Royally Not Ready (Royal, #1)

by Meghan Quinn

“Ah, I see what’s going on. They must dock your pay every time you say something, right? You know, I get it. You have mouths to feed, probably. How many kids do you have? Wait, wait, let me guess, that will be more fun. Hmm.” I tap my chin. “I’m going to say ten. You look like the kind of man with strong lovemaking genes. Like a workhorse in bed, pounding that semen, one right after the other, having that wife pop them out—” “Miss Campbell,” comes the silky, English voice from earlier. I turn to see Mr. Mysterious standing behind me, still wearing the black pants and button-up shirt from earlier, but now he has a suit coat draped over his broad shoulders, and he’s clouded in a masculine scent that reads more like fresh mountain logger than shadowy assassin. Man, this guy. He’s got to be at least six three with a jacket size no smaller than forty-six long. They build them big where he’s from. “Well, hello, there. How lovely of you to show up.” I thumb toward Suit. “Not much of a talker, this one. Do you dock his pay for talking?”

Not so much. If Theo or Katla ever smiled while they farted, I wouldn’t be sure what to fucking do.

“Wow, you really are a little, little man. I hope karma comes back and deliberately places a painful zit on the tip of your dick.”

“Yeah, well, what about my apartment? You know there’s an ant problem. If I’m not here, watching over the invasion, they very well might take over. And then what? I come back to an empty apartment? You know ants can carry up to fifty times their weight? Have you heard about furniture gone missing around here? It’s the ants. They’re selling people’s possessions on the black market, and to hell if I will be subject to such behavior.”

“What are you doing?” he asks, irritated. “My nipples. I think they fell off. Do you see them?”

Ever since I introduced her to her jail cell, I mean bedroom—my mistake—she’s

Think good thoughts, like . . . flowers. Those are pleasant. And . . . uh, cat tongues. Love that sandpaper feel. And I hate to admit it, but Keller’s man cleavage, that’s . . . that’s a nice image.

Quick to my feet, I grab the lamp on the night table, and like a bat out of hell, I start swinging it around, blaring my war cry as I jab the midnight air in front of me. “Back, you beast. I have a lamp and I know how to use it. Fa-bam. Fa-bam.” I jab.

“Hello . . .” I pause. “Did a ghost get you? Are you a ghost? Is this some alternate reality I’ve flown into when I got on the plane? Why does it have to be so cold during summer? Are your nipples hard? Mine are. Hello . . . Keller?”

“Lilly, did you sleep like that all night?” I take in my surroundings and then rest my head back down. “Yes, I felt that it would be harder for the ghosts to penetrate my soul if I was fully immersed in my blankets. Seems as though it worked. I’m alive and well this morning.

These old limbs haven’t worked like this in a while.” I gesture to my legs. “You’re twenty-seven, there is nothing old about you.” “Tell that to the bunion on my big toe.” Ew, why did I just say that? From the wretched look on Keller’s face, I can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“There’s no bunion.” He doesn’t say anything but continues forward. “I do have calluses, though. Rough and crusty when not treated. Do you have any?” “No,” he answers. Ha, okay. “So, I’m to believe that if I took your shoe off, I couldn’t use the bottom of your foot to shave my leg?” “No.” “Do you have secret soft baby feet I’m not aware of?” “Yes.” “You are such a fucking liar,”

“Me either, but we’re fucking here, so make the most of it,” he huffs out, and can I just take a moment to admire the way he said fucking? It sounds so delicious with his British-sounding accent. And it pains me to admit that, given our disagreeable nature, but it did sound really nice.

“It’s my job to be a part of your business.” “Is that so? Well, then maybe you should know when I took a shower today, the sprayer hit my private parts and it felt good. There you go, how’s that for being in my business? Going to write it in your diary?”

“Yeah, but I’m not the future queen, now, am I?” Sputtering water on the table, she sets her glass down and starts coughing. I give her a few moments. When she wipes her face with a napkin, she asks, “Can you refrain from putting it like that? My ass just clenched, and I’m not sure it will unclench for hours. Do you understand how uncomfortable that’s going to be? Especially on this chair, which I can only assume was too hard for Goldilocks.”

“Like . . . you know, what would they do to me? Because I’ve heard some weird things in my time. Like, this one girl who lived in South Beach was once kidnapped by a drug dealer, strapped to a chair in an empty warehouse, and she was tickled with feathers every hour on the hour. Like . . . that’s some real freaky shit. Or are we talking about a normal kidnapping?” I blink a few times. She’s unlike any person I’ve ever met. “Do you want us to prepare you for tickle torture?” “Wouldn’t hurt.” She taps the table with her finger. “Add it to the list.” She lets out a deep breath. “Well, I’m glad I asked that question. Can’t be too prepared, right? So, where do we start?” Sarcasm in my voice, I say, “Given your knack for hard-hitting questions—” “Thank you.” She clasps her hands together and bows, as if she’s a celebrity receiving a compliment.

“Man, from bikini to pantsuit, that should be the title of a book.” She flips her hair and says in a movie-trailer voice, “She was the hometown hero, wetting every tourist with the spray of a hose. Known to the public as the girl in the lime-green bikini, a true free spirit, now turned into the posh, uptight, pantsuit-wearing killer of Torskethorpe. Murder wasn’t always on her mind, but the pantsuits . . . they did her in. Coming this year, in two months.”

There’s nothing appealing about dragging my half-dead carcass out of bed, slipping on workout clothes, and jogging about on grassy trails. The only thing that keeps me going, that pulls me from my slumber, is the knowledge that I’ll get to see Keller’s ass in a pair of running shorts jog in front of me. Or I get to watch his large, muscular pecs bounce up and down while he pedals backward, watching me attempt to catch up to him. The jiggle is nice. The jiggle pulls me forward.

There are so many muscles on the man that my nipples aren’t sure if they should be hard, or just dislodge from my body and join his.

“Why are you concerned?” “Because, we’re alone, with no chaperone, and the assumption can be made that you’re . . . you’re stealing my virtue.” I roll my teeth over my bottom lip and say, “We might have to get married.”

‘Lilly, do you happen to recall the name of Regina’s cat who had babies in the state room?’” “REGANA!” he shouts. “Her fucking name is REGANA!” “THAT’S WHAT I SAID!” I shout back before placing my hands under the console table and flipping it right over before storming out of the room. * * * “I’d like to say things got a little heated yesterday, and even though I was very frustrated, I want you to know, it wasn’t your fault. I was out of line.” I rub my hand along the console table. “I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?” Keller is standing to the right of me, arms folded, a sneer on his brow. “Are you done apologizing to the goddamn table?” I hold my finger up to him and lean my ear toward the wood. When I feel like I’ve been forgiven, I give a slow nod and say, “The table has chosen to give me another chance.” “Then let’s get started.” He flops a journal on the table—my new friend—and points at it. “This is for you.” “A present? Aw, you shouldn’t have.” “It’s a journal so you can start writing down your thoughts.” “Ah, right, for history.” I pick up my pen and flip the journal open to the first page. “‘Dear Jerry—’” “Jerry?” “Is that not a good name for my journal? I think it has a nice ring to it—Jerry Journal.” “Your journal doesn’t need a name. You’re not writing to it. You’re just writing your thoughts down.” “Oh, okay.” I let out a large sigh and tap my pen to my chin before I start writing again. “Today Keller did fifty-two pushups. Ten of them weren’t proper form—” He tea...

I took care of my frustration by dipping my nose in the kitchen and sniffing around for something sweet. Imagine my disappointment when I came up completely short. Freaking health nuts with their morning workouts and their healthy soups. I clung to a loaf of bread and took three large bites before sticking it back in the breadbasket.

It

“What happened to privacy?” he asks. Screw privacy, take your shorts off.

“That’s more than one question.” “Please, Keller.” She shakes me. “Just share with me, you black-souled hottie.” Fuck, that makes me crack a smile, and this time she sees it.

grumbles

Not to mention he was a total asshole to me—I mean, cream of the crop, ripe for the picking, grade-A asshole.” I lean in close to her and say, “He told me to shut my mouth five times. FIVE! It’s a stark contrast from the man who told me about burning King Theo’s penis with soup.”

“Why couldn’t the lizard land a girlfriend?” When Brimar doesn’t answer, I say, “Because he had reptile dysfunction.”

“Who says I have poor table manners?” “You snorted out a cashew yesterday,” Keller deadpans. “Excuse me for enjoying a good chuckle while eating a meal.” “The cashew flew into my water.” “Oh my God, and I fished it out with my fork. No harm, no foul. Are you really still complaining about it? I told you I’d get you a new drink.”

“Don’t. Move,” he says, his voice like a crack of thunder. It stills me. It penetrates my soul. It sends a flutter of chills over my arms. Ooo, yes, say it again. “I’ve set a plate holding a cup of water on your head. Anytime you slouch, lean too far forward, rest your arms on the table, or have any sort of improper posture, you will get wet.” Little does he know, I’m already wet.

Knowing

“Oh, dear heavens,” she says, gripping me by the shoulders. “We, uh . . . we’re touching.” “We are,” I say past a tight jaw. “My boobs are against your manliness.” “Yup. Are you intending to remove them?” “I am . . . I am, just trying to figure out how to do this in a classy way.” “There’s no classy way of getting out of this. Just pull away.” “Okay. I’m going to count to three.” “There’s no need to count. Just pull away.” “But counting feels right. A finality to these unforeseen circumstances.”

I soak up her blood, dabbing gently while examining the rest of her body, making sure she didn’t hurt anything else. I’m checking over her arms when her eyes flutter open. “I . . . I can see your nipples,” she says. Of course, that would be the first thing out of her mouth. I glance down at my chest and then back up at her. “That’s because you puked on my back.” “No, that doesn’t sound like me,” she says. “I don’t do embarrassing things like that.” “Well, you did, then you passed out, hit your head, and reopened your wound.” “Are you sure?” “Yes,” I say, letting out a heavy sigh. “You seem agitated,” she says. “I am agitated.” “Uh-oh,” she whispers. “Was it something I did?”

“I see . . . do you think I’m a criminal? Because if you do, I need to tell you, it’s not in my nature to stab people. That’s the first time I’ve ever punctured anyone. I mean, there was that one time in seventh grade when I accidentally poked Basil, a kid in my class, with a paperclip, and when I say accidentally, I mean on purpose, because he said his boobs were bigger than mine, and he was flat-chested. So, I opened up a paperclip, and as he walked by, I jabbed, but I didn’t puncture his skin, only snagged his favorite sweater, which was more of a win, because it created an irreparable hole. But I swear I’m not a criminal.” “I know, Lilly.” “Truly an accident, so no need to be grumbly.”

“You’re such a pain in my ass.” She chuckles. “Did I scare you?” “What do you think?” She taps her chin. “Hmm, well, given your grumpy disposition and the fact that you don’t like to show your true feelings, I’m going to say yes.” “Yes, you scared me. Seeing you pass out like that . . . is not something I want to see again.” “Awww, Keller, you care about me.”

“Tell me you love it, because I know you do.” He lets out a heavy sigh and then says, “I fucking love it.” “Ooo, I knew you would.” Now calling out so Lara can hear me, I say, “He loves it, Lara, he’s just trying to act all tough.” He pinches his brow with one hand and asks, “Why are you like this?” “You love that I’m like this, admit it.”

“Uh-huh, sure, good move, but what about this?” I say as I smack his ass. “Look out, the saw-hand is coming. Brrrrrrr-ummmmm.” I start chopping at his back repeatedly, gaining some ground with every pound. “Little to the left,” he says. “Yes, right there.” I pause. “This isn’t a massage. These are my deadly weapons.” I chop at him again. “Feels like a massage,”

He buckles up quickly as I put the car in reverse and press hard on the pedal, sending us backward. “Jesus, fuck!” Keller yells as he holds on to—what I like to call—the oh my God handle of the car. “Yippee,” I scream as I shift the steering wheel to the right, causing the car to do a complete one-eighty.

“Runa blasted my retinas by flipping open the curtains like a mad woman. I was still dreaming about you.”

“That would be lovely,” I say, feeling as though I’m in some out-of-body experience where I’ve turned into a posh elitist who says things like “that would be lovely.” Normal response before would’ve possibly been something like . . . I’m dying of fucking thirst, so yes, please. I’ve evolved.