Did I want to turn Max down?

Oh, please.

Did I have to turn Max down?

Hell, yes.

He had hooked me up with this job, this opportunity, this manna that fell from the heavens. When I signed their contract, I’d deposited enough money into my bank account to pay Uncle Florio’s rent for the rest of this month. I wasn’t about to screw things up and sleep with the guy who steered this job in my direction. I might have the hots for him, but I wasn’t a foolish girl.

The following morning, Mr. Cartwright hustled me down Oak Street in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. We passed trendy boutiques, pricey restaurants, coiffed-to-the-tens shoppers, as well as sweaty, sunburned tourists. I practiced my royal wave on a few of them until Mr. Cartwright grabbed my hand, curled my fingers into a fist, and shut it down.

“Let go of me.” Sweat poured off my forehead, bubbled on my chest, and trickled down my cleavage.

“Only if you promise not to call attention to yourself.”

“Fine.”

He dropped my hand.

“Why couldn’t we take the limo to Misha’s like Cici and Zara did?”

“It’s essential that the public not see you and Lady Catherine together. We do not need a photo posted to Instagram to blow The Crown Affair. Besides, Cici is paying you a tidy sum of money for serious reasons, including her privacy.” He paused in front of the white-bricked facade of a tiny storefront. ‘Misha’ was lettered in cursive on the bricks. “We’re here.”

“Clue me in on who Misha is and what are we here to accomplish.”

“Please,” Mr. Cartwright said.

“Please what?”

“Always say ‘Please’ when you ask someone for assistance.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. “Or if you have a preference. For example, ‘Please don’t smoke next to me.’”

“Please, Mr. Cartwright, could you please take off your sweater when it’s ninety-nine degrees outside?”

“More like, ‘Please Vivian, could you please attempt to refrain from intrusive non-lady-like questions?’ It’s only a part-time job—remember? It won’t last forever.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, and by the way, Misha is a bit of a…” He looked up toward the sky and frowned.

“Sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Perfectionist?”

“Not what I had in mind.”

“Asshole?”

“Yes.” He cradled my elbow with one hand and opened the door to the shop with his other. “Ladies first.”

I walked through the doorway and before I could help myself, curtseyed to an older woman whose head was dotted with pink rollers under a hair-dryer.

She squinted at me. “Did you just curtsey?”

“No. She has a trick knee.” Mr. Cartwright said.

“An old powder puff football injury,” I said.

“Do you not recall the privacy confidentiality agreement you signed yesterday?”

“Was that on page forty-eight or eighty-four of the contract? I have to practice this stuff if I’m going to pull off this gig. When am I going to get a chance to practice?”

“Soon. But not in public—yet. By the way, if Misha calls you a ‘bitch’—he means that as a compliment.” He smoothed a hand over his silver hair.

“If Misha calls me a bitch I’ll deck him.”

“It’s similar to how certain persons call their friends ‘phat.’ Another compliment.”

“Where I come from calling someone fat is definitely not a compliment.”

 “You stated in your resume you could roll with the punches. Improvise.”

“There was nothing in your job description or on page forty-eight or eighty-four that stated people would call me a fat bitch.”

We stood in front of a small, granite-topped reception desk. Large framed photos of gorgeous models with immaculate hair hung on the walls. The receptionist sat behind the counter, glanced at us for a heartbeat, and then gazed back at her phone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re booked for a month.”

I craned my neck. She was playing a game on her phone.

“You’re in luck. There’s an Amazing Cuts down the street.”

Mr. Cartwright leaned one forearm on the marble countertop, winced, and propped up his lower back with his other hand. “Darling girl, check your book. Groucho has arrived.”

Her eyes snapped up and she double clicked her phone. “Groucho? Absolutely. We’ve been expecting you!” She catapulted off her ergonomic chair. “Follow me.”

She led us through the salon that was more precious than the decor at a baby shower. Moments later I was seated in front of Misha’s station facing too many mirrors while he snapped a vinyl cape around my neck. Hairbrushes and shiny tubes with his name emblazoned on them tilted in tall glass vases on surrounding counters. Zara was already seated on a folding chair. Now she and Mr. Cartwright sipped drinks in sweaty, crystal tumblers.

“Where’s Cici—”

“She returned to the Drake. An urgent matter. She’ll see you back at the penthouse,” Zara said.

Misha was a skinny, forty–something hipster. He wore thick, black glasses and sported a goatee. He ran his hands through my long hair and breathed through his mouth. He seemed to be enjoying this moment a little too much.

“I was thinking, Misha,” Zara said, “that you could weave in natural looking highlights. She needs to be blonder.”

“That sounds just like Cici’s hair,” Misha said.

“Yes. Then cut and style Vivian’s hair in soft waves that fall at her shoulders. Long enough for a casual, short ponytail for that fun look, as well as the perfect length to easily style into a chignon for more formal events. It has to be bouncy and frame her face when she wears it down for daily events.”

“No!” I reached behind my head and clutched my waist-length locks. “I’ve been growing my hair since high school.”

“Vivian,” Mr. Cartwright said, “You agreed to participate in a make-over.”

“I thought that meant a mani-pedi and perhaps an eyebrow wax because Zara made such a fuss over that. Long hair is my signature look.”

Zara took my hand and squeezed it. “Vivian, have you heard of Locks of Love?”

I shook my head.

“People with long, beautiful hair cut it off and donate it to a charity that benefits cancer patients. I was thinking Misha could cut your gorgeous hair and you could help someone who was going through a rough patch. Besides,” she leaned forward and whispered, “You need to look like Cici.”

“Maybe Cici grew her hair out during the last fifteen months.”

Zara shook her head. “Trust me on this one.”

Misha fondled my hair. “You pretty phat bitch.”

“Cancer patients?” I asked.

Zara and Mr. Cartwright nodded.

“Make him stop calling me that.” I shuddered. “And then do it before I change my mind.”

---

An hour later I peered into the mirror. Misha rubbed mousse between his hands and dragged them through my hair. I had soft flowing layers, multi-colored highlights, and hair that bounced.

“Wow!” Zara beamed like a kid on Christmas morning. “Now that is fabulous hair.”

“It’s so short. I’m not sure I recognize myself.” Tears welled in my eyes. But in all honesty, I don’t think my tresses ever looked this good.

“Amazing.” Mr. Cartwright lay on the floor with his legs propped up on a chair. “Perhaps I was wrong about you, Misha. Perhaps you are a gentleman after all. Thank you for the Percocet.”

“Détente with you, Cartwright, means the world to me.” Misha snapped his fingers high in the air. A female assistant raced up to his station. “Escort Vivian to the back room for her next appointment.”

“Yes, sir.” She beckoned to me.

“What’s the next appointment?” I trailed behind her and peered over my shoulder at Zara and Mr. Cartwright.

“It’ll be over in no time,” Zara said.

“What does that mean?”

---

The assistant opened a door to a small room. A middle-aged brick of a woman with skin as shiny as Vaseline and perfectly groomed brows smiled at me. “My name is Griselda. Lay here.” She pointed to a table draped with a sheet.

“Okay. I mean, yes.”

“This won’t hurt a bit.” Griselda applied hot wax under my left eyebrow, tamped gauze onto it and ripped it off.

I flinched.

“Not bad, right?”

“Nope.”

She repeated the procedure on my right eyebrow, then held a hand mirror in front of my face.

“Wow! Brows that even Oprah would approve of. Thank you.” I popped up off the table. “I’ll make sure Zara leaves a tip.” I reached for the doorknob but her meaty hand seized my wrist.

“Back on the table and drop pants.”

“Right,” I said. “Yes, I’m probably overdue down there.”

“You’ve had a Brazilian before?”

“Of course.” I laid back on the table and wriggled my pants down.

“This, is a little different, liebchin. This is the Columbian.” I bit back a scream and realized why this room was located in the very back of the parlor.

“The exfoliating facial will be cake compared to zees,” Griselda said.

---

I lay on a table and blinked as a woman in a white lab coat peered at me through a round, lit magnifying glass. “Decent complexion for a thirty-year-old.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“You could have fooled me. I see blackheads around your T-spot areas.”

“Those are freckles.”

“Blackheads. Don’t you want to look pretty?”

“I thought I was already pretty-ish?”

“Perhaps to half-blind people. At Misha’s we are dedicated to helping you look pretty to the world,” she said. “You’ll feel a tiny pinch.” She leaned in and scraped a metal instrument across my nose.

“Ouch!”

---

I hobbled out Misha’s front door onto the Oak Street sidewalk and glared at Mr. Cartwright. “Where’s Zara?”

“She left to help Catherine. Except for your very shiny, red nose, Rudolph, you look beyond lovely.” He popped a large straw hat on my head and slipped over-sized, black Jackie-O sunglasses onto my face.

“I may not be who you envisioned hiring. I might not be perfectly coiffed, know this year’s the Nobel Peace Prize winner, or who was indicted in the latest political scandal. But I, Vivian Marie DeRose, will be your star, your knight-tress in shining armor, your saving grace and the girl who never lets you down.”

“We’ll see about that,” he said.

I pulled away from him and jabbed my finger in the air toward his face. “Stop being an entitled snob. Could you at least have been an honest soldier and told me what kind of battle I was walking into?”

He sighed. “I’m trying Vivian. This hasn’t been an easy task for anyone. Why is your hand shaking?

“Because I haven’t eaten since seven this morning. I’m hypoglycemic and if I go too long without food I get the shakes.”

“Oh look, there’s a Sweetie Pies frozen yogurt shop. I heard this place has the best fro-yo in Chicago.” Mr. Cartwright pushed the door open. “Ladies first. Let’s go inside and succumb to our guilty desires, yes?”

A few minutes later we left Sweetie Pies and walked toward the Drake, spooning yogurt from cups.

“If you want to terminate this job agreement just say the word,” Mr. Cartwright said. “You can walk away with a pricey makeover and a small cushion in your bank account.”

I thought about it. My hair was already gone. I still needed the money as well as a job. At least with this gig I didn’t think I’d have to be a hooker. I shook my head. “No. I’m toughing it out. You can’t get rid of Vivian DeRose all that easily.”

Mr. Cartwright coughed and I swear he covered a smile. “Good.”

---

And just like that, the prep days for the job flew by. Each morning I’d take the subway from Chicago’s south side to the Drake Hotel. Cici, Zara and Mr. Cartwright had determined from my progress, or lack thereof, what the current day’s teaching schedule would entail.

Manicure-Pedicure. Tina from We-Nail-It detached my acrylics, filed and buffed what remained of my real nails, and pushed back the cuticles and gave me a sheer pink-hued polish. Very elegant. Very boring. Very royal.

Speech lessons. I had a ‘Midwestern accent’. A nice lady named Susan taught me how to correct my “lower back vowel merger.” It wasn’t as painful as the waxing.

Curtsies. I was nailing the curtsies.

How to sit like a Lady. How to rise from sitting like a Lady. How to eat like a Lady.

How to dress like a Lady. Cici and crew did not appreciate Cheswick’s of Boston. I was a little curvier than her but could still wear most of her clothes. Her shoes, however, were a different matter. I wore a size seven and a half. She wore a nine. Suddenly the Drake’s suite was piled high in Zappos boxes filled with tasteful pumps, sandals, and elegant shoes for evening wear.

I tried on a pair of Jimmy Choos. “These work. Where are the runners?”

“Cici doesn’t like to work out,” Zara said.

“But I do. It’s how I deal with stress.”

“It’s not that I don’t ‘like’ to exercise. It simply takes a lot of time, ruins my makeup, and I’m not all that fond of sweating.” Cici held out some slingbacks. “Here, try on the Stuart Weitzman’s. These are my favorites.”

“Fine.” I slipped the strappy number onto my foot. “I’ll bring my own runners.”

Perhaps the most embarrassing part was the… how to be naked like a European Lady. Apparently, they got naked on beaches, in spas, even stripped off in front of their royal dressers and assistants.

Mr. Cartwright reserved a private hot tub suite at the Drake’s Spa that was upscale but still featured more modest American customs. I closed my eyes and turned my head as he and Zara stripped down in front of me. I heard splashing.

“Ah,” he said. “The jets are soothing.”

“Come on, Vivian,” Zara said. “After all the stress we’ve been under the mineral waters feel great.”

I opened my eyes and saw them relaxing in the misty hot tub. The scent of eucalyptus wafted through the air.

“Why can’t I wear a bathing suit?”

“Do you have one on you?” Zara said.

“Point taken.” I stripped down to my underwear, tossed my clothes onto a rack, and descended the steps into the tub.

“Puritan,” Zara said.

“Be nice, Zara,” Mr. Cartwright said. “This beautiful country was colonized by those brave, strong people.”

I rose to pull my hair back. “I could get used to this.”

Zara gawked. “Crap. We forgot to buy you decent underwear. Take care of that Cartwright.”

“Purchase fancy panties is burned onto my list.” He sunk deeper into the waters.

---

There were the endless memorization sessions in front of the large TV. These included pictures and descriptions of Cici’s relatives and people I was supposed to know. Her dad, Lord Angus Fontaine, was insanely wealthy and looked a bit like Cary Grant. During Cici’s teen years he didn’t give her enough freedom. Now he’d mellowed and was more of a sweetheart. He was to be called Papa.

A few onscreen instructional minutes were spent educating me about Cici’s friends. Next up were the gossips and the ne’er-do-wells—almost too many to mention. Be nice to everyone. Suspect everyone. The list was endless. So many faces and names and titles. It was impossible to memorize all of them.

“There are a zillion people. How will I know who’s my friend and who’s out to get me?” I asked.

“You only need to remember the important persons,” Cici said. “The rest you’ll feel out. Get a sense of who they are. Then you’ll have to wing it. Cartwright or I will be with you twenty four – seven or just a quick text away.”

Zara hit the remote and an image of a handsome older man with salt and pepper hair appeared on the flatscreen mounted on the wall. “This is the King of Bellèno—Frederick Wilhelm Gustave Rochartè the Fourteenth. He speaks his mind, runs a tight ship, but is regarded to be a fair man.”

“Got it.” The man who resembled a younger Harrison Ford was the King. “Curtsey?”

“Definitely curtsey,” Cici said. “Next.”

Zara clicked the remote. A photo of a pretty, blonde, middle-aged woman hugging three Labrador Retrievers popped up.

“She looks familiar,” I said.

“Thirty years ago, Cheree Dussair was a beautiful actress poised for stardom. But she dropped out of Hollywood to marry Frederick,” Mr. Cartwright said.

“Queen Cheree adores her children and is obsessed with Labrador Retrievers,” Cici said.

“Curtsey?”

“Definitely curtsey,” Zara said. “You can also earn her favor by doing or saying anything nice about a Labrador.”

“Get to the good stuff,” Cici said.

Zara clicked the remote and an image of Prince Leopold Edward George Rochartè the Third—he of the wide shoulders and sexy smile appeared. My eyes widened, and I had to admit my heart beat a little faster. “Curtsey?”

“Technically we’re all supposed to curtsey. But he needs to see you—I mean me—as his equal. I might bend the knee, but I do it subtly. And I never show him deference. I do need you to flirt with him, Vivian, but when push comes to shove—”

“And there will be ‘shove,’” Zara said.

“Which is another reason I hired you.” Cici wagged her finger at me. “You need the work but you’re not a working girl. So, when he tries to get you in the sack—”

“A prince is going to try and get me in the sack?”

Mr. Cartwright nodded. “There will be sack attempts.”

“You can’t give into him, Vivian. You won’t give into him,” Zara said. “You’ll simply leave him wanting more.”

I watched the screen as a video popped up of Leo playing rugby with his mates while girls swooned on the sidelines, batting their eyes, tossing him articles of clothing, flashing skin.

“Prince Leopold’s family and mine are in the process of sealing a business deal. Just keep him interested in me for ten days tops, while I complete pressing business and a few personal matters in the States,” Cici said.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t sleep around. My V-card was punched by one guy not all that long ago and he’s out of the picture. But I need to know what I’m getting into. Have you all, you know, done it?”

Cici shook her head. “We have not. Although I do believe he’s done it with just about every other girl that he’s met. Yes, we’ve made out on several occasions a very long time ago, and he’s quite the kisser. Takes your breath away if I remember correctly. But if I can resist, so can you.”

I stared at Leo’s wide, defined muscular shoulders, his thick, gorgeous hair and his sexy smirk. The sweetness on his face as he kissed that little girl’s cheek. The kindness when he held that older lady’s hand. The intensity in his eyes when he kicked a soccer ball. He was hot. He wasn’t as hot as Max. “I’ll do it Cici. I’ll keep him interested in you and I won’t succumb.”

“Perfect,” she said. “Thank you. Next slide, Zara.”

“My only concern is that there’s so much to remember…”

Max’s image came on the screen.

Max.

Beautiful Max. Cleft in his jaw. Determined eyes.

Funny Max.

Impossibly smart Max.

How I’d avoided sleeping with him the last week was a mystery. It’s not because I didn’t want to. Trust me, I wanted to. I told him ‘No’ every night after every dinner when he asked to come up to my apartment. I’d be all by myself as I watched his car leave, turn the corner and disappear into the summer night. I’d look around my hovel and ask myself why I just didn’t let him inside? We were past that awkward phase where it would be a random one-nighter with a stranger. But there were so many things I was not sure of.

One. I wasn’t sure I wanted him seeing my place. It could practically fit inside a shoebox. He’d know exactly how poor I was and that gave me pause. Two. If I let him in the door, I’d let him in my heart. And then my bra, my pants, and eventually my new fancy panties. It felt inevitable if I let him inside. Danger. Hot Ginger alert.

“Yes, I know him already. Max.”

“Of course, you do,” Cici said. “All the pretty girls know Prince Maximillian Cristoph Rochartè. He’s the reason we were lucky enough to find you.”

“Excuse me—Prince?”

“Yes, Vivian,” Zara said. “You two are already on a first name basis. You only need to call him Your Royal Highness at soirees, or royal events.

“Royal Highness?” I squeaked.

“You called?” Max walked in the room. “I’ve tracked down a most excellent place for dinner tonight.”

“You can’t be fraternizing when you return to Bellèno, you know,” Zara said. “And that includes nightly dinners.”

“But we’re not in Bellèno are we?” Max said. “Is the lovely Vivian off work for the night?”

“Yes,” Cici said. “Bring her back in one piece. We have more work to do.”