Royally Screwed (Royally 1)

She’s right. And I have two hours before Nicholas picks me up—not nearly enough time to run out and buy something. Plus, that would require using the emergency somebody-better-be-bleeding-from-an-artery credit card. It’s like I’m living an episode of reality TV—a full-fledged fashion fucking emergency. Except no camera crew and makeover-expert fairy godmother is going to pop out of my bathroom.

Although…I may have something better. I roll off the bed and sprint down the hall, through the living room, to the door that leads to the downstairs kitchen.

“Marty! Come up here!”

Five minutes later, Marty’s standing in my bedroom, staring at the pile of clothes I just dropped in his arms. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Salvation Army?”

I gesture to the clothes. “I need you to help me figure out how to turn this—” I swing around and point at the picture of Nicholas on the laptop with the tall blond wearing a bold fuchsia halter-dress “—into that.”

I’m not stereotyping—I’ve seen Marty outside of work and he’s an amazing dresser. Sophisticated, sleek, with a hint of flash.

He looks at the clothes, then dumps them on the bed.

“Let me explain something, baby doll. You are beautiful, inside and out…but I’ve known I like dick since I was twelve years old. Give me a tall, dark lumbersexual and I’ll dress him so fine you wouldn’t want to unwrap him even if it was the first night of Hanukkah.” He traces the air around me. “But your squishy bits, I don’t know what to do with.”

I cover my eyes with one hand. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I agree to go out with Nicholas? It’s going to be a total shit-show.

The last date I went on was at a Laundromat. Not even kidding.

Our washing machine broke and I spent four nights making flirty eye contact and small talk across the folding table with a super-cute guy. On the fifth night, he bought me a slice of pizza, then we made out on top of the heavy loaders during the spin cycle. It was only after, when I noticed the floral comforter, bras and panties in his colors wash, that he admitted to having a live-in girlfriend. Bastard. Six months later and I still can’t look at a bottle of Clorox without feeling dirty.

Marty gently pulls my hand down from my eyes. He taps my nose—and smiles.

“But I know somebody who does.”

Turns out, Bibbidy, Marty’s oldest younger sister, has a new job as a receptionist at City Couture—a high-end fashion magazine. Which means she has the keys to the kingdom, also known as the Sample Closet: a mythical, magical, warehouse-sized room filled with dresses and gowns of every shade, size, and style, as well as shoes to match and every accessory known to man. All of which Bibbidy can use when she’s on the clock—and after—as long as her “dragon-lady boss who makes Cruella De Vil look stable” doesn’t find out.

She agrees to take the risk for me—and I’m not sure I’m okay with that.

But Marty assures me she owes him big time—something about making up for crashing his beloved-but-piece-of-shit Chevy Nova in high school.

And that’s why Bibbidy Ginsberg shows up at our apartment forty minutes later, her arms laden with dresses and bags. And that’s how, an hour after that, I end up wearing an Alexander McQueen light blue, sleeveless dress with a cut-out back that falls a few inches above my knee. It makes me feel pretty. Still me—comfortable—but an elegant, polished version of me.

Ellie flatirons my hair into a long, black shiny curtain, while I do my makeup—a bit of powder, a hint of blush, three coats of mascara, and a muted red lipstick that highlights the shape of my mouth Nicholas seems to like so much.

“These will be perfect!” Bibbidy exclaims, waving a pair of obsidian high-heeled ankle boots around like a magic wand.

“Mmm-hmm.” Marty approves. “Fuck-me boots if I ever saw ’em.”

“I can’t wear those,” I try to protest. “I’ll break my neck. There’s still snow on the ground.”

“You’re going from the coffee shop to the car,” my sister counters. “You’re not walking the Appalachian Trail, Liv.”

Bibbidy points to my laptop—still open to Nicholas’s delicious picture. “My brother wasn’t messing with me—that’s who you’re going out with?”

I have to fight to not sigh like a dreamy schoolgirl.

“That’s him.”

She enjoys another look.

“Oh honey, you are definitely wearing the fuck-me boots.”

And that settles that.

Twenty minutes later, I wait alone in the coffee shop—standing, so the dress doesn’t wrinkle. The room is dim, illuminated only by the muted overhead lamp above the counter and a few twinkling battery-operated candles on the tables near the window.

I close my eyes. And swear to myself that I’ll remember how this feels. This moment. This night.

Because I’m right on the edge—standing on that thrilling, wonderful precipice where everything is perfect. Where the dreams flickering through my head of how tonight will go are flawless—my witty, irresistible banter, Nicholas’s sexy chivalry, our funny flirtations. We’ll laugh, we’ll dance—we’ll share a good-night kiss. Maybe more.

I’m Dorothy gazing down at the Emerald City.

I’m Wendy rising in the air after my first pinch of pixie dust.

I’m…I laugh to myself…I’m Cinderella, stepping into her coach to go to the ball.