Page 72 of The Princess and the P.I.

Maurice’s phone buzzed the moment they stepped into the cold November night air, and it didn’t stop. But he stopped and kissed Fiona. He was a private man for a lot of reasons, but he couldn’t wait another minute to feel her mouth on him. He was starting to think he’d dreamed it.

He pulled her to him with a force that surprised them both.

No hesitation, no second-guessing. He wasn’t testing the waters.

He was in the deep end, the rip current, and if she wasn’t, he would drag her there with this kiss.

His mouth slipped over hers, so softly at first. His hands cradled her jaw, his thumbs tracing reverent lines over her skin.

Then deeper, as he felt her melt into him, her arms curling around his neck, tugging him impossibly closer.

Maurice pulled back just enough to look at her, his chest rising and falling like he’d just surfaced from deep water.

“I think about that story a lot,” he said, his voice rough. “The Princess and the Pea.” Fiona blinked up at him, confused.

“I think about how long the character, the prince, searched for the real thing. How they needed proof, something undeniable. That’s you.

” His hands tightened against her skin, like he was trying to anchor himself.

“You said I feel things deeply, and I’m not running from that anymore.

I do. But you—” His voice caught, and he shook his head.

“You seek truth and goodness. And you will wait forever to find it.”

Fiona let out a breath that was almost a laugh. She tapped her index finger against the dimple in his cheek.

“I found you.”

Maurice closed his eyes for a second, like he was committing it to memory.

Then, before he could overthink it, he pulled out his phone and called an Uber to his sister’s standing spot at the Ritz-Carlton in DC so he could let himself be utterly, devastatingly wrecked by Fiona’s wet, red lipstick—all over his body.

—

Fiona was glad they had stolen a few hours for themselves, because by the time they got back to Maurice’s condo, it was bedlam.

She closed her eyes for just a moment, letting the sun-drenched memory of her and Maurice settle behind her rib cage like a secret. Straddling him. Champagne dripping slowly from her nipple. That unbroken eye contact—hungry, reverent, like he was memorizing her in real time.

She’d keep that golden sunset like a pressed butterfly in a book. A bright, impossible thing she could take out and turn gently in her hands when the world got too loud. Goodness, she had been worshipped. Even if only for a few stolen hours.

His sisters, his lawyers, and even a stray journalist who had somehow infiltrated the sanctum were crammed in the living room.

Whiteboards, teetering against the walls, were covered with frantic scribbles.

Phones buzzed from every available flat surface.

The countertops groaned under the weight of take-out containers representing at least three continents.

Esi and their father—God bless them—looked fried.

Fiona’s phone had been going crazy too. The forums were in a speculation-fueled meltdown over Sara’s killer.

She briefly considered dropping her phone into the nearest pot of soup, just to get a moment’s peace, but instead, with a sigh that could have powered a wind turbine, she answered an astute Reddit question.

Controlling the rumor mill was just as crucial as catching up the actual people in the room.

She and Maurice strolled deeper into the house, exuding the smug contentment of Beyoncé arriving late to the Grammys.

The room erupted, and Liza shot out first, a tiny brown dart of disapproval.

“Maurice Courvoisier Bennett. Don’t check into my suite again.” Her tone was murderous.

“You weren’t using it.” Maurice did not sound like a man about to be flayed alive.

“ And you drank my Veuve Clicquot. I am not paying for that,” Liza said.

Maurice, entirely unbothered and lighter than air, peeled off his jacket. “Sorry, sis, you already did. Charged all that shit to the room.” He patted her head like a benevolent overlord. She looked like she might swing, but at the last second, she swerved away with a growl.

Fiona, on the other hand, was actively dodging the burning stares of her father and sister.

Instead, she let her gaze drift to the hive-mind energy of the room.

The exasperated power players were assembled—Maurice’s sisters; a small army of lawyers; at least three people from the police department, including Detective Ryan; and Fiona’s own public defender—each with their hands folded and their expressions set to “deeply unimpressed.”

“Nice of you to join us, Nana Fiona paa ,” Esi drawled, dialing up her Ghanaian accent to unsafe levels.

Fiona wanted to fold herself between the floorboards.

Instead, she powered forward, locking onto the nearly full whiteboard as her escape route. She shrugged off her jacket…only to be met with a few low whistles and a muttered “Gyatt.”

Between. The. Floorboards .

Her face burned, but she grabbed a dry-erase marker, pushing forward. “So you all can see there’s a financial component to this as well.” She scrawled across the board in bold strokes, circling the name Pink he had gone all quiet and thoughtful. His hands flexed at his sides, the only betrayal of the anger simmering beneath his calm exterior. “I want David,” he said. The words were steady, but his eyes boiled over.

Fiona also wanted David, wanted to see him dragged down, exposed for what he was. But Maurice was a good man—except when he wasn’t. She knew too well what it might mean if he handled David his way.

“I’ll get him to talk,” Fiona said, even though her palms were slick and her stomach churned.

Maurice shook his head so fast Fiona was afraid it might roll off. “No. I can get him to talk—a little chastisement, and he’ll be singing fucking show tunes.”

“We don’t have time for your way,” Fiona said. Her hands gripped the edge of the table. “David talks to me. He underestimates me. I can do this.”

Maurice’s jaw tightened. “You think he’s going to hand over what we need? He’s not going to underestimate you again, Fiona. Not after you dropped his ass in the Potomac and left with me.”

“Then I’ll disarm him with something he wants. He wants Sara’s manuscript. I can offer it to him. Didn’t you teach me that? A little misdirection?” Now she was tickling a folded paper under his chin.

Esi stood abruptly. “Fiona, David is—” Her eyes were full of restrained fear. “I hate that you’re making me agree with Maurice. It’s just, you don’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t get what he wants. He’s made so many threats. He’s dangerous.”

Fiona turned to her sister. “Sara told me something before she died about how people saw me at the church. Miss Obedience three years running. I can be that . A little shuck and jive.” She turned to look at Maurice. “I promise you, this will work.”

The room buzzed with unease. Maurice’s sisters cast glances at each other until Maurice impatiently sighed, “What?” to their wordless fidgeting.

His youngest sister, LeDeya, clicked her nails to get the room’s attention, but she already had Detective Ryan’s, who Fiona noticed focused on little else.

“Okay, Fiona has the best plan for getting David on the hook. I personally haven’t heard anything better. Can we just let her cook instead of second-guessing her?” she said.

The murmurs of agreement rippled through the room, and Maurice exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes lingered on Fiona for a beat too long. Finally, he nodded.

“Fine,” he said, still reluctant. “We’re moving on. Let’s find an in.”

Kofi cleared his throat and cut through the hum in the room.

“The bountiful harvest ceremony is tomorrow night, as it has been every night this week. It’s the church’s last big tithing celebration of the year.

All the church leaders will be there. If David has ushered in fifty million dollars for the church, anyone with a generous enough tithe will get to go onstage. ”

Detective Ryan leaned against the table, arms crossed, his impatience barely masked. “So we bust up this money drop, and the Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt here gets David to spill his guts? Sounds like a plan. Can we move already? Half the police department’s out there idling, wasting gas.”

Fiona straightened, her mind already clicking through the steps.

“Okay,” she said, taking charge of the room.

“Tomorrow we move. Maurice, I want you to wire me up. Ryan, when I give you the cue tomorrow—we’ll discuss what that is—I want shock and awe.

Cuffs swinging, Miranda rights flying, the whole show. ”

Detective Ryan raised an eyebrow, incredulous. “What in the Sister Act 2 is going on here? Weren’t you some kind of nun three months ago? You don’t give me orders. You’re not running this thing.”

Fiona glanced around the room, making direct eye contact with each person until she landed back on Ryan. “Then who is?” she asked.

Fiona turned and caught Maurice’s gaze. He and his sisters, for once in perfect unison, held back identical smiles.

Fiona squared her shoulders. “Right,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. “Let’s get to work.”