Page 21 of Royally Ruined

I was definitely freaking out.

“Are you okay in here?” he asked, tapping on the side of my private cabin. The jet had several curtained-off rooms. I was sure most people found them megafancy, but all they did was remind me of a cleaner and brighter version of the champagne rooms at the Dirty Dolls.

Tugging the curtain aside, I squinted up at him. “How come you get to look great and I don’t?”

He was wearing a fitted gray sweater under his leather jacket. I’d returned the jacket to him—reluctantly—but it looked better on him than on me. It matched the tight designer jeans clinging to his long legs and brought his whole outfit together.

Costello didn’t respond. Not verbally, anyway. Running his eyes over my body, he made my mouth dry up. I wanted so badly to quench myself on his serious lips—it felt like the only way to return moisture to anywhere but between my legs.

I forgot about being irritated with him. Nothing mattered but easing the pressure that kept building as we stared at each other. This waiting was torture, and surely it had to end with him kissing me ... touching me ... anything. I prepared for him to show me a hint of the man who’d pressed me down last night while his cock strained to reach me through his towel.

He shut his eyes and walked down the aisle. “You look fine,” he said as he went.

Ouch.That confirmed it, though.If he’s decided to put a wall up, it’s better if I let him.I was plenty used to walls; I’d created one between myself and every guy I’d ever dated in my life.Datedwas too strong a word—I’d never gotten far enough along to label any of them my boyfriend. There was always a good reason, in spite of what Gina usually said while rolling her eyes. Maybe he was too quick to want to kiss, or too slow ... or maybe he just didn’t like the same movies as me. Who could date a guy who hatedThe Lion King? Come on.

Costello just joins the array of imperfect men in my life,I told myself, following him into the jet’s aisle. He was standing by the open door. The sun lit him, his sleeves blowing gently like pine boughs in a spring storm. From this angle his scar was prominent.I never did get to feel it.I tightened my hands by my hips.Hey, hey, quit it. You’re being weird.

He turned enough to look at me, and every muscle in my body went taut. “They’re here,” he said, and it was a warning.

Moving closer to him until our shoulders touched, I scanned the tarmac. A limo had rolled up, black and glossy. The Badd family always rode in style—the private jet should have made that clear.

The driver, in his flat cap and silver gloves, rushed around to open the door. I expected movie-star levels of glamour. I kept looking around for the paparazzi; the scene felt wrong without a million clicking cameras.

A white and fluffy bullet exploded from the limo, barking as it stormed across the tarmac and right up the jet’s steps. “Mic!” a high-pitched voice squealed.

Costello might be quick, but he had nothing on this dog. It crashed into my ankles and threw me down in the aisle. I managed a less-than-heroic cry of “Sonofabitch!” before I landed with a wince.

“Mic!” that same voice from before scolded. “Oh my gawsh, I’m so sorry!”

Wincing, I lifted myself up on my elbows while the white picnic-basket-size dog scurried around me. Its tiny paws danced on my shoulder, its tongue doing its best to lick the skin from my cheek.

The woman who’d spoken had climbed up the steps. She had on ridiculous sunglasses—giant pink things that would have made more sense as flashlight lenses than as something you put on your face. At least they matched her neon-pink sweaterdress.

Her long hair was swept up in an “I just rolled out of bed” bun that I was positive had taken her hours to do. She leaned over me—well, into me, sort of. In her attempt to grab Mic, her boobs kept squishing into the top of my head.

“It’s okay, seriously,” I said between bouts of being smothered in doggy kisses.

She scooped up the white dog and waved a hand down at me with gold nails that rivaled Gina’s. “He’s just got a lot of energy! I swear, he’s a sweetie pie. Wouldn’t harm a fly.”

My sore ass didn’t agree, but I let her help me to my feet. “No harm done.”

“I’m Francesca,” she said, though she needed no introduction. Who hadn’t heard about the Badd Princess getting her wedding raided by police? The paparazzi had a field day with that one. The pictures were all over the news, making it impossible not to recognize her.

Fran’s bee-stung lips tightened as she looked me over more closely. “Huh. That’s a weird outfit for a stewardess.”

At least she didn’t recognize it as her own clothing.“Er,” I said, looking over her shoulder to Costello for help.

She leaned away from me with her drawn-on eyebrows sliding lower. “Wait. We don’t evenhavea stewardess for this flight. Who the hell are you?”

“She’s with me,” Costello said.

Fran grabbed her rounded hips, swaying so she could brace herself in the aisle between us both. “I’m not a fucking dummy, I figured she was with you, but whois she?” Suddenly she covered her mouth. “Oh gawd. Have you been sneaking women on to the jet and screwing them? Ugh! Youknowhow Daddy feels about prostitutes!”

“I’m not a prostitute!” I sputtered.

“Prostitute?”another woman squealed, and I looked up to see a curvy figure standing at the top of the jet steps. She had on a boa that was surely fake fur, as it was a shade of orange you’d never find in nature. “My son, paying for sex?” Her fingers wrapped themselves in her multiple necklaces—she wasliterallyclutching her pearls.

“That’s right, Mama!” Fran shouted. “A whore under our very own roof!”

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