At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

John is officially off my Christmas-card list.

“We have nothing to talk about, and I’m kind of busy here. . . .” I trail off, reaching for the door.

PJ sticks his foot out and stops it from slamming in his face, and I sigh in annoyance.

“Look, I know it’s weird that I showed up here out of the blue, and I’m sorry for interrupting . . . whatever it is you were doing,” he says, glancing quickly down at the white powder on my legs before meeting my eyes again. “But will you just give me two seconds to say what I came here to say?” he pleads.

“Fine. But I’m not inviting you in,” I tell him petulantly, crossing my arms in front of me again as he continues to hover in the doorway, running a hand through the hair on top of his head and making it stand up in messy spikes, which I want to run my hands through even though I don’t like him very much right now.

A few seconds of silence stretches between us before he finally speaks.

“Look, I just wanted to apologize for what I might have said earlier that could have offended you,” he states.

“What in the world could you possibly have said that would have offended me?” I ask with a sarcastic laugh. “Was it the part about how I should just go home and bake something? Or maybe it was when you said I had a bored little life and should go find a different hobby? Oh, I know! I bet it was when you said I had a stick up my ass the size of the Empire State Building. You should really narrow this down so I know exactly what you’re apologizing for.”

I glare at him, and at least he has the decency to look embarrassed and not full of smug condescension like earlier, when he judged me without knowing one thing about my life.

“I’m sorry. Everything I said was rude and uncalled for. I spoke without thinking,” he says. “I had a little chat with Tiffany after you left, and you’ll be happy to know she called me a wide range of insults from stupid fucking idiot to the biggest asshole in the world.”

Tiffany is now my new best friend.

He steps over the threshold and stands toe-to-toe with me, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I keep my arms tightly crossed over my chest and my feet planted where they are, refusing to move. I’m afraid if I move, I might rest my palms against the muscles in his chest just to see if they’re as firm as they look, or punch him. It could go either way.

“Great, thanks for the apology, you can go now.”

I take a step back from him, deciding that moving away from him is probably the wisest choice, before I do something I’ll regret.

“Cynthia, please,” he begs softly.

I’m channeling Ariel and letting a bunch of curse words fly around in my head when the sound of my name coming from his mouth makes me feel all warm and tingly.

“I truly am sorry for what I said. I made a snap judgment about you. Tiffany told me a little bit about you and what you’re going through and . . . I shouldn’t have said those things. I’m not an asshole. I’m just protective of my club and the women who work there.”

I close my eyes for a few seconds to get my thoughts in order. Part of me wants to feel mortified that Tiffany divulged my personal information to this man, who clearly didn’t have a very high opinion of me. But another part of me, the part that just chucked a plate against the kitchen wall and tossed pots and pans across the room, is glad he knows and feels like an idiot for the way he behaved.

“I spent thirteen years letting a man tell me what I could and couldn’t do. I’m not about to let it happen again,” I tell him.

“I know. And again, I’m sorry. I want to help you. You and your friends. Give me a chance to make this right. Come back to Charming’s this Friday night, when the club is open. If you’re determined to learn how to be a dancer, you at least need to see how it really works, when the place is packed and full of energy and testosterone,” he says, backing out of the foyer and onto the porch.

He takes another slow perusal of me, from head to toe, as he continues moving backward, and I try not to shiver.

“Just lose the pearls and wear something a little less . . . 1950s housewife,” he tells me with a smirk as he turns and heads down the stairs.

I narrow my eyes at his back and move into the doorway, shouting after him.