Royally Pucked (The Copper Valley Thrusters Book 2)
Royally Pucked: Chapter 29

Do you know what they don’t teach you in finishing school?

Fuck if I know. I don’t even know what they do teach you in finishing school, but I’d bet is how not to stick your finger up a prince’s nose.

Oh. My. Dog.

I’m never leaving this room again. Which is going to make saving Manning from his betrothal awful fucking hard, but there you have it.

I, Gracie Diamonte, am an uncoordinated, unsophisticated mess.

Ares is sleeping peacefully, sprawled out on the giant bed after I told him I was going to take a long bath and that he should get comfortable. I haven’t gotten to the bath because I didn’t really want it anyway, and I’ve been sitting on the floor of the bathroom—the heated floor, mind you—texting Tammy back home about the geek busters organizing a flash mob at the bakery so one of them could ask her out. And I’m not using honey badger to do voice text, even though I prefer that, because I don’t want to disturb Ares.

Through the cracked door, I can see Loki sitting on the dresser, watching Ares, that look in the monkey’s eye telling me if I get too close, he’ll have to start flinging candlesticks or chocolate mints or something at me.

I had no idea hockey players were practically ordered to nap before games, but it’s apparently a thing, confirmed by Joey, who says Zeus is a champion napper.

And yes, I sleep much better at night taking that statement at face value rather than wondering if it’s code for them having afternoon sex.

Also, I wonder if Manning is sleeping. It’s his job, right? He practically has to be, since he’ll be on the ice until late tonight and then have to talk to reporters after and who knows what else before he’s released from team duties to go home? He and Ares didn’t get back until late late after their game two days ago.

So the sleep must be important.

But I can’t imagine being able to close my eyes right now.

My phone buzzes. Joey’s face lights up the screen, so I sneak into the closet, lock myself in, and hope that if I stand on the back wall behind my small collection of shirts, the noise will be muffled enough that no one outside the bedroom will hear me.

Talking in the bathroom is a horrible idea, because sound bounces in there.

“Hey,” I whisper.

There’s a beat of silence. “Gracie? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“The entire fucking royal family showed up,” I whisper. “I’m hiding in a closet.”

“The entire family?”

“All but one brother. Ohmydog, Joey, the king thought I was Elin’s maid. Manning’s stepsister knows I’m pregnant. I can just tell. She knows. And I accidentally shoved my finger up his brother’s nose. I picked a prince’s nose. And that was after I started babbling about that time Tammy and I lost our bikini tops when we were tubing down the river, and then about those laxative brownies Rooster McGraw gave away during Grits Fest my senior year, and I swear they must think I’m a total and complete loony bin.”

“I’m on my way.”

“No. I’ve got this. I do. I just need to vent a minute. These people are my baby’s relatives. I’m going to have to figure out how to get along with them sooner or later. It’s just…I’m not fancy. You know?”

“You’re better than fancy. You’re you.”

Damn sinuses are clogging again. “My baby’s so lucky to have one normal relative.”

She snorts. “I’m normal?”

“Comparatively, yes. Odd, isn’t it?”

She’s a badass pilot with a massive hockey-playing boyfriend. She isn’t normal.

But she’s exactly who she’s supposed to be, and she wouldn’t be babbling about picking a prince’s nose. Even if she did pick a prince’s nose. Which she wouldn’t, because she’d never get that close, but that’s not the point.

“Willow won’t blow your secret,” Joey tells me.

“You know Willow?”

“She’s friends with Zeus’s sister. We’ve met once or twice. Fantastic singer. She’s in her own all-girl boy band cover band.”

“And she’s terrified of you.”

“No, she’s just good people. Although, I can easily make her terrified of me if I need to.”

“Please don’t. I’d like these people to actually like me someday.” I bury my face in one of my T-shirts. This closet isn’t as big as Manning’s, but it could still hold half my furniture. And I know it shouldn’t matter if they like me or not, but wouldn’t that be easier for the baby?

Unless they start talking about arranging her marriage, in which case they’ll all be dead to me and I’ll take the baby and we’ll hide out in Fiji for the rest of our lives. Who cares if I don’t know anyone in Fiji? I’ll make it work. “I offered to help Elin fake her own death and have you fly her somewhere to start over anonymously.”

There’s another beat of silence on the other end of the phone that stretches into two beats, then sixteen.

“I was kidding,” I say.

“It may be one of our only feasible options.”

“Are you joking right now? Because I can’t tell if this is your serious voice or your joking voice. You’re using being on the phone against me. Knock it off. You know how much I hate feeling dumb.”

“You’re not dumb.”

“I’m not very smart either.”

She growls in that you’re wrong but we have more important things to talk about way. “Has Elin said anything about her father?”

“She totally lied to him about practically everything she told him on the phone today. Why?”

“Called in a favor and had someone do some poking around. They say this isn’t a politically advantageous match. Which suggests it’s either personal or about money. Or possibly some kind of blackmail.”

I eyeball the tray ceiling and track lighting above me. In the freaking closet. This closet is fancier than the hall where we have most weddings in Goat’s Tit. There’s money here, all right.

“I’m downstairs,” she adds. “Want me to come up, or would you rather go out for pie?”

“Wait. Downstairs? Here?”

“Told you I was on my way.”

Joey’s here. Here. She’s going to fix everything. Like she always does. An overwhelming sense of relief crashes with my indignation. “I have everything under control.” Uh-oh. Crankypants alert. “I can handle this.”

“And I miss you. If you’re not coming down, I’m coming up.”

Shit damn fuck hell. “No. Stay. I’m on my way. Pie sounds amazing.”

I put on my rainbow platform shoes, because courage, and also I’m saving the mermaid boots for that time when maybe Manning and I get to use them because I’m apparently still capable of optimism even in the face of shoving my finger up his brother’s nose.

I act like I have dignity as I sweep through the penthouse on my way to the elevator. Everyone’s staring at me—Willow, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are wide, her mother, the American queen of Stölland, whose lips are parted and cheeks almost as flushed as her daughter’s, King Tor, who looks as though he’s been forced to swallow a royal proclamation, various members of the royal entourage who all have the saw my parents naked look, and Prince Colden.

Prince Colden, who’s standing over the hill of cookies on a platter leftover from last night’s party, holding one particular very familiar cookie as he inspects it front and back.

“Put that away,” Willow hisses at him, though she’s still gaping at me.

Colden doesn’t.

His blue eyes land on me. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown either. “Miss Diamonte, was it?”

A flush creeps over my entire body. “That’s right.”

He uses the Cookie of Shame to point at the platter mounded with my baked goods. “You’re responsible for these?”

I will not stammer. I will not stammer. I will not stammer. “Ares invited me to bake cookies, yes. So I baked a lot of cookies.”

If King Tor’s eyebrows get any lower, they’ll devour his eyeballs and half his nose as well.

“But I don’t know if any of the guests last night brought some too,” I add.

And now I sound like a total country hick, because who brings food to a party hosted by a prince? Potlucks might be the thing in Goat’s Tit, but it was pretty clear last night that showing up with a bundt cake or peach cobbler would’ve been weird. And probably broken some unspoken social rules.

“Please put that away,” Willow repeats.

Colden continues to turn the Dickookie over in his hand. “You baked this one too?”

“Colden,” Queen Sylvie scolds.

I lift my chin. “Do I look like the kind of baker who would be responsible for something like that?”

His gaze briefly drops to my chest, and I belatedly remember I’m wearing another Goat’s Tit T-shirt.

This one advertising Tammy’s auto shop.

Nancy almost had a stroke when Tammy renamed Goat’s Tit Tire and Oil to Boob & Lube, but she’s gotten way more business from people all across the county coming to check out her skills with an air wrench.

Seriously, she could be in a NASCAR pit crew.

And I should’ve taken that time in my closet to change my freaking shirt.

Colden turns the cookie once more—the dick on that one is fairly prize-worthy when compared to some of the other photos I get orders for—and then shrugs and bites into it.

Willow gasps.

Sylvie winces.

King Tor rubs his thumb and fingers into his eyeballs while the staff pretend they’re not watching in abject horror.

Colden’s dark brows lift in appreciation. “Delightful cookie,” he declares when he swallows. “Well done, if it was you.”

“Oh my god,” Willow whispers.

King Tor clears his throat.

Sylvie laughs. It’s an embarrassed laugh, but her eyes are sparkling. “Not the same as eating a sheep, is it?”

“Mom!” Willow gasps.

Colden winks at the queen. “Not nearly, madam. Care for a nibble? It’s remarkably delightful.”

I bite my tongue to keep from blurting out of course it is.

Because I don’t make crappy cookies.

“Enjoy the cookies,” I say instead.

I somehow manage to hold my head high, but not too high, as I finish my trek to the elevator.

I have no idea how my Dickookies ended up in Manning’s kitchen, but they did.

And now his entire family knows.

It could’ve been worse. Better would be if I didn’t have to worry about it at all. But I’m a small-town dyslexic girl who still struggles sometimes. I’m lucky enough to live in a place where I can own my own business—there’s no way that pineapple upside-down cake would’ve worked as a loan application in a city like Copper Valley—and to have found a way to make some extra money on the side.

I don’t need to apologize for anything to these people.

And it bothers the shit out of me that I feel like I should anyway.

I’m really not princess material. And I thought I was okay with that.

Turns out, I’m not okay with it.

I’m not okay with it at all.