Queen Bee: A Greenbridge Academy Romance

by Knox, Abby

  A grin spreads across his face. “Beat them to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Marry me.”

  My jaw drops open. “How does that make this better?”

  His grin spreads wider. “We get married before our parents do.”

  25

  Crosby

  It’s not the wedding I would have wished for Ridley Rushmore, Queen Bee of Greenbridge Academy, heiress to the Rushmore hotel and resort fortune.

  It’s probably not the kind of wedding she ever would have expected for herself, either.

  But the most unexpected part of all of this is Ridley planned it herself. No big wedding under a tent. No fanfare. No bridesmaids. The most expensive part of all of it ends up being the cost of flying my mother in for the wedding.

  The small, civil ceremony takes place in the garden of her childhood home, in Bianca’s spring garden, blooming naturally with spring flowers.

  Even though the elder Rushmores and I have made our peace with all of this, I still can’t help but be intimidated by the larger-than-life Anthony Rushmore as he escorts his daughter from the house to me via the tulip-lined garden path. But far outshining the man’s imposing presence is my own queen next to him. She comes to me wearing a simple green dress that plays off her blonde hair and gray eyes so magnificently she looks like she flitted straight out of a myth about forest fairies.

  Maybe it’s silly, but I take a mental picture of the entire scene: my beautiful girl surrounded by blooming dogwoods, crocuses, and daffodils. Not just because my heart is so full, but also because I’m definitely going to base the heroine in the next big game that I design on her. I’ve never created anything in high fantasy before, but now I want to.

  This woman is my ultimate fantasy, and I can’t believe I get to live this dream with her for the rest of my life.

  26

  Ridley

  The spring green sheath dress is the same one I’d been saving for senior prom.

  Mother smoothes my hair down just before Daddy comes to walk me down the garden path. He’s just returned from his own secret wedding in Capri to Hunter. So it seems Crosby and I beat Mother and Neil to the altar, but nobody—nobody—beats out the original Rushmore.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until next year? Give it some time? Or, at least, let me buy you a dress you don’t intend to wear to prom?”

  I smile because I’m too happy to feel down. “Count on my Mother to question all my decisions, even my own wedding dress.”

  “Honey, I’m sorry. I just meant…”

  A laugh escapes me. “It’s all right, Mom, I’m just messing with you.”

  She shakes her head and places a kiss on my nose. When she leaves to take her seat with Neil and with Crosby’s mom in the garden, Daddy strides up.

  His morning suit is just a smidge fancier than the one he helped choose for Crosby. Because, of course it is. I can’t fault him for that. Well, maybe I can, but I don’t care. He’s watching his only daughter get married unexpectedly. Not to mention he’s looking fine in comparison to his ex wife’s future husband, who’s wearing Birkenstock sandals. Daddy doesn’t have to try to look good in comparison, but I’ll give him a pass for flexing at my wedding.

  The me from just a few months ago would never in a million years wear a simple dress to any wedding, especially not my own. And yet, here I am. And I don't care about any of the trappings of who I was before I met Crosby, because at the end of the garden path is the beginning of my whole life.

  I may be the Queen Bee, but Crosby is the king.

  Not that I would ever tell anybody that.

  27

  Crosby

  I wonder if anyone before Ridley has shown up to prom with a husband before.

  I wonder if any of the other prom chaperones are secretly here to keep an eye on their girl?

  The swim coach, Weston Ford, hovers by the punch table, and I’m a little star struck. I never attended this school but that doesn’t mean I haven’t heard of him. I half expected him to be on the Olympic team by now.

  I reach for a glass and pour a glass of punch for my girl.

  Weston smiles and nods at me. Then, to my complete shock, he points at me and looks quizzical. “Hey, you’re that game designer, right?”

  I nod, explaining that he’s probably seen me around school.

  “No,” he said. “Well, yeah, I have, but I haven’t had a chance to introduce myself. I’m pretty much hooked on your games. I read an interview with you on CNet. I just hadn’t worked up the courage to talk to you yet.”

  My jaw drops. Never has anyone recognized me out in public from that article.

  With as much shit as my now-wife gives me about my nerdy career, and about all the stacks of games I have lying around, I have to admit it feels pretty good to my ego. Pretty soon, Weston and I are geeking out over each other in a mutual bromance love fest.

  28

  Ridley

  Just like on New Year’s Eve, I find myself scanning the room again for the sake of looking out for Maddie…or Addie…something.

  She seems to be involved in conversation with Hunter, and Crosby seems to be deeply involved in conversation with Coach Ford. I use this opportunity to talk to Roland about what his intentions are with that other girl.

  I plop down next to him at his table, and take the flask out of his pocket to get his attention and smell it. “Hey,” he drawls. “What the hell?”

  I smirk as I hang on to it and hold it away from him, although he could easily snatch it back. “What is it you think you’re doing with that girl from the swim team?”

  He guffaws, sounding either drunk or high. “Why? You jealous?”

  I huff. “Hardly. I know you’re just using her to get back at me for dumping you last year. So get over it and leave her alone. She might be a goody-goody, but she doesn’t deserve to be played with like that. Besides, I’m pretty sure Coach Ford will kick your ass if you mistreat her.”

  He reaches for the flask again. I try to hold it away but he’s stronger than me and takes it back. Just then, his date returns and, to everyone’s shock, asks for a drink from the flask. “There’s my girl!” Roland says, sounding as fake as ever. “Where’ve you been all my life?”

  I hiss at him. “Shut up. We don’t want the newbie drawing attention to what we’re doing.”

  In the next second, Hunter comes back to collect her friend, and Roland pulls me to my feet and tries to slow dance with me. I let him for a little while, but then he starts to get handsy. Well, better me than his sweet, innocent date.

  When I push against him, he reacts even stronger and walks us forcefully away from the dance floor. His body closes in on me. It’s then I realize we’re in a dark corner of the ballroom. This was probably a mistake.

  29

  Crosby

  When the conversation ends, Ridley’s punch is warm. I go to slam it down and refill it so as not to let anything go to waste. But my hand crushes the empty plastic cup when something at the other end of the ballroom catches my eye.

  Roland Peek, my wife’s ex-boyfriend and loser extraordinaire, is cornering Ridley behind the ficus tree.

  A sensation I’ve never felt before resembling heat mixed with primal rage, begins at my toes and rises all the way to my throat. My hands itch to punch, maim, and tear, which is totally unlike me.

  I stalk over to where they stand, and wrench Roland’s shoulder away from Ridley. He spins clumsily and when his face is toward me, I shove him against the wall.

  “This is none of your business, geek.”

  I see red. I pick up Roland by the front of his shirt. “Everything about her is my business, because she’s my wife.”

  Stunned silence from Roland.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if the band stopped playing at the same time as every pair of eyes in the room is on us.

  “Give me a reason to end you, punk.”

  I drop him and he stumbles before standing up and bru
shing himself off. He looks between me and Ridley and then storms out the back door of the ballroom out into the back gardens.

  Everyone stares at us.

  Ridley turns to me. No, she’s not going to be the one to handle this. My girl is not going to be made to look ridiculous tonight.

  “That’s right,” I say, “Ridley’s my wife. So everybody can just pick their jaws up off the floor and deal with it.”

  I hold her tight and grope her ass while the band starts playing a slow jam.

  “Hey, dummy,” she says. “This hotel is named after me. My daddy owns it. You want me to get a key to the honeymoon suite?”

  If I wasn’t so turned on I would laugh. “But don’t you want to stay to get your crown, my prom queen wife?”

  “I don’t even know if they voted for me.”

  “Yes, you do. You know you won.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  30

  Ridley

  After a warm summer morning run, Crosby and I return home to find a small box waiting for me on our front porch.

  We’ve moved out of my mother’s house with Sassy and her brood into a sweet bungalow downtown.

  I pick up the box and examine it while Crosby unlocks the front door.

  Stepping inside, the aroma of cinnamon and butter calls to me from the kitchen. I love living at Crosby’s house—correction, our house—but I’ll admit I do not dislike it when Mother sends over her assistant to make us cinnamon buns. She’s a stealthy hoe, letting herself in and out while we’re gone.

  Hey, as long as I don’t have to pay for an assistant with my tips from waiting tables.

  And why do I have a job as a waitress? That would be my dad’s fault. Anthony Rushmore has kept up with his newfound work ethic thing—thanks in part to his sugar baby girlfriend who turned out to be a lot more than a sugar baby. I just have to keep working physically demanding blue collar jobs to, as he says, continue forging the neural pathways. Eventually, he wants me to take over the hospitality group.

  So for now, it’s either wait tables or clean hotel rooms.

  Actually, I kind of don't mind waitressing. I like talking to people, if you can believe it.

  I open the box with mixed feelings. It’s from my mother.

  Why is she sending me parcels on the day of her wedding?

  Inside is some packing material around something pointy and a letter.

  “What’s it say?” Crosby asks. He stands behind me with his arms around my waist while I read the letter.

  “Dear Ridley,

  You never got your big day, and I never got the chance to tell you how proud I am of you.

  After you left prom early, the prom committee sent this to me to give to you.

  Feel free to wear it on my big day because this reception is going to be about you as well as Neil and me. Please wear it tomorrow and steal all of the thunder, sweetheart.”

  I unfold the packing paper and into my lap falls something that is even better up close than it ever was in the hall of fame trophy case at school.

  * * *

  We arrive arm in arm at the reception for my Mother and Neil. Crosby wears a Stargate tee-shirt under a formal vest with summer linen pants, and I have to admit it looks pretty damn sexy.

  I, of course, wear my massive prom queen tiara with pride, pairing it with my mother’s off-the-shoulder, knee-length ivory lace wedding dress handed down to me from the day she married my dad.

  Not to be outdone, my Mother wears a tasteful silk rose gold shift and matching jacket. It’s understated, but of course she has the biggest, craziest fascinator hat I’ve ever seen. I think I see a peacock in there somewhere, mixed in with all the other doodads and dangly things. And the highest heels known to mankind, just so that when I walk her down the aisle, my tiara won’t tower over her.

  She enlists my help to do her makeup and hair, a rare thing for me. Four of Sassy’s seven progeny, whom Mother has miraculously agreed to adopt and allowed inside the house, scamper around, playing with leaves, petals, and sequins that have fallen to the floor from our bouquets and dresses.

  “How come you didn’t enlist the usual small army you use for your photo shoots?” I ask, reminding her to close her eyes so I can apply setting spray to her makeup.

  She grins. “I just wanted to have a moment with you before I walk down the aisle.”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  Mother laughs. “This question, coming from my nineteen year old daughter who made the same mistake I did when I was her age.”

  I pout. “It wasn’t a mistake,” I say.

  She sighs and reaches up to touch the tiara. “No. You’re right. You married for love, and not for a business transaction.”

  I bite my lip because I’m not going to cry as I say, “I meant you and Daddy. That wasn’t a mistake either. I wouldn’t want anybody else to be my parents.”

  Mother exhales shakily. “Did you bring tissues? If you didn’t bring tissues, we’re going to have to do this face all over again.”

  “Here.” I hold the tissues under her eyes before the drips can even fall on her cheek. After her eye makeup is squared away, Mother pulls me to her and takes a long look at us together in the full length mirror.

  “I haven’t said it enough, but I’m proud of you.”

  Hot Off The Press

  Two stranded coworkers. One bed. Coming soon!

  By Abby Knox

  Chapter 1

  Beast

  Where is she?

  It’s 10 p.m. on a Friday night, and our new fancy pants reporter was supposed to be on the horn gathering quotes from the high school football coaches by now.

  I skim over this morning’s email memo from Perry, our publisher, who wrote that this new hire would be here by 9 p.m. so I could give her the run down of all the high school game stats we need to compile before deadline. At this point, I’ll be lucky to give her copy a decent read through before press time.

  At first, I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of working with someone whose sports writing is untested by me. But upon thinking about it, this company chews up and spits out writers so fast, I’ll take a monkey with a typewriter.

  I walk over to the desk of our managing editor, Reese, who’s typing in his football stats into our database like a madman, his forehead vein looking like it’s out to pop out of his skin.

  “Hey Reese, has the new girl called saying she’d be late?”

  Reese purses his lips and says with an air of being put upon. “I don’t know anymore than you do, friendo. She was Perry’s special little snowflake hire that he met at the awards banquet, not mine. But I think she came up here from Florida so she probably doesn’t know how to drive in snow. So, this should work out great, then.”

  Something tells me Reese isn’t taking too kindly at having no input on this personnel decision, and he’s taking it out on everyone else with sarcasm because he’s a withered middle manager who won’t stand up to Perry.

  The politics of this office. Perry does whatever he wants and the rest of us eat shit because, well, it’s the best paper in the state in our circulation division, and that garners all of us staffers loads of awards.

  I’m distracted by Reese’s disgruntled energy when I hear the creak of the back door opening. Boots stomping. A shivering, blowing out of breath and a female voice talking to herself about investing in warmer clothes. “Forgot to add blizzards right under tornadoes on my con list for relocating to Podunk City on the Plains. ‘Least I’ll look cute in some L.L. Bean gear.”

  Oh god. Princess Snowflake is here.

  I lean against my desk and cross my arms, waiting for the lady to grace us with her presence. When finally she emerges from the rear vestibule, I get ready to give her a speech about timeliness. But I don’t get the chance.

  A tall, bubbly woman wearing an old fashioned trench coat and thigh high faux leather boots and an oversized scarf barrels into the newsroom carrying a large handbag and a portfolio. She
immediately fills the place up with her physical presence as well as her personality.

  “Hey! Hi! You must be my new boss!” She thrusts out her hand and I take it in mine. Her hand is freezing but her skin is soft.

  “I’m Avery Jacobs. Nice to meet you, boss. I’ve heard great things about you and Im excited to be working with you. I’m sure Perry told you, I have zero experience writing football, I mean, I’ve been writing about the arts and human interest pieces for so long I don’t know if I can even tell you what an RBI or relief pitcher is. But don’t worry! I’m a fast learner, I talk fast, I write fast and I can already tell we’re gonna be a great team!.”

  “I’m Rory, but everyone calls me Beast,” I say, not bothering to correct her that I’m not technically her boss. Or, that RBIs and relief pitchers are baseball terms, not football. I don’t have anymore words, because her dancing brown eyes, quick speech and pure energy have dried my vocal cords right up. I am not a small presence myself, but I’m a sapling tree bending in the sudden storm of Avery Jacobs.

  “Beast, Huh? Well, I am absolutely crazy about the name Rory but I will call you Beast as long as you promise not to eat me! Haha sorry, I’m buzzing from all that snow outside, I haven’t seen snow since I was little. OK! First coffee then worky!”

  Avery marches quickly around the newsroom, evidently looking for the break room, chattering excitedly to herself about coffee and who knows what else. She finds the break room before I manage to mosey in her direction. She’s way ahead of me. I get the feeling she’s way ahead of all of us here.