Page 27 of Princess and the Player
She calls back down the hall. “Someone to see you, honey! He’s pretty. Can we keep him?”
“Behave, and give me a second,” I yell as I dash to the bathroom, straighten my hair, throw cold water on my face, rub on cherry ChapStick, switch to mango and then watermelon, and then dart back to the den.
I can’t see her, but Cece is still at the door, yammering about football and the weather.
I twist my hands, trying to rustle up my nerve to face him.
“Are you going to tell him?” Brogan asks.
“What? Why?” I give him a wide-eyed look as I grab the box of Triscuits off the coffee table and eat one furiously. “Plus, it could be a false positive.”
“All three tests? Fran—”
I give him a pleading look. “For real. Think about it, Brogan. Wouldyouwant to know?”
He pauses, then sighs. “You mean if I wasn’t into guys and got a random woman pregnant during a one-night stand at a sex club?” His lips purse. “Not really.”
“And why is that?”
He frowns.
“Come on,” I say. “Be truthful.”
“I wouldn’t want to know because I don’t care about her. It was a one-time thing.”
“Exactly.”
“I’m also into guys, so this is like comparing apples to oranges—”
“Doesn’t matter.” I tuck in another cracker and head for the door.
Chapter 7
TUCK
Adrenaline hits as the door opens a few inches. “Francesca. There you are,” I murmur to a sliver of her face.
“What do you want?” she asks tartly.
I dip my head and see one dainty foot, the toenails painted black. Of course she’d paint them black. She’s no milk-and-honey girl; she’s bold and brazen. Mysterious.
“To talk,” I say. My smile is all sunshine and charming. Fake.
The crack opens more, and I see the elegant shape of a dark eyebrow, one high cheekbone, a wisp of midnight hair. “Did Herman tell you which apartment I lived in?”
“Nah, Darden lives on your floor, and he knows everyone. He speaks highly of you, by the way. I had to promise him I meant you no harm.”
“That traitor.” She pokes her head out and yells, “You can shut your door now, Mr.Darden.”
I glance over, and his door is indeed partly open.
His rough voice replies, “I was just checking to be sure he found you. Also, I found a job for you since you can’t seem to do it yourself.I expect to see you at breakfast at nine a.m. to discuss. Bring a copy of theTimeswhen you come over.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine.”
“And tell Cece I know she filched one of my crystal paperweights on game night,” he grouses. “And she better stop looking at my Fabergé collection.”
Francesca turns to someone over her shoulder—Cece, I assume—muttering words like “Klepto” and “Why do you tease him?” and then “‘Papa Don’t Preach’? Really?”
