Page 69 of Royally Ruined

Footsteps scuffled behind me, my uncle leaving the room. I was all alone, and I truly felt it. Any plan I wanted to make ... It didn’t matter if these three people couldn’t work together. My fingers tightened on the wood.Why can’t they see how useful Costello is? How good and wonderful? All they see is who his family is.

Thinking back to the night he’d cornered me in the Dirty Dolls’ dressing room, I half smiled. If that was the version of him my uncle and dad saw, then I could understand their hesitation. That night Costello had been wicked ... he’d been frightening and exciting as he felt me up against the cold lockers.

An idea crept through my head. It sent my blood into overdrive. The longer I stared out at where Costello’s car had been, the more I knew it was my only choice. I spun and headed into the kitchen.

My father and Uncle Jimmy were gone. I pictured my uncle outside smoking, and Dad was probably pacing around upstairs; if I listened, I could hear the floorboards squeaking.

My mother was the only one in the room; she looked up when she saw me, startled. “Sorry,” she said, like apologizing was an impulse. “I ... overheard it all. Costello will be back, I’m sure of it.”

It was a Wednesday, the one day my mother didn’t run the bakery. “I’m sure, too,” I said. And I was.

She beamed, spinning around and putting the breakfast plates in the sink. My mother hummed to herself as she started washing the dishes. It sent me back to when I was a kid. I’d loved listening to her sing. That was when I’d learned I had no rhythm, but she never cared.

My mother would dance with me even if I kept stepping on her toes.

“Mom,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “I need something.”

“Of course, honey bun. Just ask.”

“I need to borrow your van.”

During the holidays, my father would take me to see the mansions in Newport. Every season, people would decorate their massive homes and open the gates so we, the less fortunate, could marvel at their wealth.

I’d loved it.

It was amazing to see these huge buildings strung with lights. Sometimes the owners would hand out treats on their doorsteps. I always ate too much and regretted it later. It was the best.

But not once in all those years had the Badds ever allowed the public through their doors. I’d only seen the place from outside the intimidating iron gates.

Today that would change.

The bakery van rumbled loudly, I could hear it before I rolled the window down. The speaker next to the gate blinked; I pushed the button, clearing my throat. “Hello?” I said, wondering how to make this happen.

“Delivery?” a voice crackled back.

Staring around the inside of the van, I bit back a laugh. “Uh, sure. Delivery.”

I clung to the air inside my lungs until the gates split apart. Breathing out, I drove the van into the lot, then parked it on the smooth cement circle. Clutching the keys and wishing they were a gun, I gathered myself ... reminded myself why I was here ... and climbed from the vehicle.

The crisp air tasted vaguely like roses. I didn’t know how, considering it was winter. Wouldn’t all the flowers be dead?Don’t think about that word. Ugh.It was hard to convince myself I was really standing in front of the Badd family mansion.

My teeth chattered as the time of year caught up to me. I hopped up the steps and stood between the pearly pillars that propped up the dark roof. A big wreath crafted from holly and poinsettias hung over the front door’s window, like this was any home ready for the holidays.

Gently I knocked on the smooth white wood. When no one answered, I noticed the brass knocker and tried that, wincing at the sharp sounds. On the verge of feeling lost, I was relieved when the door swung inward.

A woman in a long mouse-gray dress and white apron peered at me. “Hello?” she asked.

Is she a servant?She sort of looked like one, but outside of TV shows, I’d never seen one. Squinting, I saw she had a little tag sewn onto her shirt that readBADDMAIDS. I had to bite my tongue so I wouldn’t laugh. “Hi, I’m here to see Maverick.” The stranger narrowed her eyes, so I added, “He invited me.”

Leaning around me, she stared at the bakery van. “I thought you were bringing a delivery.”

“Not exactly. Look, please just take me to Maverick. He’ll understand.”

Reluctantly she stepped back and waved for me to enter. Unsure what I’d find, I stepped into Costello’s home. The warm apple-pie scent didnotfit the dangerous and dark vibe I’d expected from the Badds’ territory.

She took me down a hallway, and I pulled up short when she stopped outside a wide doorway. “Sir,” the maid said, “you have a visitor.”

Maverick was settled in a plush chair. Tiny glasses sat on his nose; he’d been reading a book, but when he looked up, he dropped it onto the floor. “You.” I wanted to bottle that shocked expression so I could keep it for myself, to enjoy in private. Because right now, as confident as I was acting, I was too terrified to thrill at surprising this man.

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