“Welcome to my home. Would you like some coffee? I just made a fresh pot. I mean, well, my boyfriend got it ready before he left, but I flipped the switch so technically I made it,” I ramble with a nervous laugh, motioning with my head for her to follow me back through the living room.
She pulls the strap of her giant designer purse, which looks like it could possibly hold a few severed heads, higher on her shoulder, not even cracking a smile as she begrudgingly follows behind me to the kitchen.
I quickly go around the island and grab a mug out of the cupboard above the coffeepot, filling it up and splashing hot liquid all over my hand when I turn around too fast.
“Shit, fuck, damn,” I mutter, shaking out my hand as I set the coffee cup down, looking up to find her staring at me in disgust. “I mean, shoot, fork, darn it.”
Another nervous giggle comes out of my mouth, and I mentally scold myself and get my shit together as I slide the coffee mug across the counter towards her.
“That shirt is . . .” Ursula finally says, trailing off as I look down at my tank top, which she’s pointing at.
It’s ocean blue and form fitting, and has a sexy cartoon drawing of Cinderella showing off a lot of cleavage and playing with a strand of pearls on her neck with one finger. Below the cartoon are the words “The Naughty Princess Club” in hot pink, cursive script. I designed one for each of us with sexy cartoon drawings of our respective princesses. Belle’s is yellow, and mine is green. I ordered a sample of Cindy’s only, just to make sure we liked the fit before I ordered the others, and we put them up on our website, along with coffee mugs, magnets, and a bunch of other merchandise with the same designs, which I thought would be a great way to promote the business while also making extra money.
“It’s cute, right? Not too in-your-face sexy or inappropriate for the general public. Kind of like our business,” I tell her.
And yes, with another fucking nervous laugh.
“I regret to inform you that the board has decided against approving your business license,” Ursula states with a lift of her chin.
Jesus Christ, she couldn’t ease into this shit? Maybe make some small talk about the goddamn weather first? What kind of a monster is this woman?
My stomach drops right down into my toes, and the coffee I sucked down is threatening to come right back up as I press my hand to my stomach and try not to scream.
“Please tell me you’re kidding,” I whisper, wondering why in the hell those assholes sent a fucking assistant out here to break the news to me instead of doing it themselves, those dickless, spineless pieces of shit.
“I assure you, this is not a joke. It’s a simple matter of you not doing what was required—turning in the paperwork by the due date. The board has also decided that your business model doesn’t meet the high standards of the community, and it wouldn’t be profitable enough to benefit the community with the small amount of taxes that would go to it. It’s not worth the headache,” she tells me with absolutely zero emotion or even an ounce of sympathy while she stands here in my fucking kitchen crushing my dreams.
“But, this is our job. This is our life. This is how we support ourselves and pay our bills. It’s an honest living, even if they don’t think it is, and we’re not doing anything wrong. This business is growing by leaps and bounds every day, and is more than profitable enough to benefit the community. There’s got to be some way we can appeal this, right?”
Ursula lets out an irritated sigh, and it takes everything in me not to launch myself over the counter and smack that look right off of her face. But kicking the ass of the messenger won’t do me or the Naughty Princess Club any good. As much as it kills me, I have to keep my calm and keep a clear head instead of screaming obscenities at her.
“The next board meeting at the end of next week. You could always attend and plead your case in person, but I’m telling you: The decision has already been made and the board was very firm about it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting to get to.”
With that, she turns away from me abruptly, and like it’s happening in slow motion, I watch her fucking designer monstrosity of a purse smack against the Eric look-alike bust. It goes flying off of the counter as she starts walking away, and then I hear a loud crash.
I race around the island and let out a gasp when I see it shattered into a million pieces all over the carpet. It must have smacked against the seat of the barstool when it went over. And since it was God knows how old, it was fragile and unable to handle a drop like that. Falling to my knees on the carpet, my eyes fill with tears as I stare at the ridiculous antique that I was looking at just moments ago, thinking about how precious it was to me and what it symbolized: Falling in love with Eric and finding myself again.