling me right in. “You won’t regret it, I swear.”
And now thoughts of the money—all that cash—eclipse thoughts of all the sex. The things I could do with that much money…replace the water heater, make a dent in the mortgage payments, put some toward Ellie’s second-semester tuition. Jesus, it’s tempting.
But after the money was gone—and it’d be gone fast—my reflection in the mirror would still be there.
I’d have to look at it every day.
“I guess we were both wrong.” I shrug. “Some things aren’t for sale, for any price.”
Simon claps. “Good for you, sweetheart. Optimism wins the day. This pie is fantastic, by the way—you make these yourself, you said? You should write a cookbook.”
I don’t answer him. Nicholas still holds my gaze—I can’t look away.
“Or maybe I’m just trying to buy the wrong thing. Sometimes the cow’s not for sale but the milk doesn’t always have to be free.”
Okay, now his drunk is showing, because that made no frigging sense.
“You want to explain what that means?”
He laughs. “What about a kiss?”
The breath leaves my lungs in one big swoosh. And what he says next makes it a struggle to replace it.
“If I don’t get a taste soon, I’ll go mad.”
I’ve never thought much about my lips. They’re nice, I guess, naturally plump and pink—and I use lip balm, raspberry flavored, sometimes shea butter—a couple of times a day.
“Five thousand dollars.”
I would’ve kissed him for free. But there’s something exciting—flattering almost, in a sick, twisted way—about him making the offer. Because he wants this bad enough to pay for it.
“Five thousand dollars? For a kiss?”
“That’s what I said.”
“With tongue?”
“It’s not really a kiss without it.”
I hesitate just a moment longer. Long enough for Nicholas to…ruin everything.
“Just say yes, pet. You obviously need the money.”
I gasp before I can stop myself. I didn’t think five words from a stranger could hurt so much. What a dick.
It’s a thousand different things—the humiliation of having my circumstances thrown in my face, the disappointment that this man—this gorgeous, seductive man—thinks I’m some kind of charity case, the shame that comes along with struggling. In a flash, I get a bird’s-eye view of the coffee shop: the chipping paint, the broken lock, the worn chairs and shabby curtains that stopped being chic years ago.
“For fuck’s sake, Nicholas,” Simon says.
But he just looks at me, waiting, those arrogant green eyes alight with anticipation. So I give him what he’s waiting for.
“Hands under the table,” I order.
He smiles wider, puts his flask in his pocket, and does what he’s told.
“Close your eyes.”
“I like a woman who’s not afraid to take charge.”
“No more talking.” He’s said more than enough.
I lean in, keeping my eyes open the whole time, memorizing every angle of that face, feeling his warm breath against my cheek. This close, I can see the shadow of stubble on his chin and for just a second, I let myself wonder what it would feel like scratching against my stomach, my thighs—everywhere.
Then in one move, I pick up his plate—and smash the apple pie in his stupid, handsome face.
“Kiss this, asshole.”
I straighten up and slap the check down.
“Here’s your bill; leave the money on the table. There’s the door—use it before I come back with my baseball bat and show you why they used to call me Babe Ruthette.”
I don’t look back as I stalk toward the kitchen, but I hear a mumble.
“Good pie.”
And as if I didn’t know already, I’m sure of it now: men suck.