“Do you really think I’m not going to check out the background of a girl I married?” I ask, holding up my hand to stop her from interrupting. “I found out who you were after the fact.”
“But you knew who I was before this announcement today,” she says, a look of horror coming over her face. “You knew that I was your new…”
“Stepsister?” I ask.
“Oh my God,” she says, her hand covering her mouth. “I’m totally going to vomit.”
“There’s no need to be so dramatic,” I say.
“You think I’m being dramatic?” she asks, her voice going up an octave. “I got whisked away on a private jet, taken to a palace, and told that my mother is going to marry a king. And that the hot guy I spent a night hanging out with in Vegas – and married, by the way – is my new stepbrother.”
“Hot guy?” I ask.
“What?” she asks, looking at me blankly, her hands on her hips.
“You just said I was hot.”
She looks taken aback. “I totally did not.”
“Uh, I beg to differ,” I say.
“You’re completely delusional if you think I said you were hot,” she protests. “You’re hearing things.”
“I know what I heard,” I tell her. “If you like, I’ll get the security footage and play it back to show you. You called me a hot guy. You should just admit it.”
Her eyes go wide. “There are cameras on us in here?”
“Lighten up, luv,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I think you’re the most tightly wound woman I’ve ever met in my life. I was kidding. There are no cameras. My father has a thing about us not being watched – the only cameras in this place are in the public rooms."
“Don’t do that,” she says, shaking her head.
“Don’t joke?” I ask. “You’re going to have to get a sense of humor if you’re going to make it in a palace, luv.”
“That,” she says. “Don’t call me luv,” she says. “Just because we spent a night doing tequila shots in Vegas doesn’t mean you get to do that. You don’t get to give me pet names.”
“Luv,” I say, drawing the word out more slowly, my voice more gravely than I’d like, the arousal in my tone more evident than it should be. “Luv. I like how it just rolls off the tongue. You’re going to beg me to call you luv.”
“I can promise you that I’m never going to beg you to call me anything.”
“And I can promise you that I’m not going to let you come until you ask me to call you luv. Politely, too. Like a lady.”
“You’re a real piece of work,” she says, shaking her head. But at least she’s smiling. “Do you get slapped a lot?”
“Is that what you’re into?” I ask, looking her over. “I could have guessed that you’d be into some kinky shit.”
“Oh my God, I am not into any kinky shit,” she says.
“I don’t believe you, luv,” I say. It’s always the nice-looking ones, the most straight-laced, prim-and-proper ones, who are the wildest in the sack. Although that might not be true in this case. Little Miss Do-Gooder seems to have quite the stick up her ass.
“Well, you’re never going to find out,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head. She looks at me, her nose wrinkling like she’s smelling something bad. “Do women fall for this whole Casanova act?”