At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

“Did you know almost forty percent of young adults live with their parents and it’s the highest percentage in seventy-five years? The only time in U.S. history when that number has been higher was in 1940, when the U.S. economy was still regaining its footing from the Great Depression and the country’s entry into World War II,” Isabelle says rapidly, spouting off the facts right from the top of her head like she’s reading from the page of a reference book.

“Could she get any more adorable?” Ariel asks, reaching up and pinching one of Isabelle’s cheeks.

“I don’t think I’m quite ready to move out on my own just yet, but I could use some help trying to save the library where I work. It’s on the verge of being shut down because we just don’t have enough funds to keep it going. My father is on disability, so I’m the only help he has. I can’t lose that job, and I really don’t want the town to lose such a wonderful resource like the library,” Isabelle explains.

“Excellent. It’s settled, then. We’ll all become hookers, and I’d guestimate that in a few weeks, we’ll be doing just fine in the money department. We can do it on our own and not have a pimp sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong, taking a cut of our hard-earned blow job fees,” Ariel announces.

Isabelle’s face blanches and her eyes grow so wide, I’m amazed they don’t pop out of her head.

“I don’t . . . I can’t . . . I’ve never . . .”

“She’s just kidding, sweetie,” I tell her softly, shooting an irritated look at Ariel. “Tell her you’re just kidding.”

Ariel rolls her eyes. “Fine. I’m just kidding. But I’m telling you, if we can’t come up with something quick, I am not opposed to selling my body on a street corner. I haven’t gotten laid in forever, and I wouldn’t mind a little action that doesn’t include a few grunts, a few pumps, and the guy rolling over and snoring.”

“My word, what kind of men have you been with?” I ask.

“Your ex,” she says with a blank expression.

I can’t even argue with her or tell her Brian was nothing like that in bed. And it’s not just because a small part of me feels the need to defend him because he’s still the father of my child, even if he isn’t acting like it. It’s because it’s true. Our love life was less than satisfying.

I bet that annoying, rude man wouldn’t leave anyone unsatisfied in the bedroom. All those muscles, and that dimple in his cheek, and his quiet confidence just screamed that he’d know what he was doing and would take charge with those big hands of his, bringing all a woman’s fantasies to life. I don’t even realize I’m searching through the crowd, trying to get another glimpse of him, until these thought pops into my head, making me cringe. It’s been so long since I found another man attractive, that it’s truly pathetic that someone who insulted my cupcakes and my costume, no matter how pretty he was to look at, would have me thinking such inappropriate thoughts.

“We could do bake sales. My sales for the PTA have been the top earners in the entire history of the PTA every year since I’ve been in charge,” I announce proudly, pushing the size of that man’s hands and what he could do with them out of my head.

“Cindy, we’ve witnessed what kind of things you bake. We don’t want to kill people. It’s bad for business. Next idea,” Ariel says, shooting my suggestion down with a roll of her eyes.

“I have a very nice collection of first-edition classics on a bookshelf in my room that I think I could part with. We could have a little stand out front of one of our homes and sell them. Oooooh, we could sell lemonade too!” Isabelle informs us excitedly, clapping her hands together and bouncing up and down.

“You’re so cute and sheltered. I don’t know whether to hug you or smack you upside the head,” Ariel tells her.

“Do you have a better idea?” I question.

Ariel opens her mouth, and I immediately hold up my hand to cut her off.

“One that does not including selling any parts of our bodies.”

She quickly closes her mouth with a huff.

“Sorry, that’s all I’ve got.”

The three of us stand deep in thought while the rest of the neighborhood goes about their business, talking, and laughing, and having a wonderful time. Right when I begin to throw my hands up in the air and actually start to consider Ariel’s preposterous idea, one of the neighbors from the very end of the cul-de-sac walks up to us.

“Ladies, you’re looking lovely this evening.”

I smile at John Abraham, a man in his early forties whom Brian used to play poker with once a month and golf with every Sunday, suddenly feeling self-conscious, wondering if he only came over here to see if he too could get some gossip out of me. Surely he must wonder why Brian has been a no-show to their weekly and monthly get-togethers, but this is the first time he’s spoken to me since Brian left, aside from a few neighborly waves when we would see each other outside from time to time.