“You’re kidding me,” Flynn says, scraping off the griddle.

I’m standing on the other side of the service window, rolling napkins around silverware for tomorrow morning.

“He really hit on me that way,” I say, and shrug. “The man is famous for not being able to keep it in his pants, Flynn, I think I was just the closest available person with breasts and two legs.”

I don’t tell Flynn that for the rest of my shift, I couldn’t think about anything else. I didn’t really consider taking the prince up on his offer — if nothing else, my stepmother would find out and she’d probably lock me in the basement for a month — but all day I’ve been fantasizing about the enormous bulge in his pants.

I’ve been thinking about the prince, in his limousine, bending me over the back seat and sliding the head of that monster along my lips, one hand in my hair, holding me down. Making me absolutely delirious with anticipation before he finally pushed it inside me—

“Earth to Ella,” Flynn says again, waving a spatula in my direction.

“Huh?”

“I said, give yourself a little more credit, girl. And I said it about twenty times. Daydreaming?”

I blush. I’ve always hated that about myself — I blush way too easily.

“No!”

He grins.

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Prince Grayson’s a sexy-ass fox, girl. I’d let him fuck me in the men’s bathroom for sure,” he says, reaching for a rag. “Thomas would understand. Thomas would probably want to watch.”

Flynn winks at me, and I just blush harder. He laughs, because he loves getting a rise out of me.

“Well, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again,” I point out. “And I wouldn’t see him again even if I had, you know, gone into the bathroom with him, so it’s for the best.”

Flynn just sighs dramatically, and I glance at the clock. It’s four-thirty.

Crap. I drop the silverware I’m holding back into its trays, and Flynn glances over.

“I gotta go,” I say. “You’re good here, right?”

He waves the rag at me.

“Which troll-beast needs you to pluck her nose hairs again because she can’t figure out which end of the tweezers to use?” he asks.

“Shhh,” I hiss, shooting him a glare. “Come on, don’t get me in trouble.”

“Everyone else is gone, you know,” he says.

“I’ve gotta make dinner, then make sure Peyton’s gown is pressed and ready,” I say. “She’s going to the opera tonight with some rich duke, I forget which one.”

“For her sake, I hope he’s blind,” Flynn says.

“Flynn!”

He just laughs.

“Go on, get,” he says, and I rush out the door.

* * *

I’m barely in the front door when the screeching starts, echoing down the wide foyer of my father’s mansion.

My deceased father’s mansion. Technically, that makes it my stepmother’s, since she inherited everything because he didn’t leave a will, but I still think of it as his.

There’s not a lot of his that I have left, so it helps.

“Ella! Where is my flat iron? The ceramic one? Did you borrow it again? I swear to God my hair is an absolute nightmare!”

Peyton’s voice feels like an icepick to my eardrums, and I take a deep breath while I close the front door, trying to collect myself.

For the record, I’ve never borrowed her flat iron. My hair is naturally straight to begin with, and besides, I’m not insane. She’d probably skin me alive if I even asked.

“ELLA!!”

“I think I saw it in the middle drawer of your bathroom counter when I was cleaning in there last week,” I call.

There’s no answer, just angry footsteps stomping around upstairs. She doesn’t shout for me again, so I assume she’s found the stupid flat iron and I can get on with my day.

As quickly as I can, I head to my own room, a small one attached to the laundry room, change out of my uniform and into regular clothes. I pull my hair back into a bun again, then head into the kitchen so I can make dinner.

Slade is outside, sunning herself by the pool in a bikini that doesn’t really flatter her figure, but she likes to think it does. When she sees me through the window, she waves at me, then crooks her finger.

My blood boils, but I go see what she wants.

“I need a margarita,” she says. She’s wearing sunglasses, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even open her eyes again.

I’m tempted to say then go make yourself a margarita, but I don’t. She’ll tell her mother, and then I’d be in big trouble.

“Sure,” I say, and head back into the kitchen. There’s a pitcher of margarita mix in the fridge, and I mix Slade up a strong one — the sooner she gets drunk, the sooner she’ll fall asleep and leave me alone. She could easily do this herself, but why do anything yourself when your stepsister is practically your indentured servant?

Finally, when both my stepsisters are happy, I can start making dinner. Tonight’s menu is hazelnut-crusted lamb chops, which my stepmother specifically requested even though I know for a fact she doesn’t like hazelnuts. She’ll just try it, push it away, and demand something else.

Still, even though I’m busy, as the nuts whirl in the food processor my mind slips to Prince Grayson one more time, and I close my eyes, imagining him behind me right now. His lips on the back of my neck, his hand in my hair.

The way he’d bend me over this counter, squeeze my butt. The sound of his zipper sliding down.

“Are you finally making dinner?” Livia’s voice says, sharp even over the din of the food processor, and my eyes snap open.

“Yes,” I say.

She looks me over, sharp gray eyes in a pinched face, bottle-blonde hair waved to hair-sprayed perfection. For one second I wonder if she somehow knows what I was just thinking about, but then she walks on.

“Good,” she calls over her shoulder. “Peyton’s got a big date with a very important man, and she doesn’t want to miss it.”

She leaves the room, and I allow myself a tiny smile.

Not as important as the man who propositioned me this morning, I think.

Sometimes it’s the small victories.