Kiss the Girl (Naughty Princess Club 3)

It’s not like I go out of the house looking like I’m homeless, but lately, I just haven’t cared much about how I look. I throw on a ratty pair of denim shorts and a tank top, put my hair in a messy bun, and go about my business. Since I knew how important getting this business license was for the Naughty Princess Club, and how much I fucked up by forgetting to turn it in on time, I took over an hour to get ready, so when I showed up at the courthouse, they would see that I was serious, professional, and I cared about what I was doing.

So this morning I put on an emerald green cotton wrap dress that matches my eyes, clings to my abundant curves, and dips into a V in front to show off just enough cleavage, but not enough to make me look like a porn star. I paired the dress with some open-toed, nude heels, and took the time to add big, gentle curls to my long red hair, letting it hang halfway down my back and over my shoulders. Before I walked off the boat, I forced myself to stand in front of the mirror and give myself a pep talk, saying that I looked amazing, fierce, and ready to take on the world. Or at least the board of directors that will be looking over our paperwork and deciding the fate of our business.

Now, returning to the boat, I glance down at my phone as I step onto the wooden dock. My smile grows wider as I scroll through the text messages between Eric and me from when I was at the courthouse.

Me: Emergency! What’s the address of my boat? I need to put down my address for some Naughty Princess Paperwork.

Eric: New phone. Who dis?

Me: Very funny. Just tell me the fucking address.

Eric: Well, when you ask me so nicely like that . . .

Me: OMG. Eric, could you PLEASE give me the address of my boat? Fucker.

Eric: I no longer go by the name Eric. Call me by my new name or you get nothing.

Me: I am NOT calling you Prince Hot Stuff. COME ON. I’m standing here in front of a really bitchy woman who is waiting for me to finish filling out this paperwork.

Eric: Say it. Out loud (aka text it).

Me: Did you just Edward Cullen me?

Eric: Who the fuck is Edward Cullen? Are you dating someone?????

Me: OMFG . . . Just give me the address.

Eric: Not until you admit I should always and forever be called Prince Hot Stuff.

Me: The only name you will always and forever be called is your royal name: Prince Eric, from the country of Goat Who Shits on Back. Population: You.

Eric: We agreed to never speak of that again. NEVER AGAIN, ARIEL.

Me: GIVE ME THE FUCKING ADDRESS OR I WILL PUT GOAT POOP IN EVERY SINGLE NOOK AND CRANNY OF YOUR BOAT. IT WILL BE IN YOUR SHOES, IN YOUR SHEETS, ON YOUR DISHES AND IN THE POCKETS OF ALL YOUR PANTS. YOU WON’T KNOW WHEN, YOU WON’T KNOW HOW, YOU WILL JUST STICK YOUR HANDS IN YOUR POCKETS AND FIND POOP!

Eric: 725 Mariners Way, in care of Eric Sailor/Ariel Waters.

Me: Your cooperation will be noted and put on file.

Eric: [Photo attachment] Does this orange sweater make Derrick’s butt look big?

I’m giggling to myself as I stare at the picture of Derrick looking like a miserable pumpkin, and I start typing a response when a voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Bonjour, chéri. . . .”

My feet stutter to a stop and my phone slips from my grasp, dropping with a clunk down onto the dock. My smile, my happiness, my confidence about how I looked this morning, it all withers and dies when I slowly lift my head and come face-to-face with my past.

Sebastian stands right in front of my boat with his hands shoved into the front pockets of a pair of black skinny jeans. Wearing a white T-shirt under an unbuttoned blue-and-black flannel shirt, with a slouchy black beanie covering up most of his blonde hair and a pair of black Doc Martens on his feet, he looks like a fucking hipster who’s trying too hard. In the back of my mind I can hear my inner bitch yelling at me to point and laugh at him and tell him he looks like a joke, but I can’t open my mouth and make the words come out.

“You look . . . healthy,” Sebastian says with a smile as he looks me up and down.

My posture immediately goes to shit and my shoulders curl in on themselves as I wrap my arms around my waist self-consciously. When Sebastian says healthy, he doesn’t mean it in a “You’re glowing and looking quite well” way. He means it in a “Looks like you’ve gained a few pounds” way.