“Are there any other kind?” I asked. “Coming right up.” I stacked the empty glasses on my tray and hoisted it to my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Artie said. “Things are looking a little fancier around here since the remodel. Look at that jukebox. The music’s changed up a bit since the new owners took over. I wanted to hear “Born to be Wild” and emptied my pockets looking for quarters. But when I walked up to that machine, dang if it accepted my debit card as well as my coins. Maybe the new management will serve organic pretzels. Or even—gluten-free.”
“And maybe we’ll all get a pony for Christmas. It’s a bar, Artie. We serve drinks, not Happily-Ever-Afters. Or pixie dust. Dreams don’t come true. It won’t happen for you. Accept that and you’ll enjoy your pretzels the old fashioned way—stale.” I strode away from their table.
“It’ll be Christmas before you know it, George Bailey—I mean—Lucy Trabbicio.” Mr. Fitzpatrick said. “What do you want for Christmas, Lucy?”
“My two front teeth,” I said. “Because I no longer believe in It’s a Wonderful Life or Zuzu’s petals.”
“Aw, come on! You gotta ask for more than that,” Artie said.
“Fine. I’ll hold out hope for you on the organic pretzel thing.” I smiled at them, then turned and schlepped my tray to the long, mahogany bar.
I unloaded the empty glasses onto the rubber mat. “I need two Jack and Cokes, two Stolis on the rocks and one fake lemonade. Hey Buddy—how did you find the bucks to buy out Mark Whitford and lose his crowd of dickwipes?”
“Yes on the drinks, but hell no on the buy-out, Luce.” He mixed and poured cocktails from behind the bar. “I didn’t have the cash. Some swanky corporation did the deed.”
I looked up at the banner of the dance floor emblazoned with the words, “Ladies’ Night Out every Thursday at MadDog. Because—Hell yeah!”
I smiled. “I’m liking the job the new majority share investors did updating the joint. A dance floor? A jukebox with better tunes? Score! And Ladies’ Night? What does that include?”
“Two for one specials on drinks for the ladies from five to seven p.m. A little entertainment. Some swag. Festivities.”
“Festivities?” Alida hustled up to the bar and unloaded her tray of dirty glasses. “A pitcher of margaritas, that new champagne that’s on the menu and a pitcher of pineapple daiquiris. Real pineapple is requested. Not that fruity make-believe crap. Do we even have real pineapple? Like what kind of festivities?”
Buddy shrugged. “Up to the new majority share owners. I don’t know the details. They informed me a couple of hours ahead of time. Said it was on the itinerary and it’s all just supposed to just magically unfold. Tonight’s the first night. Let’s see how magical it is.” He loaded up my tray with drinks.
“Have you actually met the new owners?” I lifted the tray and hoisted it onto my shoulder.
“Nope. The attorneys walked me through the paperwork. Step by excruciating freaking step. Which reminds me.” He stepped out from behind the bar, walked to the jukebox and slid a credit card through the slot.
“Buddy!” Alida squealed. “You have a lower body!”
“Yes, smartass,” he said. “Want to do something with it?” He punched a few keys in the music box’s keypad. “I was instructed by MadDog’s new co-owners to play this song at,” he looked at the huge clock on the wall that hung over the front door, “now.”
He stepped onto the dance floor and waved his arms in the air. “Quiet! Quiet please!”
The crowd hushed.
“As you know, we here at MadDog have loved our customers like crazy for nearly the past four decades. But we’ve been through some changes in the past year. And change isn’t always easy. So—thanks for sticking with us. We’re under new management—again. I’m proud to announce that tonight is our first Ladies’ Night. So if you have any requests, make them known. All liquor is two for one for the ladies! And that includes the good stuff. Thank you. My name is Buddy Paulsen. Co-owner of Mad-dog.” He bowed.
“Get off the fucking stage, Buddy,” Mr. Fitzpatrick yelled. “Attention hog.”
“It’s not a stage, Easy Rider, it’s a dance floor,” Buddy said as he made his way back behind the bar.
“Ladies’ Night” by Kool & the Gang blasted from the bar’s speakers. A few people actually got up from their tables and danced.
“Seriously?” I asked.
“It’s a popular song from the 70s.” Buddy shrugged and poured beers. “You of all people like that music.”
My gaze was drawn to a four-top table of folks in the far corner of the bar. They wore matching pink ball caps, dark sunglasses and black leather bomber jackets. They hunched over their drinks as they talked amongst themselves. There was a bottle of champagne resting in a stand-alone cooler next to the table.
“Psst! Alida!” I said.
“What?”
“That’s your table, right?” I nodded at the four-top.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Something’s slightly off with them. Who wears sunglasses at nighttime in a bar? And the matching hats. From the looks of them I’d say they’re in a sorority—which means they’re probably underage and we could totally get in trouble and be shut down. And not to be selfish, but I really don’t want to be looking for another job again any time soon.” I squinted. “Except, from here, one of them looks like an older man. Or a very challenged-in-the-looks-department older woman.”
“Yeah, one of them is definitely an older guy.” She loaded up her tray filled with glasses, pitchers and a sweaty bottle of champagne.
I stared at the bottle of bubbly and my eyes widened. “That champagne’s not on our menu. That’s…”
“2004 Perrier-Jouet Belle Epoque Rose Cuvee,” Alida said. “And surprisingly, yes, it’s now on our menu. How fucking weird is that? So far I’m liking MadDog’s new owners.” She hustled in their direction.
“Wait!” I exclaimed as I broke out into a sweat. “Can we switch? Like, seriously, I have a reason for asking. I’ll take their drinks and you take mine to my guys in the corner.”
Alida shook her head. “Sorry, mi amiga. I’m under strict orders to be their only cocktail waitress tonight. That might sound weird, but they offered me a huge tip. I need to pay for Mateo’s Christmas presents. You cool with that?”
“Yes. Yes. Go!”
There’s no way it could be. It simply wasn’t possible. Note to Lucy: get real!
I meandered back to my guys’ table and unloaded their drinks and a big basket of pretzels. “Sorry, Artie. I fear the pretzels are still stale.”
When all the lights went out in the entire bar, only to be replaced with twinkly lights from hundreds of strands of Italian light bulbs that lit up the room like it was a Christmas parade.
I heard Alida burst out laughing from the other side of the bar. The jukebox launched into “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)” by Beyoncé and the next thing I knew the pink hat gang was on the floor dancing.
I saw a few bump and grind dance moves that reminded me of my Bachelorette Party at Club Centralaski. The tall older dude wearing the pink hat kept his head down and made his way gingerly to the mic.
I wobbled for a second as my free hand flew to my chest. “Oh holy crap!”
Mr. Fitzpatrick pulled out an empty chair from the table. “You need to sit down for a second, Lucy. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
“Thanks, but no. I’m fine, really. I’m just fine.” I stayed standing.
“On behalf of the new co-owners of MadDog,” the man said into the mic, “we’d like to welcome you to the first Ladies’ Night. We’d like to dedicate this event to one of our favorite ladies—Lucy Marie Trabbicio.” Mr. Philip Philips looked up, smiled and pointed to me. “That’s her, right there.”
“Ack!” I screamed as Cheryl Cavitt Carlson and Joan Brady made their way across the bar, grabbed my arms and escorted me to the dance floor. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked. “Ho
w did you find me?”
“We bought the place,” Cheryl said.
“We have our ways,” Joan said. “Jeez, Lucy—I’m a barrister. I have a million connections.”
Two more pink hats pulled something bulky into the middle of the dance floor and whipped off a cover —it was a petite, gilded throne with a pink, velvet seat.
“Sit down, Lucy,” Duchess Carolina von Sauerhausen said.
“But, but…” I said. “I’m working.”
“Your shift’s over for the evening.” Esmeralda pushed me back onto the chair. “We have a different part-time job for you tonight.” She looked around. “Who has the scepter? Did we forget the scepter?”
“It’s in my satchel under the table,” Mr. Philips said.
“Ew, Philips, you carry a man purse,” Esmeralda said.
“I’m European!” He said.
Cheryl strolled to their table, leaned down and rifled through it. “Got it.” She held the small, golden scepter in the air and walked back.
The crowd was hushed except for Alida who shoved her hands over her mouth, but couldn’t stop giggling.
“Go ahead, Mr. Philips,” Esmeralda said.
He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, held it up in the air and read it into the mic, “We, the citizens of Fredonia—,”
“There are five of you here,” I said. “That does not constitute an entire country.”
“Shut up Lucy,” Esmeralda said.
“We organized a Changesdotorg petition. We received over one million signatures from Fredonia citizens,” Joan said.
Mr. Philips harrumphed. “We, the citizens of Fredonia, on this date do solemnly declare that Lucy Marie Trabbicio of the hamlet of Chicago in the country of the United States forthwith be called Lady Lucy Marie Trabbicio, aka, Lady with a Royal Fredonia Heart.”
Esmeralda, Cheryl, Joan, Carolina joined hands on the scepter and—
“Hang on!” Joan said and let go of it. She grabbed a tiara that dangled from the arm of the throne and placed it gently on my head. “Perfect,” she said. “Okay, now.” She placed her hand back on the other hands. “On three. Two. One.” They anointed me.
And I burst into tears.
The entire MadDog crowd leapt to their feet as they applauded and stamped their feet. There were even a few wolf whistles. All my ladies, including Alida, hugged me. Someone handed me a glass of champagne.
“Oh my God!” I said. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
Someone changed the music to my favorite song, “Wild Thing” by the Troggs.
“You even remembered my favorite song!” I wiped a few tears away.
“That’s not all we remembered, honey,” Esmeralda said.
The door to MadDog opened with a bang. And perhaps I was hallucinating, or perhaps I was drunk on adrenaline, or perhaps the gods smiled upon me and saw fit to shower me with pixie dust—because I saw Prince Nicholas of Fredonia walking toward me.
His hair was still black, his eyes still blue. He wore jeans, scuffed boots, a black leather biker jacket and a big, fat smile on his gorgeous face.
“Oh my God!” I said. “Oh my God!” I nearly dropped my champagne glass, shoved it at Cheryl and white-knuckled the throne’s arms.
“I missed you, Lucy,” he said and unzipped his jacket. “My turn to ask a question. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I missed you too, Nick. I tried to tell you. My turn to ask a question. What are you doing here?”
He pulled a black velvet box from his coat jacket, and got down on one knee. “Because I’m here to ask you a very big question, Lucy. Is it my turn, yet?”
I fanned my face. “Yes,” I squeaked.
He smiled, popped open the lid on the box and revealed the most gorgeous engagement ring I’d ever seen in my life. “I love you. Will you marry me, Lucy Marie Trabbicio?”
“Yes!” I said.
He slid the ring onto my finger. He placed his hands on either side of my face and kissed me long and slow and sweet. Then whispered into my ear, “It’s always been you, Lucy. It always will be you.”
More champagne bottles were popped open. Toasts were made. And this time I got engaged to the right prince.
And I learned that maybe, if you hold out hope despite disappointments, if you open your eyes to the magic around you, maybe Happily-Ever-Afters can really happen. Maybe fairy tales do come true.
Dear Reader: Thanks so much for reading PART-TIME PRINCESS! I hope you love Lucy and Prince Nicholas’s romantic adventures! Lucy and Prince Nick get married in Royally Wed #2. Oops— things don’t go smoothly….
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Excerpt of Royally Wed
Chapter One
I lay collapsed on my back, naked except for the tiara on my head. An ornate silver cheese platter rested on the bed next to me. “Hey, aren’t we supposed to be attending a surprise party tonight?” I fanned my face.
“No, Lucy.” Prince Nicholas Frederick Timmel of Fredonia picked up the tray and placed it on a nightstand. “But thanks for the appetizers.” He wrapped his muscular arms around me and squeezed me tight as he lay next to me—scratch that—for-the-most-part on top of me, on the king-size feather top bed. “We’ve attended back-to-back pre-wedding galas, cocktail parties, and family gatherings. Tonight is blessedly free. I think you’re simply exhausted from the jet lag and the time change.”
“You mean from our most recent round of toe-curling sex.” I pinched my forearm and reminded myself for the hundredth time that this was not a dream, nor had I been out boozing with my ladies-in-waiting.
“Ow!” Nick said. “You need to be nicer to HRH if you want him to make another royal appearance.”
Oops—that wasn’t my forearm.
“Sorry! I totally thought you were kidding when you told me your—I mean—the little prince’s nickname.” In a former life, I was a cocktail waitress. Now I was engaged to a real Prince, he of the black hair, the blue eyes, and the remarkable royal jewels. How could this be?
“I would never kid about HRH,” Nick said. “He can be overly-sensitive.”
“An admirable trait,” I said. “I don’t know, Nick. I distinctly remember an invitation that mentioned a surprise party. There was a photo of a woman’s finger pressed over her lips and the word ‘Shh!’ was engraved in big black letters on the cover.”
“No, Lucy. You’re remembering that time a few months ago when we visited the Viking Museum in Oslo.” He snuggled his five o’clock scruffy shadow into my cheek and nibbled on my ear. “The docent went out of her way to publicly admonish us.”
“You mean the cranky woman whose face resembled a pickle when she said ‘Shh!’ and told us to ‘cease our boisterous laughter?’”
“The very same,” he said. “I still remember her warm spittle striking my cheek when she uttered the words, ‘Hold opp!’ Emphasis on the hard d and ps.”
“Docent Marte,” I said. “Was she the one who was upset that we were kissing in public?”<
br />
“Kissing?” He waggled his eyebrows. “She complained that I was fondling your—”
“Right,” I said and mimicked Docent Marte’s outraged alto voice, complete with her thick accent. “‘Only women who are BREASTFEEDING are allowed to go TOPLESS in the Royal Viking Museum!’ Jeez! I was totally not topless.”
Nick smiled. “Well sweetie, you kind of were—”
“A nipple slip is technically not topless. I think she was jealous. You had your haircut that week, Nick, and you looked exceptionally handsome. Very rugged. Very royal.”
“You flatter me.” Nick kissed the palm of my hand. “Honestly, Lucy, I don’t remember receiving an invitation to a surprise party. But there are too many invites and far too many bloody events. It makes me want to call off this formal wedding and simply elope.”
“We can’t elope.” I smoothed an errant lock of hair off his forehead. My Nick was in his late twenties with high cheekbones, jet-black hair with a hint of a curl, come hither eyes, and a smoking bod.
“Why not?” He found his way to my neck and buried his lips in its sweep.
I shut my eyes and fantasized for a few seconds that he was a hot vampire, like the one young Brad Pitt played in that movie they adapted from the Anne Rice book. But then I remembered that I bruise easily, and the whole sexy fang thing would grow old quickly when my neck resembled an heirloom tomato. “We can’t elope because we’d disappoint too many people: your mother, my uncle, your grandmother, my ladies-in-waiting—”
“You mean your ladies-in-trouble.”
“Oh, come on!” I bit my lip. “We haven’t gotten into that much trouble lately.”
“The police reports regarding your recent trip to Monaco might have been destroyed but they’re seared into my memory.”
“There’s nothing to remember.” I cleared my throat. “That was a quick weekend ski jaunt to the French Riviera and perfectly innocent. No one was arrested. No one called the police.”
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