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My therapist Edna suggested I think about what to do when everything is going right. It’s a valid concern considering I used to self-sabotage when things were going my way. I didn’t have to think. I immediately told Edna that I have plans to enjoy every moment. Whatever comes my way, I’ll embrace it—even that old smelly bitch, Karma. I’m taking my life by the metaphorical balls and squeezing it for all its worth. Every single day with Kurt is a delightful and sexy new adventure.
Edna was thrilled with the answer and pulled out a few wine coolers to celebrate. Edna’s a keeper.
Kurt and I are happily splitting our time between the brownstone and the cottage in Jersey. And… we’re even talking about a possible joint purchase in the Hamptons! Can you freaking believe that, Dear Diary? Being in love is the bomb.
And speaking of, I’ve almost completed Countess Plasma’s wedding caftan. She’ll be gorgeous. Dracula’s appendages have regenerated, which will look much nicer in the photos than the stumps. Helen and Sven are going strong and Caftans by Johnson is killing it. The ready-to-wear line at Macy’s is making me a household name. So thrilling!
And a little gossip for you, Dear Diary… Persephone is in the pokey! When she finally realized Kurt wasn’t in the cards for her, the man-eating, batshit-crazy mermaid went after Kiefer. Suffice it to say, trying to ingest a man of the law didn’t end well for her. Cha-Cha was so pissed, she cast a century-long spell on the insane woman that included warts, chest hair and hammer toes. Not a good look.
There are so many lessons to be learned from the mermaid’s horror story, but the main one is that no one fucks with Cha-Cha’s boys and gets away with it. And she includes me as one of her boys too! One of the biggest bonuses of being in love with Kurt is that I got a mom. Cha-Cha is nosy and pushy and I love every fiery inch of the witch.
Win-win.
Dwayne and Belphegor are coming for a visit next month, along with Zorro and Rupert. Plans are being made for a spa day, some retail therapy and a rousing six hours of ding-dong ditch on the local icky witch coven. Cha-Cha, Kurt and I did a little practice run to get ready for the big one with our friends. Turns out my man is stealthy and fast. I find that incredibly hot. We flew over in the middle of the night on Cha-Cha’s broom—which was terrifying—and rang and ran for an hour. Kurt was the champion. He pissed off more cranky witches in twenty minutes than I had in the twenty years I’d been indulging in the sport. Cha-Cha was no slouch herself.
Life is good.
But… this is the biggest news of all! And you mustn’t tell a soul. Not that you ever would, Dear Diary. I’ve decided to propose to Kurt. Yes, I know it seems fast, but when he got “I Love Johnson Jones” tattooed across his delectable ass last week, I knew we were a permanent thing. Plus, I love him to the moon and back. My BFFs were correct. I don’t need Kurt, but my life is so much more meaningful and beautiful with him as my partner.
Other than you, Helen’s my only confidante. I’ve decided that I’ll get down on one knee in the very same Whole Foods produce department where we met—near the bananas. It just feels so right. I’ve already designed our rings. A classy, yet large diamond surrounded in sapphires that match his eyes for Kurt and a whopper of a diamond for me that will weigh my hand down. I plan on wearing my rose caftan to propose. I’ll give you a play-by-play after the deed is done.
Anyhoo, wish me luck and thanks as always for lending an ear… or a page to be more accurate.
xoxo Johnson Jones
The End
About the Author
NYT and USA Today best selling author, Robyn Peterman writes because the people inside her head won’t leave her alone until she gives them life on paper. She writes snarky, sexy, funny paranormal and snarky, sexy, funny contemporaries.
Her addictions include laughing really hard with friends, shoes (the expensive kind), Target, Coke with extra ice in a Yeti cup, bejeweled reading glasses, her kids, her super-hot hubby and collecting stray animals.
A former professional actress, with Broadway, film and T.V. credits, she now lives in the south with her family and too many animals to count. Writing gives her peace and makes her whole, plus having a job where she can work in her sweatpants works really well for her.
Her Princess at Midnight
ERICA RIDLEY
Chapter One
Miss Cynthia Talbott’s muscles ached from spending the hours since dawn down on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor spotless whilst her stepmother and stepsisters lay abed.
Task complete—for now—Cynthia hurried to the scullery to begin the preparations for their breakfast. The sun was rising high, and the sleeping ladies usually awoke by noon. No two of them ever wanted the same dish, causing even more work in the kitchen to keep them from berating her or flinging the unwanted delicacies to the floor. Again.
Cynthia had never dreamt she should one day be an exhausted, bedraggled maid-of-all-work in her childhood home. As a young girl, she had never even wondered how their French chef created his masterful sauces and marvelous pâte à choux. She certainly hadn’t imagined that after the death of her beloved, humble-born mother five years prior, Father would remarry a widowed lady with expensive tastes and two daughters of her own… Or that the following year, after Father’s subsequent death, the three women would spend every penny of his life savings with breathtaking speed, until every servant had gone elsewhere and Cynthia was forced to become a scullion in her own home.
She would have left without hesitation if she had any money to her name—and if she could bear to abandon her parents’ home and the remaining memory-imbued furnishings and keepsakes to the careless hands of her stepmother and stepsisters.
“Cynthia, you snail!” screamed a voice from the dining room. “Where are my eggs?”
That was Dorothea, the elder of Cynthia’s two stepsisters and impossible to please—making her the darling of her mother. The screaming was often more to appease Lady Tremaine than to torture Cynthia, although it generated the same result. Had the eggs and kippers been ready five minutes earlier, Dorothea would have pronounced them “old” and “too cold” and sent Cynthia to begin all over again.
“Coming!” she called out as she hurried the heavy tray into the dining room.
Stasia was seated at the table as well, her pale face propped up by both hands, and her red curls awry. The sisters had spent the past night at a ball, and Stasia appeared the worse for wear. Perhaps the provided supper had not agreed with her. Their mother, Lady Tremaine, appeared to still be abed.
A small blessing. As was the trio’s absence from home the evening before. As much as Cynthia dreamed of attending a fancy ball one day, dressed like a princess, a few stolen hours of peace and quiet in which to catch up on her work and take a much-needed nap felt like a gift from the heavens.
