Royally Matched (Royally #2)(12)

“Let’s be honest, Sarah: you know and I know the last thing you want to do is give a presentation in front of hundreds of people—your colleagues.”

My heart tries to crawl into my throat.

“So, how about this? You do the research portion, slides and such that I don’t really have time for, and I’ll take care of the presentation, giving you half the credit of course.”

Of course. I’ve heard this song before—in school “group projects” where I, the quiet girl, did all the work, but the smoothest, loudest talker took all the glory.

“I’ll get Haverstrom to agree on Saturday—I’m like a son to him,” Pat explains before leaning close enough that I can smell the garlic on his breath. “Let Big Pat take care of it. What do you say?”

I say there’s a special place in hell for people who refer to themselves in the third person.

But before I can respond, Willard’s firm, sure voice travels down the hall.

“I think you should back off, Nolan. Sarah’s not just ‘up for it,’ she’ll be fantastic at it.”

Pat waves his hand. “Quiet, midge—the adults are talking.”

And the adrenaline comes rushing back, but this time it’s not anxiety-induced—it’s anger. Indignation.

I push off the wall. “Don’t call him that.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“I mind.”

He stares at me with something akin to surprise. Then scoffs and turns to Willard. “You always let a woman fight your battles?”

I take another step forward, forcing him to move back. “You think I can’t fight a battle because I’m a woman?”

“No, I think you can’t fight a battle because you’re a woman who can barely string three words together if more than two people are in the room.”

I’m not hurt by the observation. For the most part, it’s true.

But not this time.

I smile slowly, devilishly. Suddenly, I’m Cathy Linton come to life—headstrong and proud.

“There are more than two people standing here right now. And I’ve got more than three words for you: fuck off, you arrogant, self-righteous swamp donkey.”

His expression is almost funny. Like he can’t decide if he’s more shocked that I know the word fuck or that I said it out loud to him—and not in the good way.

Then his face hardens and he points at me. “That’s what I get for trying to help your mute arse? Have fun making a fool of yourself.”

I don’t blink until he’s down the stairs and gone.

Willard slow-claps as he walks down the hall to me.

“Swamp donkey?”

I shrug. “It just came to me.”

“Impressive.” Then he bows and kisses the back of my hand. “You were magnificent.”

“Not half bad, right? It felt good.”

“And you didn’t blush once.”

I push my dark hair out of my face, laughing self-consciously. “Seems like I forget all about being nervous when I’m defending someone else.”

Willard nods. “Good. And though I hate to be the twat who points it out, there’s something else you should probably start thinking about straight away.”

“What’s that?”

“The presentation in front of hundreds of people.”

And just like that, the tight, sickly feeling washes back over me.

So this is what doomed feels like.

I lean against the wall. “Oh, broccoli balls.”





AFTER I GET OFF WORK, I walk to my flat, about half a mile away. My building is plain but well-kept, with a garden and sitting area on the roof. There’s a newly married couple with an even newer baby in the unit above me—David, Jessica, and little Barnaby—and an elderly couple, Felix and Belinda, together forty years, in the unit below.

I put my keys in the crystal bowl by the door, like always. Then I slip out of my coat and shoes and put both in the closet. Also, like always.

I don’t have a roommate or a pet, so my sitting room is just how I left it this morning, neat and spotless, with its beige sofa and burnt-orange throw pillows, matching drapes, pictures of my mother and sister on the end table and my favorite book covers framed on the walls.

The crowning glory of my sitting room isn’t the flat-screen television or the wood-burning stove in the corner. It’s the bookcase, poised between the two windows.

Six shelves, as high as the ceiling, made of driftwood. I found it at a Christmas market a few years back. It was a shabby piece then, plain and dull—sort of like me—but I could tell the planks were made of sturdy stuff, and they would not buckle. So I brought it home, sanded and polished it, and placed my dearest and most prized possessions upon it—my collection of first-edition classic novels. The full Jane Austen collection, the Bront? sisters, Dickens—they’re all here. Although I enjoy good contemporary romance or chick lit as much as the next woman, these are the ones I come back to—stories that no matter how often I reread them are every bit as moving every time.

The flat is small, with only a sliver of ocean view from the bedroom window, but I pay for it myself—not from the family trust fund.

There’s satisfaction in earning one’s own money. Self-sufficiency—like knowing how to rub sticks together to start a fire. A survival skill. I could make it in the wilderness if I had to.