At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

And that brings me right back full circle to what PJ is saying. I should be bolstered by the fact that he thinks I’m stunning and sexy, when I haven’t heard those words from a man in too many years to count. Actually, I’ve never heard those words. My ex would barely look at me when I’d come down, dressed to go out. He just mumbled, “You look nice.” Every time.

But the compliment doesn’t make me feel good, and it doesn’t encourage me. I can fake the sexiness, but I can’t fake the confidence. I don’t know how to get past that. I don’t know how to throw caution to the wind and just act on something without thinking about it and analyzing it to death, making graphs and charts and lists of pros and cons. I don’t know how to be spontaneous. I don’t know how to be fearless. I don’t know how to shut off my brain and just do something wild and reckless without worrying about what people will think of me, or hearing my mother-in-law’s voice in my head telling me a lady would never behave that way. And I need to be able to do all of those things to take off my clothes in front of strangers.

“I do think you have a solid business plan. It’s genius, actually, and I wish I had thought of it myself.”

PJ’s voice interrupts me from my self-deprecating thoughts, and once again, the deep timbre of it makes me squirm in my seat.

“I just think you, and especially Belle, might do better behind the scenes. Running the business, handling the paperwork, things like that. You’re a very intelligent woman, Cynthia. I just don’t think you’re cut out to take your clothes off for money, or comfortable enough to move your body, no matter how sexy it is, the way my dancers do. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everyone is cut out for something like this. Every business needs a smart person to make it successful. You should be proud of the fact that you three came up with this idea, and that it’s something you’re passionate about.”

Our waitress interrupts us once again to set our drinks down, and I don’t even care anymore about trying to look like I enjoy whiskey just to put PJ in his place.

“Jennifer, I changed my mind. Could I have that glass of Moscato? You know what, just bring the entire bottle,” I tell her with a sigh.

She quickly puts my glass of Johnnie Walker back on her tray and walks back to the bar to hopefully bring me the largest bottle of wine they stock here, while I glance around the room, looking for my friends so I can go cry on their shoulder with my giant bottle of wine.

PJ is still talking, but his words fade into the background when I spot someone on the other side of the club. He looks familiar from the back, and I start to get nervous, hoping no one I know from Anastasia’s school or the neighborhood is here. How mortifying would it be if her school principal, whom I’ve had many one-on-one meetings with, were to show up here, tonight of all nights?

“Please, don’t be offended by—”

“Oh no. Oh my God . . . ,” I mutter, cutting PJ off when the man across the room turns and starts heading in our direction.

“What’s wrong?”

He looks over to where I’m staring with wide eyes, and I’m thinking now would be a good time for a natural disaster, like a tornado or possibly a deadly explosion. I’d much rather die by being sucked out of the roof and tossed three states over or in a gruesome, tragic inferno than be sitting here right now.

“This is not happening. Oh my God. I need to hide. I can fit under the table, right?” I ramble, sliding forward on the bench as I contemplate curling up into the fetal position under the tiny table in front of us, although its barely big enough to hold a couple of drinks and a candle.

“Cynthia, are you okay?”

I ignore PJ’s concerned voice as I realize it’s too late. He’s too close. Thank God he’s busy talking to people as he walks our way and hasn’t seen me yet, but as soon as I stand up, he’ll see me. I can’t leave and I can’t fit under the table.

And I absolutely cannot see or speak to my former father-in-law—who hates me—for the first time since Brian left, in a strip club, with my breasts practically falling out of my shirt and my butt hanging out of my shorts. Especially when he already thinks I know where all of his money went, and that I’ve been frolicking around town spending it all.

He’s going to take one look at me and believe it’s true. He’s going to see me sitting here dressed indecently, and think I’ve spent all his money making it rain at strip clubs.