It only took me two days to get the swing of things. Turned out that tea drinkers weren’t much different than coffee drinkers in that both have their own particular ways of taking their beverage of choice. Once I was able to recognize return visitors and have their order started by the time they reached the tent, I was making bank on tips.

Not to mention that my Twitter and Instagram had blown up after the photos of Paige in my shirt. I had half a dozen orders for the same design and a handful of other requests for custom pieces. Being the awesome friend that she was, Paige was nice enough to keep her “I told you so”s to a minimum. Not that I was too annoyed to be proven wrong in this instance.

The orders plus the daily bustle of the tea tent kept me and my mind busy. Not busy enough that I didn’t entertain the occasional fantasy about Charlie—he of the gorgeous blue eyes and sexy dimples—but I managed to keep them (and my libido) under control.

I knew it had been cowardly of me to ditch him at the party—something both Jules and Paige had been hounding me about since it happened—but the truth was I kind of freaked. My record with guys was sparse at best, and it would be generous to describe those few encounters as successful.

Unlike Paige and Jules, who seemed to attract hot men by just existing, I had very little confidence in my sex appeal. I had been a late bloomer, mostly due to my boobs, which had developed early and drawn the wrong kind of guys from the get go. It wasn’t until senior year of high school that I started dating, but when my mother died, it was suddenly the furthest thing on my mind. I blocked everything out, shut myself away, and pretty much threw myself into designing clothes as a distraction from all the grief that seemed like it would never end. Everyone knew what had happened, and if they weren’t dancing awkwardly around it, they were piling on the pity, which just made me feel worse. I decided, college would be my fresh start: nobody knew what had happened, so I could finally leave all their sympathy behind.

Looking back now, I can see I should never have kept it all bottled up inside, but back then, I thought it was the only way to handle it: by pretending it had never happened at all.

The only person I told was my TA, Zeke. That turned out to be a terrible idea. At first Zeke was awesome. He was always available to talk, making it a point to come by and check in on me. We grew closer and it seemed so easy to talk; to trust him. I told him things I hadn’t told anyone else—like the problems I was having with my dad and how I was worried that we didn’t even have a relationship without my mom.

Zeke listened. And after a while he confessed that he had developed feelings for me—and I thought I was falling for him too. He convinced me that the only way I was going to get over my mom’s death was to live the life I wanted. He told me I needed to take risks and to be bold, and I was so crazy about him, it seemed like it made sense.

Except “bold and risky” seemed to always be about sex. When he wanted it, where he wanted it. I didn’t have much experience, and I felt like it was all moving too fast, but he always had a way of making me feel like maybe I was the prude for not wanting him the way he wanted me. After all, he was crazy about me, right? “Look what you do to me,” he would always say, like it was my fault for turning him on, when I just wanted to take things slow. He even talked me into sending nude photos, and dressing up for him in sexy lingerie, so when I told him I wanted to take a break from all of that, and just go back to being friends, he totally freaked out. He started calling me a tease and a slut, reminding me how much time he spent listening to me deal with my “issues.” It wasn’t long before everyone knew that we had slept together and that he had been helping me cope with my mother’s death when I—according to him—had a major breakdown and turned into a psycho bitch.

I didn’t like to even think about that period in my life. It was the lowest I’d ever been, trusting someone who betrayed me like that. I was a wreck, so I did the only thing I could think of to escape the mess: I quit school and transferred to start college all over again a thousand miles away. I didn’t tell anyone—including my dad—the real reason I wanted to transfer schools, and when I met Paige, who was also a transfer student, I made up some story about wanting to switch majors and my old school not having the best programs for marketing and design. It didn’t seem to matter that I didn’t tell anyone. After all, I had learned my lesson. Except for a few casual things that never got too serious, I stayed away from guys for most of undergrad.

And I had planned to continue that trend over the summer. What I hadn’t planned on was Charlie.

I still couldn’t believe how easy it had been to flirt with him. He was fun—and funny. But I wasn’t counting on much else happening. Our first two interactions had required very little effort on his part, which seemed to be the MO for players like him. Not that it mattered. At the very least I was going to be able to go back to the States with a great story about how I had kissed a prince at Wimbledon.

In fact, I think that Paige and Jules were more disappointed than I was that nothing had happened after the night of the party.

“Why don’t we focus on your love life and my creative life?” I kept suggesting to Paige.

“Because you need some loving in yours,” she would retort.

“I have you,” I’d tease.

“And if either of us were so inclined, I’m sure it would be a match made in heaven, but honey, come on! He’s hot and he likes you. Why aren’t you going after him?”

I had stopped trying to explain myself to Paige.

“Anderson!” Mr. Smyth barked from across the tent.

Why our boss insisted on calling us by our last names, I couldn’t figure out, but I dutifully responded to his call with a bright smile that was not returned. Mr. Smyth was organized and efficient, but friendly he was not.

“Yes, Mr. Smyth?”

“Take this tray to the equipment manager’s office,” he ordered, waving his hand in the direction of my assignment.

I stifled a groan. The poor equipment manager. My last attempt to deliver his tea had ended quite unpleasantly for him, with a plate of soggy sandwiches and lukewarm water. At least I knew where I was going this time. After my last directional debacle, I had studied the building’s set up until I knew exactly where everything was. Hoisting the tray into my arms, I took off towards the office, determined to make up for my previously terrible service.

Balancing the heavy tray against my hip, I knocked on the door when I reached it.

“Come in,” said a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

It was immediately apparent why it was familiar when I opened the door and found Charlie sitting at the equipment manager’s desk, his feet up on the wood, leaning back in his chair.

He grinned at me as I entered, flashing those boyish dimples. His dark hair was rumpled—as if he had just rolled out of bed—and he was already in his tennis whites, showcasing his long, muscular legs and strong arms, which were crossed.

“Considering a career change?” I asked, trying to ignore how my pulse had perked up at the sight of him.

“It does seem like this office comes with certain perks.” Charlie got to his feet, taking the heavy tray out of my hands as if it weighed nothing and putting it on the desk.

“I’m sorry to tell you that I’m not one of them,” I informed him.

He was standing very close, almost as close as he had been at the club, only it was just the two of us now. He smelled amazing—like soap and fresh grass. It took all my strength not to bury my nose in his neck and take a big whiff. Not that I would have been able to do it without a stepstool.

“That is unfortunate,” he said, though he didn’t look too upset. “Because I was really hoping to take advantage of your services again.”

My mouth dropped open. What kind of girl did he think I was?

“Whatever services you’re thinking of, I can assure you, I don’t provide them,” I told him, preparing to walk out of the office.

But he caught my arm.

“I was only thinking of the good-luck kiss you gave me the other day,” he said.

I blushed, embarrassed that I had jumped to such embarrassing and overblown conclusions.

“I’m sure you’d have no problem finding someone else to help you with that,” I retorted.

He shook his head, his grin widening. “Don’t you know anything about athletes and superstition? I won the match after our last kiss. Therefore, it was your kiss that gave me luck. And I can accept no substitutes.”

I was sorely tempted. His gorgeous mouth was still curved in a grin and if I got on my tiptoes, my hands around his neck, I was pretty sure I could land a pretty good kiss on him again. But the last thing I wanted was for someone like him to think that all he needed to do to get a kiss was to summon me, like a serving girl.

Which, I technically was. But still!

“What if I don’t want you to win?” I asked him, putting my hands on my hips.

He pressed a palm to his chest, looking wounded. “Are you saying you’re not rooting for me?”

“I’m just saying that there are plenty of talented players competing here.” I shrugged. “Why should I limit myself to rooting for one?”

“Mercenary minx,” Charlie said with a grin. “So, I suppose it won’t do any good to ask you to do it for Queen and country then?”

I giggled. “Not my Queen, not my country.”

“You Americans.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. Heat rushed through me. “This is the thanks we get for giving you your independence.”

I raised my eyebrows. “For giving us our independence?”

He put a finger against my lips. “Shh, shh,” he said. “It’s all in the past now.”

I rolled my eyes, but it was hard to keep from smiling.

“All that matters is the here and now,” Charlie continued, looking virtuous. “And in the here and now, I am in desperate need of a good-luck kiss before my match.”

“Hmmm.” The wheels were turning in my head as I gave him a sultry smile. “How about this?” I slid my hands up his arms, lacing my fingers around the back of his neck.

His grin grew wolfish, and he leaned down giving me the perfect opportunity to kiss him . . . on the nose.

“You learn some real history and maybe you’ll get a real kiss.”

Without waiting for his response, I turned on my heels and left, making sure to add an extra saucy sashay in my walk.

* * *

The high from our encounter—as brief and chaste as it had been—lasted throughout my shift. We were busy, but I thrived on the fast-paced flow of the tent. At some point when things mellowed out a little, Paige snuck off to watch the match from the stands, but I was content to keep a casual eye on the TV screens around the tent when I wasn’t working.

“All morning you’ve been acting like a kitten who got the cream,” Jules noted when I joined her behind the bar to help her clean glasses. “Did you get lost on your way to the equipment manager’s office again?” she asked with a wink.

I blushed.

“Not exactly,” I confessed.

She hit me with one of her rags. “Are you fecking kidding me?”

“Kidding about what?” Paige had returned from the match, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“How was the match?” I asked, secretly crossing my fingers that Charlie had done well.

“Your news first,” she countered.

I frowned at her. “It’s nothing,” I tried to argue, to no avail.

“Please.” Jules smacked me again. “You’ve been giddy as a schoolgirl all morning. You’re practically glowing. Isn’t she glowing, Paige?”

“You are!” Paige placed her hands on the bar and leveled me with a serious glare. “What’s with all the secretive glowing, Emmy?”

I was having a hard time hiding my smile.

“I might have seen Charlie again,” I confessed.

Paige started squealing so loudly that everyone in the tent turned to look at us. Not that it did anything to calm her. She bounced up and down on her toes, her hands around my arms.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” she demanded.

“We were working!” I argued, knowing that it was a lame excuse. I didn’t know why I hadn’t told Paige. Besides the embarrassing mess with Zeke, she knew all the sordid—or not-so-sordid—details of my love life.

“You are an awful friend,” she told me, not really meaning it.

“Nothing happened,” I told her and Jules. “Not like the other day.”

“But something happened,” Jules concluded.

I nodded. “He wanted another good-luck kiss.”

This set off another round of squeals from Paige. Even Jules let out a little sigh.

“I didn’t give him one,” I said to their obvious disappointment.

“Please tell me you gave him more than just a kiss this time.” Paige pressed her palms together in a mock prayer.

I smacked her arm. “I did not. I kissed him on his nose.”

Paige visibly deflated. “You are making it impossible for me to live vicariously through you,” she complained. “And I have half a mind not to tell you that Charlie won his match, despite your kiss cop-out.”

“He won?” I asked, pleased.

Paige crossed her arms. “No thanks to you.”

I stuck my tongue out at her. “I’m sure I’m just the flavor of the week and he’ll try the same line on the next girl who wanders into his locker room.”

Jules let out a low whistle. “Where do you think his locker room is?”

We all turned to see a tall, absolutely gorgeous guy heading our way. He had dark brown hair that was cropped short, grass-green eyes, and a badass scar on his chin. He was broad-shouldered, wearing a tight black shirt and jeans. He could have been Tom Hardy’s stunt double. In short, he was Paige’s dream guy.

But when I glanced over at her, instead of her usual bright smile, she was frowning. Even though the guy looked a little familiar, I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I knew him, or why Paige would be giving him such the cold shoulder. But despite her chilly reception, he came right over to us.

“Emmy, right?” he asked.

“Uh huh.” I was confused, still trying to place him.

“Charlie asked me to give this to you.” He handed me a folded piece of paper.

Now I remembered. He was the tall, dark, and silent guy who had been following Charlie around at the club. The one who had also been shooting daggers at the cute Australian guy who had bought me a drink. Killian something or other.

“Thanks.” I took the paper from him, expecting him to leave. Instead he lingered.

Paige glared at him. “Shoo,” she said. “You’re like some ridiculously tall buzzard.”

“Paige!” I admonished her, not understanding why she was being so rude.

But he didn’t seem to notice. “I’m simply waiting for her response,” he said.

I opened the note. It had an address and a time.

Turning it over, I looked to see if there was anything more, but there wasn’t. I gave Charlie’s friend a confused glance.

He shrugged. “Yes, or no.”

“It’s a date!” Paige squealed, apparently forgetting her annoyance at the note’s messenger. She grabbed my shoulders and started shaking me. “He’s. Asking. You. On. A. Date. A. Prince. Is. Asking. You. On. A. Date.”

I stopped her before I got nauseous, though if I was honest, the idea of going on a date with Charlie was making me a little light-headed.

“A date?” I looked at his friend, as if asking for confirmation.

He offered me a small smile and a nod.

A date. A date with a prince.

Why was I hesitating? Because he was a fricking prince. Because I was a broke California girl working the tea tent at Wimbledon. Because he could have any girl he wanted.

“She’ll be there,” Paige answered for me.

“Paige!”

“What?” she stood in front of me, her face serious. “When a prince asks you out for dinner, you say yes.”

Well, when she put it that way . . .

“OK,” I told Charlie’s friend. “I’ll be there.”

He nodded, and then he was gone. And just like that, I had a date with a prince.