Synopsis

 Excerpt 

We noshed on sandwiches in my bedroom and the Ladies drank champagne from crystal flutes. I turned down the bubbly—I didn’t want to meet Cristoph’s family for the first time (for real) even a bit tipsy.

I encouraged Cheryl and Joan to invade Elizabeth’s closet, rifle through her clothes and pick the crucial meeting-the-royal family-outfit. I sat on the floor, leaned back against my bed and downed the last of that lamb/venison Fredonia sausage. It was freaking delicious.

“The key word here is—” I said, “—informal. I’ve already met Cristoph’s family so many times in the past.”

I could practically feel my nose growing.

“And yes, my sleep has sucked for the past three nights.”

Make that the past three weeks since I’d taken this part-time job.

“Every night Carolina brings me herbal tea before I go to bed. She’s so sweet,” I said. “Such a lady! What a catch for Elizabeth’s Da-I mean Papa. But I still toss and turn. And every morning Helga brings me fresh coffee. But it never really wakes me up. I don’t feel like myself. I think it’s all the stress.”

Maybe it was all the lying. Or maybe I missed Nick. I hadn’t heard boo from him since that day in the park.

“What stress?” Cheryl asked. “You’re engaged to a hot Prince, you’ll want for nothing ever again and all you really have to do to cement the deal—post-wedding of course—is pop out an heir someday. I delivered two. Hubby is quite content with his little Ladies who adore him. Of course he travels five days out of the week and only has daughter duty on weekends. Sign me up for a boob lift, a tummy tuck, a ten-pack of facial peels and valerian root tea.”

“Oh cut the crap, Cheryl,” Joan said. “It’s called Xanax.”

“I’d like to see you handle two little ones under the age of five who already snark at each other like high school mean girls,” Cheryl said. “Xanax, valerian, reikki, yoga, watching too much tennis on TV—love that Rafa—whatever it takes to keep my sanity, I’ll do it. Mommy Makeover here I come.”

“I read an article in Euro Cosmopolitan that said getting engaged was right up there on the top twenty list of major life stresses,” I said. “I come by my eye circles the old-fashioned way—too much stress.”

“Or perhaps your lack of sleep is from all the clandestine sex you’re finally getting.” Esmeralda waltzed into my bedroom. “Great job you’re doing with Elizabeth’s under eye circles, Joan. You’re gifted.” She threw herself onto her back on my bed. “Can someone pour me a glass of champagne?” She propped herself up on her elbows and held out one hand. “Por favor?”

“What do you mean, ‘clandestine sex?’” I poured a glass of Perrier Whatever and passed it to her.

“What do you mean ‘finally getting?’” Joan asked. “Good Lord, Elizabeth’s been getting more than her share for years. I’m a single barrister and I work a forty-hour week. When do I have time to meet men, let alone date?”

“You meet men all the time,” Cheryl said.

“I meet men ‘all the time’ who are married, incarcerated or married and soon to be incarcerated. My ‘getting’ pool is in the shallow end,” Joan said.

“Trust me, all the clandestine sex will be screeching to a stop after Elizabeth gets married and pumps out two heirs. Color me happy if we have sex once a week.” Cheryl guzzled what remained in her glass and held it out. “And even then it’s usually in front of the TV during a soccer match. Top me off, please.”

“Clandestine, Joan. Secret. Not out in the open. On the QT,” Esmeralda said.

“Nothing’s happening on the QT,” I said.

“You’re engaged to a royal, darling,” Esmeralda said. “The good citizens of Fredonia assume you’re doing the horizontal hokey-pokey, and while most of them fantasize about it, everything still must remain hush-hush for etiquette’s sake. Excuse me while I multi-task as we chat. I have a date tonight. Yoga keeps me limber.” She downed the champagne and handed me back the glass. “Gracias.”

“You’re welcome. Can I get you another—”

“I’m good.” She widened her legs high up in the air over her head, clasped onto her big toes with her thumbs and forefingers and stretched her thighs wide apart.

Joan winced and then squinted up at the ceiling. “Esmeralda! I see London, I see France. I see that you need underpants!”

I glared at the smart-mouthed Lady-in-Waiting, rolling all over my bed like a kitten in heat. And I wondered how much dry-cleaning a down comforter in Fredonia would cost in euros.

“You’re going commando again, aren’t you?” Cheryl frowned. “I thought those days were over.” She sighed.

Esmeralda rocked from side to side as she displayed almost everything but her private half-Spanish parts. “I just follow Elizabeth’s lead. She’s always been the trend setter in our group.”

“Me?” I sputtered. “I’ve never been big on trends. And I always wear undies.”

That was kind of a lie but sounded appropriate and somewhat chaste. Besides, who would call me on it?

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AUTHOR BIO

Pamela DuMond is the author who discovered Erin Brockovich’s life story, thought it would make a great movie and pitched it to ‘Hollywood’.

She writes romantic comedic mysteries, romantic YA time travel and New Adult romance.

Her book The Story of You and Me was a Quarterfinalist in the Amazon Breakout Novel Award (ABNA) 2014 in Romance.

Cupcakes, Pies, and Hot Guys was a Quarterfinalist in ABNA 2013 in Mystery .

She’s addicted to TV shows — The Voice and Reign. The movies Love Actually and The Bourne trilogy (with Matt Damon — not that other actor guy,) make her cry ever time she watches them. (Like — a thousand.)

When she’s not writing Pamela’s also a chiropractor and cat wrangler. She loves reading, the beach, working out, movies, TV, animals, her family and friends. She lives in Venice, California with her fur-babies.

She likes her coffee strong, her cabernet hearty, her chocolate dark, her foods non-GMO and she lives for a good giggle.