Royally Pucked (The Copper Valley Thrusters Book 2)

I wake up the next morning later than usual, hot, hungry, and nauseous.

And also tender between my thighs. Remembering the fierce affection and determination on Manning’s face as we made love last night makes me smile, and my smile only grows when I notice another envelope sitting on the nightstand. It’s a thick manila envelope similar to the tour-in-an-envelope I found two days ago.

And this one has an all-access pass to the zoo inside, complete with train tickets and a behind-the-scenes tour of the big cat exhibit.

Enjoy the pandas is written on a sticky note in bold, scrawly writing that’s well worth the time it takes me to squint through it.

Joey’s always assured me book smarts aren’t everything, and I’ve never had any qualms in knowing my strengths are outside of the written word, but how brilliant is it to continue to ignore the resources available to help me read better?

And what kind of example will I be for my baby?

I’m almost positive my daddy had dyslexia too, but we never talked about it. And even though I know why I don’t read well, and that I can make a decent living and a good life anyway, for the first time I’m beginning to realize just how much I’ve held myself back.

Goat’s Tit is safe. It’s small. I’m loved there.

But there’s also a whole world to explore and experience.

I tuck the pass away inside my luggage, because as much fun as I had at Heartwood Estates the other day, I don’t want to go to the zoo alone.

I want to share it with Manning. I’m aware he’s been to the zoo—I saw an interview online that he did there not long after he arrived in Copper Valley—but I don’t know if he’s enjoyed it for himself. And I have this crazy suspicion that a man who builds Lego arenas with sharks on the ice would have a fun time at the zoo.

I shower and head out to the pie shop to take care of the cookie orders that came in overnight, and when I get back, I find maids and security all in a tizzy.

Manning and Ares are still at the arena for team stuff before the game tonight. Loki is sitting on a high cabinet and throwing snack-size black-and-orange pretzel bags at anyone who comes within three feet of him.

I don’t know if Elin’s in the penthouse, but nearly all evidence of last night’s party is gone.

Except for that lingering, lovely sore sensation between my thighs.

It wouldn’t be a terrible fate to have sex with Manning like that every day.

But I’m still not princess material. I just shipped off twenty-four cookies printed with the tip of a dick that was decorated with a Sharpie to make it look like a smiley face—and yes, the nose is what you’re thinking, though the smiley face was drawn upside down so that the head had giant hairy testicle ears, and yes, that does mean it’s as short as you’re thinking—and since I found my wallet last night, today I stopped in a fancy boutique I’ve been drooling over the last three days to buy those thigh-high green glitter boots that will undoubtedly make me look like a mermaid hooker if I pair them with a green glitter bra and matching g-string.

And really, if you’re going to be a hooker, a mermaid hooker is the way to go. Because I’m pretty sure mermaids don’t have vaginas. So clearly they can’t get pregnant, which is practically the biggest risk of sex. Trust me. I’m living it. Also, I don’t have a clue where a merman would hide his dick in his own scales, so it’s not like mermaids would be giving head or hand jobs, so are mermaid whores even necessary? And now that I think about it, this does beg the question of where baby mermaids come from, but do we really care?

No.

No, we don’t.

Until you consider that if they don’t have vaginas, I also don’t know where their orgasms would come from.

And now I’m feeling sorry for mermaids.

I’ll simply have to wear my mermaid boots and have all the orgasms for them. With Manning. And his magical trident, if you know what I mean.

Once I’ve solved his betrothal problem.

“Pardon me, miss,” one of the maids says as she sweeps past me with a sack of trash.

Kristofer is typing like mad on his phone and blocking the stairs leading to Manning’s rooms, so I head to my bedroom instead. As I step down the hall, I hear Elin on the phone.

And yes, you’re damn right I’m going to eavesdrop.

Fuck scruples. A man’s fate is on the line.

“Yes, Pappa, the dress is beautiful…Of course you didn’t see the bill. I put it on the prince’s card. He’s paying for the wedding, which means paying for the dress…”

My knees go cold. Like ice cubes sitting right there where my kneecaps should be. She bought a wedding dress?

This is terrible. It’s—

“Yes, Pappa. He’s quite thrilled to have me here. So tediously boring for him to be here all alone. We chat late into the night when he’s home, and he calls every day from the road. Of course I’m going to his game tonight…Yes, Pappa, I’m wearing his jersey.”

I stifle a squeak, followed by a hiccup. She’s lying.

To her father.

Why would she do that? She’s been a total shithead to Manning. And to Ares. Who is a much better conversationalist than Elin. Even when he’s not talking.

I stand there in the hallway, listening to the rest of her story.

No, she’s not working on her research, because yes, she knows that’s for the best, since a princess will clearly not have time to stay up to date in the newest medical and research advances concerning early-onset dementia. Yes, she misses her llamas, and won’t Pappa give them an extra hug for her next time he’s out in the meadow?

She’s bloody lying.

Oh, great.

And now I’m saying bloody.

Huh. It’s actually fun. Bloody fucker. Yeah. I could get used to this.

I won’t, of course. That would be bloody ridiculous back home in Goat’s Tit.

Heehee. Bloody ridiculous.

But that’s the last funny thought I have.

By the time Elin hangs up the phone, after telling lie after lie after lie about how perfect her life seems to be with Manning, I’m so spitting mad I’d like to make her bloody. I wait to the count of five to make sure she’s not still talking, then bang her door open.

She jumps and yelps. “Out, damned whore.”

“Give it up,” I say. “You know I’m not a whore. Mermaids can’t be whores. But you just told your father every lie under the sun. Unless Pappa is actually some weird term of endearment for your boyfriend or cousin or something.”

Her jaw stills, and I wonder if the way she’s suddenly raking her gaze over my body is some kind of Stöllandic doctor examination. Or if she’s looking for my mermaid tail.

Which she isn’t going to find, but I do love throwing people off.

“But I’d love to see your dress,” I add. “Does it have an extra pouch for your monkey? Because Loki has to be in the ceremony. He’s a ring bearer, right? Or—oh—the flower monkey! He loves to throw things. He’d be such a great flower monkey.”

“Leave this room before I call security.”

“You can call, but Viktor’s with Manning at practice, and Kristofer is pulling his hair out over all the maids acting like Dog himself is coming off his pearly throne for a visit. I knew Manning liked things neat, but holy crap, this is a little extreme. They’re getting every last fleck of dust mites anyone might have left behind for sure.”

She’s frozen, watching me like I’m talking Swahili and she’s only versed in pig latin. Or possibly the other way around. Suddenly she leaps to the door, pushes me out of the way, and peers down the hallway. “Bloody fucking hell,” she mutters as all the blood drains from her face. “Why would he be coming?”

I don’t have a lot of hang-ups about my looks, but there’s something regal about the way she goes pale when coupled with the bloody part of her curse. She looks the part of a princess far better than I ever would even when cursing while flying into a panic. Except for the black heart and empty pit where her soul should be. That’s not exactly regal and princessy.

She spins. “This is your fault.”

I don’t know what exactly is my fault, but I smile and nod. “Probably so. Sorry about that. So, are you going to tell me why you’re lying to your father, or do I have to go find his phone number and tell him myself? Because I know you’re working on a research paper.”

I have no idea if she’s working on a research paper, but apparently she is, because her jaw flaps.

Seriously. It’s hanging there so limp, I could blow on it and it would probably bob and weave like a drunken ship. Not that I’m going to blow on her. I might take credit for dog only knows what she’s accusing me of, but that’s a tactical decision aimed at throwing her off.

Blowing on her is just gross.

“I really don’t like fighting,” I tell her. “I also think you’d be miserable married to Manning, because I hear you’re an only child, and he’s the youngest of three brothers, which means he probably knows where to get snakes to hide in your bed and how to rig your shower so sheep pee comes out instead of water. So I’ll give you thirty minutes before I track down your father’s phone number and tell him you’re reading Neuroscience and volunteering at the retirement homes so you can hook electrodes up to all their brains.”

“You have no idea who you’re playing with,” she hisses.

I shrug.

Worst that happens to me is that I get sent home to Goat’s Tit mildly disgraced, where my friends will welcome me with open arms and love me and help me raise my baby.

Whom Manning will never meet. In the worst-case scenario.

Unless Elin has mob connections and makes me disappear, of course. That would be a worse worst-case scenario. But is there a mob in Stölland? I doubt it, or Joey would’ve lorded it over me to convince me to go hide in some tiny Caribbean nation for the rest of my life rather than agreeing to let me come here to try to break up Manning’s betrothal.

Best case, Manning and Elin call the wedding off, and I get to know my baby’s daddy a little more, and she gets the benefit of having a father who will most likely spoil her rotten even if most of his life happens thousands of miles away in a small country in the Norwegian Sea.

“You know you’ll never be a princess,” she says.

“Right? Can you imagine? Hello, Your Majesty. Oh, fuck, I have chocolate smeared in the shape of a dick on my cheek again, don’t I?” I grin. “And I’ll bet they wouldn’t let me run around the countryside in my dinosaur costume toilet papering houses either.”

“Who the fuck are you, and why do you care so much about Prince Manning?”

Elin’s going to be a princess, and she says fuck a lot. Interesting. “Hockey groupie. You’re chilling my groove.”

For the first time, she looks at me. Really looks at me.

And once again I thank dog that Joey is the beast of all beasts, because for all the regal I will trounce you, you little whore coming off Elin’s expression, this is like being scrutinized by a panda bear in comparison to what I grew up with.

“You wear that goddamn smile even more than he does,” she finally says.

“Smiling reduces your blood pressure and gives you better orgasms.” I have no idea if that’s true or not, but I like it, so I go with it. “You should try it.”

Her lips stretch as though she’s trying out a smile, catches herself, and she scowls so hard at me she probably just popped a blood vessel. “That’s a steaming pile of sheep shit,” she declares.

“I fully believe people can be a happy without smiling,” I concede. “But I don’t believe you are happy. Even though you could be.”

Her scowl is wavering.

“Wouldn’t you rather be free to love someone openly?”

“Your simplistic and unsophisticated American views have no place in high society.”

“High society sounds dull, boring, and depressing. Seriously, what kind of a life is that?” Which is the crux of why, regardless of how much I like Manning, I really won’t ever be his princess. “Who cares if you have money if all it brings is misery? And you’re a doctor or something. So clearly money wouldn’t even be a problem.”

Elin’s struggling to continue to look down her nose at me.

“Do you really want to marry him?” I point to the model of the brain. “You want the entirety of your existence on this planet to be defined by a title you got because of who you married?”

“No, I bloody well don’t want to marry him,” she bursts out.

I hold my hands up, a silent so don’t.

“You haven’t the slightest clue what would happen if I didn’t,” she hisses. “I’m not free to conduct my research and maintain a career whether I’m married or not, so why not at least have the comfort and protection of the royal palace?”

“Why couldn’t you have a career? It’s not like Manning’s the crown prince. Who would care if you worked?”

Her lips pinch together and she rolls her eyes so far up into her head I’m surprised they come back down.

Clearly, I’m entirely too naïve and small-minded to understand.

“You know what I do when someone tells me I can’t do something?” I offer.

Her exasperation is growing so thick, it might take physical form and slap me. “Clearly, you tell them to go to hell and then do it just to prove them wrong.”

“No, that’s my sister. I smile and nod and sneak around and try it behind their backs, and sometimes I give up because I discover it’s not really want I want to do, and there’s no point to being miserable just to make a point. Cutting off my nose to spite my face is really not me.”

“Do you know how bloody difficult it would be to sneak around a medical research facility and publish papers in secret?”

“You need a new identity? I think Joey can help with that. She knows people who can do anything. We could fake your death, she could fly you somewhere like Australia and set you up with a new name, and poof! Brand new Elin, working in medical research.”

I’m being utterly ridiculous and I know it.

Except she’s leaning closer to me, her hazel eyes growing more intense, and—is she salivating?

Whoa.

This just got weird.

“Did you just offer to kill me?”

Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “I can’t even squish a flying cockroach when I find them in my house. No, I offered you an escape. But if you don’t want it, if you’d rather be Mrs. Princess Frey your entire life, fine. Enjoy your miserable life.”

I turn to the door, but she grips my arm. “Could I bring someone with me?”

What? “Uh, probably, but the fewer people who know, the better.” She’s seriously considering this. Holy crap. “But we’re going to need to know who you’re running from.”

I don’t actually expect her to tell me, so when she glances at the door again and sucks in a breath so deep it makes her B-cups look like D’s, I’m mildly startled.

But before she can answer, a swift knock sounds at the door, and it swings open. Kristofer stands wide-legged in the doorway. He gives a short bow and steps aside to reveal another man. “My lady. His Royal Majesty, King Tor.”