Royally Screwed
Page 17

“I like looking at you.”
Whoosh goes my stomach and the whole world spins.
Nicholas casually strolls over to his table, looking so very satisfied with himself.
A few minutes later, behind the counter, Marty leans in close, his brown eyes wild. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got a celebrity customer.”
I start to turn, but he grabs me. “I said don’t look! That’s Prince Nicholas over there or my name isn’t Martin McFly Ginsberg.”
I think Marty’s mom was kind of high when she named him, too.
I lay calming hands on his shoulders. “Yes, it’s him—he came in the other night and yesterday morning.”
He squeals like a teenage girl who just got her driver’s license. “How could you keep this from me?!”
I invoke Pulp Fiction—it’s his favorite movie of all time—and hope it’s powerful enough to keep Marty from freaking out.
“Bitch, be cool. Don’t make a big deal out of it.”
“Bitch, be cool? You don’t know what you’re asking! That boy’s picture hung on my wall for years. I always hoped he secretly played for my team.”
I sneak a quick peek over my shoulder to see if Nicholas is watching.
He is. He waves.
Then I turn back to Marty. “I think I can say for sure that he doesn’t.”
He sighs. “That explains why his eyes are on your ass like a cat chasing a laser beam.” He shakes his head. “Story of my life—all the good ones are straight or married.”
THERE’S A PERVERSE SORT OF PLEASURE in watching Olivia Hammond move. Peep shows have never really been my bag, but at the moment I have a whole new appreciation for the concept.
On the one hand, it’s torturous—the teasing sway of her fine hips as she glides from table to table, the delectable offering of her arse when she bends over to pick up a dish, just waiting to be nipped and kneaded and worshipped. But there’s a simmering enjoyment in it, too—in how her rosebud mouth slides into a welcoming smile, the sweet harmony of her voice, the feel of those exotic dark blue eyes as they drift back to me again and again.
I make a show of opening the newspaper—to at least try to be polite—but for the majority of the time, I stare. Openly. Hell, rudely. My etiquette tutor is rolling in her grave.
And yet, I just can’t be bothered to give a damn.
I want Olivia. In my bed, on my cock, over my face. And I want her to know it.
You can also learn quite a bit about people by watching them. Olivia Hammond is hardworking. It’s there in the way she rubs her neck and arches her back: she’s tired, but pushes on.
Olivia is friendly, a characteristic that’s clear when she approaches my security team and introduces herself. I chuckle when the lads give their names awkwardly—Logan, Tommy, and James—because they’re not accustomed to being the focus of attention; it runs contrary to their job description. But then Tommy gives her a wink, and my chuckle cuts off.
Cheeky bastard—I’ll have to keep an eye on him.
Olivia is kind. That’s obvious when she hands over the prescriptions she picked up for her neighbor, Mrs. McGillacutty, then quibbles when the elderly woman insists on reimbursing her.
And Olivia is trusting—too trusting. I note this when she has a disagreement with an unpleasant, well-dressed customer who seems to have placed an order for fifty pies for a party she’s canceling because of the weather. Though Olivia argues she’s already put out the money for the ingredients—already made thirty of the fifty pies—the woman sneers that without a contract, that’s Olivia’s problem, not hers.
Just after two o’clock, a customer walks in who has a thick neck and HGH-infused arms that make his head look tiny. A pinhead, you could say.
He’s wearing black bike shorts, so ball-strangling-ly tight I adjust my own set in commiseration, and a ripped sleeveless shirt. He comes through the door like he’s familiar with the place—with his arm over the shoulder of a bleached blond, Oompa-Loompa-colored girl, smacking bubble gum with engorged lips.
“Jack,” Olivia greets him. “Hey.”
“Liv! How’s it going?”
“Uh, great.” She leans against the counter.
He looks her up and down in a way that makes me want to jab his eyeballs out. “Man, it’s been, like—five years? I didn’t think you’d still be here.”
Olivia’s head bobs in a nod. “Yep, still here. What’s up with you?”
“Things are awesome. I graduated from Illinois State last year and came back home to open up a gym in the neighborhood. With my fiancé—Jade.” He turns to the woman clinging to his arm. “Jade, this is Liv.”
“Hey!”
“Hi,” Olivia returns. “Wow. Good for you, Jack.”
He holds out a stack of business cards to Olivia. “Yeah, I’m just passing these out to all the local businesses. Could you could put them on the counter? Get the word out about the gym—we open in a few weeks.”
Olivia takes the cards. “Sure. No problem.”
“Thanks—you’re the best, Liv.” He starts to go, but then adds, “It’s good to see you. I really thought you would’ve gotten out of here by now. But, hey—guess some things never change, right?”
What an obnoxious arsehole.
Olivia smiles tightly. “Guess not. Take it easy.”
And he strolls back out the door.