Read Online The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien - Free Book Online
Authors: Elle Lothlorien
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disappoint.
“Tell him about our last study, the prolactin study,” says Kat, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She turns to Roman. “We paid people a thousand dollars to participate, only Leigh couldn’t do it because–”
“No sex talk at the dinner table,” says Lydia, who has conveniently morphed from an urban cougar into an old fuddy-duddy.
I am grateful for her sudden prudishness. It will save me from telling Roman that heterosexuals find sexual intercourse four hundred percent more satisfying than masturbation, according to post-orgasmic prolactin measurements. Since I don’t have enough recent experiences of the former to make a statistically sound data set, I have to blindly trust the study’s conclusions.
“How early can you be ready tomorrow?” asks Roman.
This strange question throws me, and serves to narrow down the list of birthday surprises. Bank heist and fishing are the only two things that come to mind. “How early do you need me to be ready?” I say. As an afterthought I throw out, “And what should I wear?”
“Hmm…” Roman seems to be deciding if answering my last question will give anything away. Finally he says with a smile, “You should pack for every contingency.”
Every contingency . Pack . The words imply either a military operation or a long trip. “Uh, can you be more specific? Are we talking ball gown or bathing suit here?”
“Both,” he says, a Kris Kringle-like twinkle in his eye, “although a ball gown would probably be a little excessive. Definitely bring a bathing suit. Also, bring a cocktail dress, jeans, hiking boots, and something business casual.”
I say nothing, giving him a moment to retract this bizarre list of sartorial requirements. “Are you serious?” I say when he doesn’t. “Should I leave letters of farewell for my family too? Update my will?”
“No, but Monday is Labor Day. Tell them you won’t be back until Monday afternoon.” Roman crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "It's going to be a great time."
Chapter Six
I realize too late that people’s definition of "early" on a Sunday morning differ wildly. Ten o’clock was my guess for how early I would need to be ready for Roman's birthday surprise. It turns out that he meant more like six o’clock.
A.M. That’s ante meridiem –Latin for “at the crack of ass.”
I slump over in a kitchen chair, my head buried in my arms on the table next to a travel mug of steaming green tea I'm too exhausted to drink. I lift my head and blearily eye a pile of luggage by the front door: a full-sized rolling suitcase, a carry-on, a garment bag, and two purses. I am now fully prepared for a Renaissance festival, a deep-sea dive, or an audience with the Queen of England. It's amazing what you can accomplish with only five hours to pack for a mystery trip.
A short rap at the door startles me awake, and for one confused second I wonder why I'm not in my bed. I jump from the chair and stumble to the door.
“Good morning!” says Roman, all smiles and wakefulness in a T-shirt and jeans.
My initial reaction is relief that he hasn't shown up in a tuxedo. “Hey,” I say tonelessly. I motion to the luggage, waiting for a few sarcastic comments about women and over-packing. I figure that, like most men, he was able to fit everything he needs into a zipper sandwich bag.
Instead, Roman scoops up everything but the two purses and bustles out the door. I grab my tea and the purses and follow him.
In the car, Roman takes a small plastic bottle from one of the cup holders and rattles the contents in front of me. "Christine told me last night that you sometimes get motion sick. If that's true you might want to take this."
“I didn't pack for skydiving,” I say, taking the bottle. “Or roller coasters.”
“Nice try,” he says. “It's none of the above.”
I have a few choice words I want to say about Christine and her meddling, but she's dead-on about the motion
“Tell him about our last study, the prolactin study,” says Kat, smiling like a Cheshire cat. She turns to Roman. “We paid people a thousand dollars to participate, only Leigh couldn’t do it because–”
“No sex talk at the dinner table,” says Lydia, who has conveniently morphed from an urban cougar into an old fuddy-duddy.
I am grateful for her sudden prudishness. It will save me from telling Roman that heterosexuals find sexual intercourse four hundred percent more satisfying than masturbation, according to post-orgasmic prolactin measurements. Since I don’t have enough recent experiences of the former to make a statistically sound data set, I have to blindly trust the study’s conclusions.
“How early can you be ready tomorrow?” asks Roman.
This strange question throws me, and serves to narrow down the list of birthday surprises. Bank heist and fishing are the only two things that come to mind. “How early do you need me to be ready?” I say. As an afterthought I throw out, “And what should I wear?”
“Hmm…” Roman seems to be deciding if answering my last question will give anything away. Finally he says with a smile, “You should pack for every contingency.”
Every contingency . Pack . The words imply either a military operation or a long trip. “Uh, can you be more specific? Are we talking ball gown or bathing suit here?”
“Both,” he says, a Kris Kringle-like twinkle in his eye, “although a ball gown would probably be a little excessive. Definitely bring a bathing suit. Also, bring a cocktail dress, jeans, hiking boots, and something business casual.”
I say nothing, giving him a moment to retract this bizarre list of sartorial requirements. “Are you serious?” I say when he doesn’t. “Should I leave letters of farewell for my family too? Update my will?”
“No, but Monday is Labor Day. Tell them you won’t be back until Monday afternoon.” Roman crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "It's going to be a great time."
Chapter Six
I realize too late that people’s definition of "early" on a Sunday morning differ wildly. Ten o’clock was my guess for how early I would need to be ready for Roman's birthday surprise. It turns out that he meant more like six o’clock.
A.M. That’s ante meridiem –Latin for “at the crack of ass.”
I slump over in a kitchen chair, my head buried in my arms on the table next to a travel mug of steaming green tea I'm too exhausted to drink. I lift my head and blearily eye a pile of luggage by the front door: a full-sized rolling suitcase, a carry-on, a garment bag, and two purses. I am now fully prepared for a Renaissance festival, a deep-sea dive, or an audience with the Queen of England. It's amazing what you can accomplish with only five hours to pack for a mystery trip.
A short rap at the door startles me awake, and for one confused second I wonder why I'm not in my bed. I jump from the chair and stumble to the door.
“Good morning!” says Roman, all smiles and wakefulness in a T-shirt and jeans.
My initial reaction is relief that he hasn't shown up in a tuxedo. “Hey,” I say tonelessly. I motion to the luggage, waiting for a few sarcastic comments about women and over-packing. I figure that, like most men, he was able to fit everything he needs into a zipper sandwich bag.
Instead, Roman scoops up everything but the two purses and bustles out the door. I grab my tea and the purses and follow him.
In the car, Roman takes a small plastic bottle from one of the cup holders and rattles the contents in front of me. "Christine told me last night that you sometimes get motion sick. If that's true you might want to take this."
“I didn't pack for skydiving,” I say, taking the bottle. “Or roller coasters.”
“Nice try,” he says. “It's none of the above.”
I have a few choice words I want to say about Christine and her meddling, but she's dead-on about the motion
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