Royally Screwed

“Yes.”

I HAVE A DATE. Holy shit.

“How does this look?”

A date with a gorgeous, green-eyed, walks-around-like-a-sex-god man who’s capable of making me orgasm with the sound of his voice alone.

“Little House on the Prairie called—Nellie Oleson wants her dress back.”

Oh, and he’s a prince. A real, live, actual prince—who kisses a lady’s hand and makes orphans smile…and who wants in my pants. Holy shit!

He doesn’t give off the white-horse-riding, one-hundred-percent-“nice guy” vibe, though. He definitely has some asshole tendencies. But that’s okay. I like a little jerky in my men. Sue me. It keeps things interesting. Exciting.

There’s only one problem.

“What about this one?” I hold up a hanger with a black pantsuit clinging to it.

“Great, if you plan on going to a Halloween party as Hillary Clinton from 2008.”

I have nothing to wear.

Usually when women say we having nothing to wear, we mean we have nothing new to wear. Nothing that makes us feel beautiful or hides the few extra pounds we’ve put on because we’ve been hitting the salted caramel ice cream a little too hard lately. And is it just me, or do they freaking make everything in salted caramel flavor these days? It’s my Kryptonite.

But anyway, that’s not the case here, as my darling sister helpfully points out while rummaging through my closet.

“Jesus Christ, Liv, have you even bought any new clothes since 2005?”

“I bought new underwear last week.”

Bikini style, cotton, in hot pink and electric blue. They were on sale, but I would’ve bought them even if they weren’t. Because if I happen to get struck by an Uber driver or hit on the head in some freak scaffolding accident, there’s no way I’m showing up in the emergency room in worn, holey panties. That’s one rock bottom I refuse to reach.

“Maybe you should just wear the underwear and a trench coat.” Ellie throws me a suggestive eyebrow wiggle. “I have a feeling His Hotness would like that.”

I have a feeling she’s right.

“Interesting idea…but I don’t own a trench coat.”

I wear a black skirt and white blouse to work—and I work all the time. Otherwise, I have a few pairs of jeans, old sweats, older T-shirts, a Confirmation dress I wore when I was thirteen and a pantsuit I graduated high school in.

I fall straight back on my bed, dramatically. The way someone would drop into a pool…or off a building ledge. Fitting.

“You could borrow something of mine,” Ellie starts, “but…”

But I’m five foot six. I have boobs—nice ones, actually—and while I’m not Kim Kardashian, I also have an ass. Ellie is five foot nothing and can still buy her jeans at GAPKids.

I scroll through the contacts on my phone, looking for the hotel number Nicholas saved there this afternoon. I noticed that he didn’t put his cell number in, but he probably has to keep that a secret for national security or something.

“I’m just going to call him and be honest. Tell him, ‘I don’t know what you had in mind for tonight but we need to keep it jeans and T-shirt casual.’”

Ellie dives on me like I’m a grenade that’s about to explode.

“Are you nuts?” She wrestles the phone from my hand and bounds off the bed. “If you want jeans and T-shirt you could go out with Donnie Domico from down the street—he’d give up a testicle to date you. Prince Nicholas doesn’t do casual.”

I’m the embodiment of informality. I have neither the time nor energy for fuss or muss. Nothing about me is Uptown Girl—but Nicholas is definitely interested in doing me.

Oh God, now I’m starting to sound like him.

I lift my head. “You don’t know that.”

Ellie opens the laptop on my dresser and a few key taps later, scrolls through image after image of Nicholas—wearing suits and tuxedos and more suits. In some of the pictures he’s alone, but every time there’s a woman beside him, she’s wearing a gown—stunning, shimmery and divine.

“His casual is at least a cocktail dress.”

She’s right. And I have two hours before Nicholas picks me up—not nearly enough time to run out and buy something. Plus, that would require using the emergency somebody-better-be-bleeding-from-an-artery credit card. It’s like I’m living an episode of reality TV—a full-fledged fashion fucking emergency. Except no camera crew and makeover-expert fairy godmother is going to pop out of my bathroom.

Although…I may have something better. I roll off the bed and sprint down the hall, through the living room, to the door that leads to the downstairs kitchen.

“Marty! Come up here!”

Five minutes later, Marty’s standing in my bedroom, staring at the pile of clothes I just dropped in his arms. “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this? Salvation Army?”

I gesture to the clothes. “I need you to help me figure out how to turn this—” I swing around and point at the picture of Nicholas on the laptop with the tall blond wearing a bold fuchsia halter-dress “—into that.”

I’m not stereotyping—I’ve seen Marty outside of work and he’s an amazing dresser. Sophisticated, sleek, with a hint of flash.

He looks at the clothes, then dumps them on the bed.

“Let me explain something, baby doll. You are beautiful, inside and out…but I’ve known I like dick since I was twelve years old. Give me a tall, dark lumbersexual and I’ll dress him so fine you wouldn’t want to unwrap him even if it was the first night of Hanukkah.” He traces the air around me. “But your squishy bits, I don’t know what to do with.”