Royally Yours (The Wexstone Royals #1)

Chapter 1

A loud knock at the door made me jump. I set my things down on my minuscule kitchen counter, crossing the few steps it took to get from one side of the apartment to the other as another knock echoed through the small space.

“I’m coming!” I yelled. Not that there was any need to raise my voice; you could clearly hear someone having a conversation in the apartment next door, even with the TV or radio on. It certainly made it awkward to bring guys home, not that that had been an issue in quite some time.

I opened the door to an unfamiliar older bald man with permanent wrinkle lines running from his scalp down to his forehead. It was as if he had spent his entire life mad.

“Bernadette Hamilton?” he gruffed out.

“That’s me.”

“You’re being evicted. Have a nice day.” He handed me a white envelope, turned his back, and made his way to Mrs. Slater’s apartment next door.

“I’m sorry, what?” The room spun as I tried to wrap my mind around his words.

I had lived in my East Village apartment since moving to New York six years ago and was, by my estimation, a model resident.

I had never thrown a party, certainly wasn’t loud, and had actually fixed up the small studio, repairing the plumbing, fixtures, and cabinets when the super refused to stop by.

The rent check was always on time, never a day late. And now I was being evicted?

“Reason’s in the letter. If you have comments or questions, take it up with my lawyer.”

I slammed the door shut, ripped open the envelope, and read aloud from the first page:

Dear Resident,

Your rental agreement is hereby terminated. This building has been purchased by Burlington Corporation. You have two weeks to evacuate. Should you choose to stay, you will be under prosecution from the law offices of Kline, Burke, and Bridges.

Best of luck in your future home endeavors.

I dropped the paper with its five short sentences on the counter. “What the fuck?!” A whirlwind of thoughts flooded my mind.

They can’t do this. This can’t be legal.

Where the hell am I going to live?

What am I going to do?

This is bullshit.

I took a deep breath, trying to keep myself from bursting into tears. I headed to the bathroom, hoping a shower would help clear my head and ebb my emotions.

It didn’t work. In an angry rush, I grabbed my coat, shoes, and work bag and decided to head to the bar early in hopes that I could pick up a couple of extra hours. We always needed extra hands on Fridays, and apparently I would need the money if I was going to be moving in two weeks.

But first, a latte was in order if I had any hope of avoiding a complete mental breakdown.

I opened the door to the Greenwich Village coffee shop, letting the smell of ground coffee beans and fresh bagels wash over me.

This was one of my favorite spots in the city: It was long and narrow and gave the feel of a renovated warehouse, with exposed pipes and HVAC in the ceiling and spots of bare brick along the walls.

The areas where the brick was plastered over were painted in an array of colors ranging from neon green to deep purple, with local artists’ works displayed for sale.

As a bonus, it was conveniently located on my way to work.

You could find people from every walk of life here.

On the weekends the shop hosted live music, spoken poetry, and even a drag brunch on the first Sunday of every month.

But that afternoon, Tucker’s was unusually busy as I met a line that stretched to the door.

What else could I expect though? A bullshit eviction letter and now a line that felt half like a block long? Yeah, that seemed about right.

As I waited in line, I scrolled through my social media feeds.

I double-tapped photos of kids in their Halloween costumes and scrolled past a few gossip site posts about what celebrities were doing and with whom.

I had no idea who most of them were, to be honest. I liked a post about a college acquaintance’s new job and hearted a video of a friend’s baby taking his first steps.

Everyone else’s life seemed to be moving on to better and greater things.

Feelings of envy rose in my throat, but I tamped them down and kept scrolling.

I refused to think about my own dead-end job or the announcement of baby number two that was sure to be coming soon from my brother and his wife.

And you could forget about pondering the upcoming holidays.

I had more pressing problems if I was going to be apartment hunting.

“Hey, Birdie!” The cashier greeted me with a cheerful smile.

I looked forward to seeing Chuck on Fridays.

They were always adorned in an eclectic assortment of jewelry from their ears, across their face, and down to a ring on nearly every finger.

This week their hair was neon pink, and they sported a tiny rainbow jewel in their nose and a matching pin on their apron that read, “My pronouns are they/them.”

“Hey, Chuck. I love that hair color on you.”

“Thank you! I just did it last night,” they said, running a hand over their hair. “Your usual? Vanilla latte with oat milk?”

“Please. I desperately need it today. And you know what, let’s do a bacon, egg, and cheese on an everything bagel while we’re at it.” I knew I’d regret my choices midway through my shift later if I didn’t get some protein in my body now, and I didn’t need to be in an even fouler mood.

“Rough day, huh?”

“The worst.”

“Hang in there, Birdie.” They handed me my receipt. “You’re order number 35. We’ll get that up for you in just a bit.”

As I took a seat at a hand-painted table by the window, I pulled out my phone and sent off a text to my best friend, Sam.

Can you stop by the bar after work tonight?

Sam was a lawyer; surely she would know what to do. In the meantime, I opened a search tab, figuring I better start looking at apartment listings. It had taken me ages to find my little studio, and I knew the current economy wasn’t going to make it any easier to find a new place in my price range.

“Order 35!”

I distractedly dodged the other customers, grabbed my order from the counter, and headed back to my seat. I took a bite from my sandwich, the yolk of the over-easy egg bursting just the way I liked it, before I took a sip from the cardboard cup.

Oh, hell no, that is not mine.

Instead of the sweet, mellow flavor of vanilla and frothed oat milk, I was met with…oh, that was an americano. Absolutely not.

I sighed and made my way back up to the counter, where Chuck had just finished taking a customer’s order. “Hey, I think there was some mix up back there, this definitely isn’t my drink.”

A brusque voice just behind me spoke. “You have my drink, I believe.”

I turned toward the voice and was struck speechless.

I was never the type to be lost for words, especially by a guy. I had always been confident and easily brushed off intimidation or embarrassment. But this man. Damn.

He was tall—surely a foot taller than my five-foot-four—and breathtakingly handsome.

This was the type of guy you would find on the cover of a romance novel or holding a puppy in a firefighter calendar.

His eyes, circled in wire-rimmed glasses, were a shade of bright blue I’d once seen on the Aegean Sea.

His dark beard was grown in just enough to be full without being out of control, the skin above it golden in the morning’s sunshine.

He was standing close enough for me to notice that he smelled like pine and mint.

I tore my eyes from Tall and Handsome’s face to look at the drink he was holding, the name Birdie clearly written across the cup.

“Well, yeah. Unless your name is also Birdie, which I somehow doubt,” I snarked, glancing over his perfectly muscular form, “that would be mine. So why, exactly, did you take a drink that had someone else’s name on it?”

Tall and Handsome raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I was nearly bowled over by a distracted crazy woman who grabbed what was apparently not her order either. Honestly, this is why I visit New York as infrequently as possible.”

My face flushed. I had been so in my head about the eviction that I hadn’t even noticed this guy, much less realized that I had nearly run into him.

On a normal day, I would have apologized for my rudeness. But today? Today was not that day.

“Well, how unfortunate for wherever you live to have you as a resident.” My voice dripped with disdain. Regardless of how handsome this man was, he was about to learn that hell hath no fury like a pissed-off woman.

Tall and Handsome snorted. “Could say the same about you for New York City.”

Chuck cleared their throat, glancing back and forth between me and the unbearable man beside me.

I snatched my drink from Tall and Handsome and handed both cups to Chuck, shaking my head. “Sorry, Chuck. Can you have them remake my latte?”

“Of course, Birdie,” they replied, taking the cup. “Another vanilla latte with oat milk coming right up. Is your sandwich okay? Is the egg runny enough for you?”

“Yes, the sandwich is great.”

“Runny yolks, huh? Figures,” Tall and Handsome muttered as Chuck disappeared behind the counter.

“Excuse me?” I hissed, turning on him. “Now you have opinions on my sandwich?”

He shrugged. “Bagels are meant to be sweet. Just like coffee is meant to be black. And eggs should definitely never be runny.”

I blinked. This man is unhinged. “I don’t even know where to start with that.”

He shrugged again. “You just seem like you’re a little worked up, I thought maybe goading you into a debate might help you blow off some steam.”