No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

  Three hours, four cocktails, and eleven strikeouts later, I clacked back into my building with head low and spirits lower. I was half-drunk and one hundred percent lonely. And a little miserable. And a lot confused.

  Fuck. What a night. When did the male population become so pitiful? Correction: the teen male population. Clearly, they’d lowered the drinking age in California to sixteen and none of us had gotten the memo.

  Hey, girl. Don’t lock me outta that heaven.

  Hey, girl. You’ll have to ‘scuse me. Gotta fetch the fire extinguisher to put you out.

  Hey, girl. This feels like a fairy tale. Let’s see if my body fits your magic slipper.

  Those had all been before my favorite…

  Hey girl. Your tits are fine. They need to come play. And the rest of you can come along, too.

  I’d walked away. Far away. If not, I would’ve seriously started checking IDs—or recording every line for the book I’d transcribe them into. It’d net millions. I’d probably land on the talk show circuit for a while. If I was lucky they’d book me next to Paul Rudd, and we could run dueling Mac and Me clips.

  Missed opportunities. Story of my damn life lately.

  It wasn’t like I’d been off the scene that long. Things really couldn’t have changed that drastically. And now I was going to rock a nasty hangover and an unfulfilled pussy. Dammit, I couldn’t spend another night with my vibrator. I was so sick of that plastic excuse for hot-blooded cock. No way. Couldn’t do it. Not again.

  I stepped into the elevator while fumbling for the key fob for access to the VIP floors of the building. But before I got to it, my grip slipped on my phone.

  Smash.

  The thing hit the elevator’s floor at full velocity.

  “Fucking. Perfect.”

  I couldn’t wring out any more sarcasm as I picked it up and glared at the crack across the lower right corner of the screen. Adding insult to injury? As the lifts doors closed, a rousing Musak version of Master and Servant began.

  I suffered in silence as the lift climbed toward the fifteenth floor. At least something around here was getting action from a shaft tonight.

  I just wanted to shower off the bar stench—in cold water—and climb into bed. I considered calling in sick tomorrow morning. Claire had commented how hard I’d been working. I could pull off a sick day and no one would blink an eye.

  In the end, I went for a long, hot shower—and the resolve that four cosmos, a bad band, and three dozen assholes weren’t going to take away a perfectly good work day from me. What would I do with it, anyway? Mope around about he-who-wouldn’t-be-named? I’d feel better after a good night’s sleep, which couldn’t come soon enough.

  With the bad memories of the night washed away by my lavender shampoo and rosemary soap, I felt coherent again. After slipping into my favorite silk pajamas, I grabbed my phone for one more email scan while I settled into bed. Swiping past the crack wasn’t a problem, thank God—though not giving in to the temptation of Michael-oriented thoughts wasn’t as easy.

  Shit. I’d done it. With his name back out in the universe, coupled now with my impaired judgment, I decided to put my liquid courage to use and send the recluse a text.

  One text. One.

  I nodded groggily. One wouldn’t hurt. I deserved it, dammit. The miserable attempt at a night of fun and fornication had only led to a thousand more thoughts of him, nameless and all. Maybe touching base would scrub him off my mind, too—at least for a little bit.

  :: Thinking of you. Sleep well. ::

  I blinked hard at the text that came back. Then swore like a sailor.

  :: Who is this? ::

  I didn’t know what to say. “Who the fuck is this?” Well, that was something. Just not the right something. Obviously.

  What the hell was going on? While I fought back thoughts of him like a swoony girl half my age, was Adonis-on-the-mountain juggling so many girls, he couldn’t keep track?

  Fury blazed. I’d turned down a parade of himbos willing to come back here and service me with their young, nubile cocks—even it meant drawing them a guide for where things went—but rejected them all out of comparison to him. Had I used the wrong analysis data? Held up the wrong example? Actually broken my own rules and let myself walk out on a limb—for this return?

  I hit the caps lock and started flicking my thumbs over the keys.

  :: F-U-C-K Y-O— ::

  :: JK, sugar. Can’t seem to stop thinking of you, either. ::

  “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

  I couldn’t slam the backspace key fast enough, freaked he’d sense even the obscenities I hadn’t gotten to yet.

  After I finally allowed myself to breathe again, I also smiled. Well, well. He was thinking about me too.

  As I flopped back into the pillows, my grin faded.

  Now what?

  “Your turn on the high dive, lady.”

  The self-encouragement was anything but that. But I couldn’t just leave him hanging.

  I hopped out of bed and paced to soothe my hammering pulse—and racing brain. It had been weeks since I last heard from him; that alone ruled out a lot of plays except sweet or sour. The obvious choice was full throttle on the bitch wagon—but even if well-justified, it’d crash the conversation before it started. More long weeks would pass before either of us screwed up the balls to reach out again.

  Okay, so…I was doing sweet.

  “No,” I spat. “No, no, no. You’re not Twilight Sparkle, for chrissake.”

  Say something, dammit.

  “Something.”

  That one definitely sounded better on paper. Annnnd, I was wasting time. The time stamp on his text conveyed that four minutes had passed. An eternity in text time. You’re fucking this up.

  My phone vibrated again.

  :: Did I lose you? Reception spotty here. ::

  Shit. Shit. “Okay. Keep it casual. You can do that. Casual. Sure.”

  :: I’m here. Just got out of the shower. ::

  I looked at the words and instantly wanted to hurl on them. What the hell was that? Had I caught the teeny-bop virus at the bar and brought it home with me?

  I plopped into the window seat with a disgusted snort. “Say something else that lame and I’ll step away from ever knowing you, Asher.”

  But…maybe it was sexy. Kind of. If the man thought creatively…or not.

  What’s done is done. Wait and see what he says. Or…not.

  It was official. I was a fucking basket case—over words on a screen smaller than my damn lipstick case. A screen I now stared at like a bomb about to go off in my hands.

  When it finally vibrated again, I jumped. Me. It was ridiculous, but I couldn’t wait to read.

  :: Wish I was there to dry the hard-to-reach spots. ::

  My cheeks hurt from the width of my smile. Worth it. So worth it. As my woozy mind concocted a vision of him standing behind me, dressed in nothing but his own towel, wicking water from me with slow strokes of his big hands, my whole body prickled in sensual need. This was what I’d been seeking at the bar. This was what I’d been craving for weeks…months…ever since he’d left…

  :: You and me both, Mr. P. ::

  I gripped the phone with both hands, enduring the wait for his response. Attempting to ignore the ache of my nipples…the rush of my blood…the need between my legs…

  Call him. Just call him, dammit. Explain you’re still half-drunk and need more creative imagery for stress relief. Yes; that’s it. Phone sex could be the perfect ice breaker…

  Five minutes.

  This was unbearable. I shifted one of my hands, pinching my breast while thinking of Michael, hand wrapped around his cock as he fantasized about my freshly showered body. Torture? Maybe a little. Okay, more than a little. But I desperately needed to believe I’d gotten under his skin as he had mine.

  :: Need to get some sleep, blondie. Talk soon. ::

  “What?”

  I hammered a finger at the phone.
>
  What?

  Was. He. Fucking. Kidding?

  My jaw worked against the rekindled fire of rage before I just gave in, hurling the phone across the room. It skimmed the bed and clattered against the wall, and I hoped the screen was shattered this time. It sure as hell beat flinging myself out this window—like I’d give any person that power, let alone a man. But within seconds, a breeze against the glass made me shiver. I turned and stumbled back to bed as a desolate chill took over, making me curl the covers tight.

  Dammit. Dammit. I was running hot and cold about this bastard. Literally.

  Well, I’d had it.

  I kicked the covers off, stiff with resolution.

  No one jerks Margaux Asher around like this and gets away with it.

  Starting this minute, he wasn’t getting away with it. Not any longer. I was done with Michael Pearson. I’d been wearing his fool’s hat for much too long, and tired of being on the back page for it. He thought I’d been elusive and evasive before? Darling, you haven’t seen anything yet. My walls were about to shrivel the balls of even skilled mountain climbers.

  The next morning, I put on my take-no-shit Prada heels and hauled my ass to work despite the third-degree hangover. It wasn’t my worst by far, and actually came in handy for ramping my bitch game, a gift I’d kept pitifully closeted for too long. Well, it was time to dust that girl off and let her strut—and it felt as wonderful as slipping into a well-worn pair of jeans. This was home. This I knew and understood.

  By the end of the day, everyone else did, too. I had my assistant crying by ten. The coffee cart girl hand-delivered my eleven o’clock latte, shaking as she did. I closed a major account Claire had been toying with for two weeks—with one phone call. As I walked out for my lunch appointment with Killian’s top European clients, people stopped and stood back. Sometimes, old habits were worth returning to. It was refreshing to see how everyone agreed with me. Like they had any choice.

  That’s right, gang. Princess-zilla is back. Fuck with me and you’ll deal with my dragon breath. And it won’t smell like Tic Tacs.

  After celebrating the day’s successes by clicking to my favorite online boutique and buying the slingbacks I’d been eyeing—being shipped overnight, of course, because I was good like that—I actually hummed a little while climbing into my car.

  No more helplessness. No more wallowing. And no more pining away for a farm boy who wanted nothing to do with me.

  I was back where I belonged and it felt good.

  Now if I could get the message to the ache right beneath my sternum, things would be even better.

  Chapter Six

  Michael

  The mountains had taken spring seriously this year. Nowhere could I look without another view that should’ve been on a postcard or in a painting. A lot of people agreed with me, to the point that Mom opened up the back meadows for artists’ clubs, bird watching groups, even a few bridal showers.

  She’d needed extra help. At least that was the excuse I was using this week to rationalize staying a while longer.

  It had nothing to do with the text conversations that Margaux and I had been having.

  :: Hi there, sugar. ::

  :: Hi. ::

  :: Just thought I’d say hi. Didn’t know if I’d get you. ::

  :: Well, you did. Congrats. ::

  :: Haven’t heard from you in a week. ::

  :: Haven’t seen you in four months. ::

  Like I needed to be reminded.

  :: It’s been busy up here. ::

  :: Sure. I get it. We’re all busy these days. ::

  :: So what have you been up to? Anything interesting? Want to talk? ::

  :: Can’t talk. Busy, remember? ::

  :: Maybe tonight, then. After work. ::

  :: Busy then, too. ::

  Yeah. Of course.

  Your own bed, asshole. Now you lie in it.

  Or maybe just take it off this fucking mountain, back to the land where she can be busy with you.

  :: Well, being busy is good. ::

  :: Quite. ::

  :: Have a great day. :: :: I miss you. ::

  Silence.

  And a lot of unanswered questions.

  Like when the hell was I going to get my head out of my ass, deal with this goddamn complex I had about her, and get the hell on with real life?

  Silence. Imagine that. It was such a versatile theme for so many occasions. Especially when one pulled their head out of their ass then jammed it into the ground, instead.

  Chapter Seven

  Margaux

  Being the maid of honor sucked. Did somebody want to indicate where the honor in all of this was? I’d been schlepping shit around for the past week, making ridiculous requests of people I didn’t know—and worst of all, I didn’t even believe in the institution of marriage. Don’t even get me started on love in general.

  Fools. Every last one of them.

  And on cue, my phone signaled an incoming text from places near but far. Very far.

  :: Hey. ::

  :: Hey. ::

  :: Busy? ::

  :: Pretty much. You? ::

  :: Not really. Just hoping we could talk. ::

  :: Need to be at appointment with Bridezilla in ten. ::

  :: Will you be home later? ::

  :: Pretty sure I have a date. ::

  So what if he didn’t know the “date” involved a mani-pedi and a facial. Like Ranger Rick would care. If he wanted to keep hiding in the wilderness, I was over it. Over. It.

  :: Well, have fun. I guess… ::

  :: What ev ::

  :: Don’t be like that. ::

  :: Like what, Michael? Like we’re BFFs now? Just let it go, k? ::

  :: Let’s talk later when you get home. ::

  :: What if I don’t come home? ::

  :: Don’t be like that! ::

  :: Like what? Like the real me? ::

  :: STOP. ::

  :: Already have. ::

  Chapter Eight

  Michael

  For the first time in my life, I understood why they called these things fucking monkey suits.

  I was normally the guy who liked scooting into a tux when the occasion called for it. I actually listened when Andrea yakked at us about the newest men’s trends, and liked paying attention to shit like cut and fabric and lines. After growing up in muddy jeans, flannel shirts, and nails full of apple tree mulch, it was all a fun new world for me. Nothing I took too crazy-serious, of course, but investing enough energy that Chad had threatened to revoke my guy card on a few occasions.

  He happily gave it back now. The asshat even smirked about it as he snickered at me through the gazebo we stood on either side of, occupying a strategic corner of the massive lawn in the backyard of Claire’s “Christmas present”. The structure was fronted by fancy gold chairs seating two hundred guests in brand-new clothes. And yeah, I was sure about that. Nobody wore last year’s fashions to the wedding of the year.

  The gazebo was positioned behind the arch Claire and Killian would soon be standing under. Inside the shelter itself, there was a string quartet. And eight urns brimming with a florist’s shop full of red and white flowers. And the poofs of white fabric that were tucked, wrapped, and swagged around every other available surface. I couldn’t decide if it was a bride’s ultimate fantasy or if the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man had taken a dump over Rancho Santa Fe, letting Venkman and his crew tie it up with red and black velvet bows on the way down.

  I shook my head again, reeling that this had all been orchestrated by a tiny woman called “Gin-Gin” by her staff, not Ridley Scott. Twenty feet away, Chad matched it with another smirk. I glared. If we were here for any other occasion than the wedding of one of our best friends, the scrot-clot would find himself the proud recipient of a Michael Pearson flip-off. But I chilled. We’d all waited too long for this day to finally happen. For Claire, everything had to be perfect.

  If only my nervous system would get with that program.
Though it was damn-near six o’clock on the second day of June, I sweated like a hog in the middle of August. The sun was low, filtering through the trees in swaths of gold and amber, carrying a twilight breeze smelling of star jasmine and pine. A touch of mist kissed the air. It’d be foggy later. None of it tamped my craving to rip myself clear of the tux and roll around naked in the grass.

  Strange strain of the flu?

  If only I could get so lucky.

  At the moment, even a case of Ebola sounded better than the ordeal ahead. And I wasn’t the guy about to step into the ball and chain.

  The man with that happy task all but bounded up to the arch in the minister’s wake. Happy? Backspace. Killian transcended happy by about a thousand miles. He was the Gollum who’d found the ring. The Scarecrow who had his brain. The kid with triple chocolate and cherries on his sundae.

  I was just going to put it out there.

  Killian Stone was glowing.

  So maybe I was glad I hadn’t busted his face for nearly turning Claire—and Stone Global—into unfixable messes last summer. Thank fuck the guy had gotten a clue and come back to salvage both. Now, he stood prouder and stronger than ever, a man in love, at peace, and on top of his world. SGC’s successes were only a small part of it. In the joy on his face and the smile on his lips, I saw how Killian would dump the cars, the mansion, and all the “stuff”, if they ever threatened his relationship with Claire.

  As long as the man maintained that world view, he and I would be copasetic.

  I gave him a few extra props for not wussing out with a white tux. Though I was certain Gin-Gin had likely tried to talk him into the knight-in-white thing, Kil was fitted to the eyelash in a black Tom Ford cutaway that lent him a Downton Abbey-goes-modern flair. I was happy for his joy but envied the purpose that defined every inch of his bearing. He was a man standing exactly where destiny wanted him—waiting for the woman of his dreams to walk up that aisle, ready to give her heart to him forever. Not that Claire hadn’t already done that. Spending a lot of last summer as the woman’s human handkerchief had proved that to me already.