Page 2 of Royal Agenda

Nancy squinted up at his broad shoulders, contemplating her chances of overpowering him and taking the cookies by force. They were oatmeal, for heaven’s sake. Oatmeal was a breakfast staple. The odds of winning a wrestling match were slim, but she was desperate enough to take the chance. She squared her shoulders and clenched her jaw, leaning forward just an inch.

Don looked into her eyes and pushed the plate farther down the table. “What’s going on?”

Nancy gave up her cookie coup and drew upon her reserve strength to maintain a semblance of composure–which was probably in vain because she’d already sprawled in her seat and thrown her hands in the air. “Grace rolled into town last night—in a Volkswagen camper van with a Mayan stone god painted on the side, dreadlocks, and a boyfriend.”

Polly sat up taller, her silver bracelet clacking against the armrest. “That’s good news. Who is this gentleman?”

“He’s no gentleman,” Nancy ground out as she leaned over the table, sniffing the cookie’s soft cinnamon scent. Don always added cinnamon even though he also added chocolate chips. The combination worked, and if she didn’t get some sugar soon, she would go crazy. A thought hit, and she yanked herself back, her shoulder blades hitting the chair. The idea was . . . brilliant. And scary. And bold. And just about the best idea she’d had since disposable dust cloths pre-loaded with shine spray. Looking from person to person, who stared back at her in shock, she hiccupped. Gulped. And then tossed the idea into the middle of the table. “We could break them up.”

The room went silent. Not even Harry’s chair squeaked.

Don narrowed his eyes, taking her measure. She sat up a little taller and also felt like saluting him just to prove she wasn’t crazy.

“The Secret Seven doesn’t do breakups,” said Samantha, the activities director for The Palms and their inside man–er woman–when it came to well, a lot of things. Samantha was invaluable–if only she knew it as strongly as the rest of them did. Today, she breezed in looking lovely in a floral print, puffed sleeve, layered hem dress draped in thick lace. Polly clasped her hands in delight. She made all Samantha’s clothing, creating beautiful outfits for their young and all too single friend. Samantha set down her laptop and hugged the seamstress. “It fits like a dream.”

Polly fingered the material and beamed. “You look beautiful in anything.”

Samantha blushed lightly and took her seat with a Thank you, as Harry skirted the table to get to his chair too. Without any further requests, he was off duty–for the moment. Now that Samantha was here, they could start the meeting properly.

“I know we said we don’t do breakups—but this is essential,” Nancy brought them back around to the problem at hand. It was an enormous problem–one of the biggest they’d had since starting this group. As soon as they knew what she was up against, they’d jump behind her unconventional idea and run full steam ahead. Rosa might even run right over the man who was a thorn in Nancy’s side. She walked to the murder board and grabbed an empty sticky note where she scribbled down the name she never wanted to hear, see, or deal with again. Behind her, the Secret Seven tried to talk her out of it.

Walt shook his head. “It’s unethical. We have to let them make their own mistakes.”

Nancy smacked the note onto the board next to Grace’s picture and stepped away.

The arguments withered like a snail in saltwater.

Polly’s hands flew to her turquoise stone necklace, which she began sliding back and forth.

Henry mumbled something that could have been a curse word.

“What does it say?” asked Don from the other side of the table, his eyes narrowed.

Rosa crossed herself and then pretend-spat at the ground. “Stephán.” She crossed herself again for good measure. Harry scooted away from her in case she decided to actually spit.

Don fisted his hands, and Walt twitched his mustache.

“The Stephán?” asked Winnie, a single eyebrow lifting in question. Man, she could make that thing arch beautifully. “Paddleboard yoga called-me-too-old-to-wear-spandex Stephán?”

Nancy looked from angry face to angry face. Stephán had offended each of them in turn when he worked at The Palms—Don had even taken the man to task for how he treated the ladies.

Nancy barely held back the tears threatening to over take her. She hadn’t cried since the first night she’d slept in her bungalow–feeling alone and not knowing what to do with herself. “He’s sleeping on my couch as we speak.”

“For the love of all that’s good! Give her the cookies!” Harry reached out and shoved the plate toward her.

“They’re all yours.” Don motioned for her to go ahead.

Everyone agreed quickly. “You need them more than we do,” said Rosa as she helped Nancy, whose feet were all the sudden too heavy, back to her chair. Petting Nancy’s head, she hummed comforting words in Spanish.

Nancy snatched a cookie, needing the carbs, the sugar, and the comfort that comes from baked goods and took a huge bite. The moment the chocolate registered on her taste buds, her tears abated, though her stress level was still through the roof.

“How’s your pulse?” Samantha asked, concerned over Nancy’s heart issue pouring through her gaze.

Nancy shook her head. “It’s middle ground. Cookies help.” She gave Don a grateful look as she picked up another one. “Grace said they met on a beach on her way up the coast. Their whole relationship was established on a road trip.” She looked up—searching heaven for help. How was a grandmother supposed to react to an inane comment like that?

“I can’t take this. He cannot be my grandson-in-law. He’s after her trust fund, I know it!” She slammed her hand down, and the cookie broke into several pieces. She grabbed another one and kept snacking. “He left his surfboard on my front porch and his rucksack—whatever that is—in the guest bathroom. There’s sand all over my wood floors, and did I mention Grace has dreadlocks?” She hiccupped and chewed. “He’s an evil influence on her.” Dreadlocks. Like she was some blonde pirate who washed ashore in that hideous bus.

Don stood up, his shoulders thrown back. “Ladies and gentlemen, we came to talk about Walt’s grandson, but I move to hold off on setting up his grandchild and attack Nancy’s problem head-on.”

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