I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I thought you should know. Your boyfriend’s been cheating on you. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. I’m so sorry.

I stared at the email, reading it for the thousandth time. Part of me still didn’t believe the love of my life had cheated on me. This year had been hard on my relationship with Luke, sure. Five thousand miles had separated us over the past six months. I was studying abroad in London, while Luke was back at Meryton University in North Carolina.

But when I’d confronted Luke three days ago, he’d confessed to messing up. The girl who’d sent me the email was “an old friend” of his. They’d been out late with a bunch of friends drinking. One thing led to another.

Luke said it was a mistake. Swore it only happened once. He’d cried—literally cried—while I shouted at him on the phone. He was genuinely remorseful. But I’d been too gutted to forgive him. Luke was my first everything. First boyfriend. First guy I’d ever slept with. I still had to pinch myself sometimes that such a cute and charismatic guy would want a nerdy, bookish girl like me.

I missed him like crazy. Missed the way he’d twine his fingers around mine when we held hands. He’d do this thing where he’d press our hands together, palm to palm, and I’d look up and always catch him smiling at me. It was stupid, but it made me so damn happy.

I hadn’t wanted to be away from him like this for so long. But I’d dreamed of studying abroad since high school. My mom, an architect, had fostered my obsession with all things design for as long as I could remember. I wanted to open my own interior design firm when I graduated. I figured learning how to start and run your own business at one of the top business schools in the world—The London School of Economics—was a smart idea.

So here I was, fighting back tears as I waited outside Mr. Thorne’s office. He was my TA—short for Teacher’s Assistant—and he’d requested this meeting after I’d bombed an exam earlier this week. I’d never gotten below a 98 on any assignment in his class, so this was definitely out of the ordinary for me.

He was right to call me in. Mr. Thorne and I had gotten pretty friendly over the semester, bonding over our dorky shared interest in balance sheets and marketing strategies. Still, I was dreading this meeting. I hadn’t slept in days. And I was really starting to regret the things I’d said to Luke on the phone. I didn’t know if we’d broken up or what. I’d ended the call by hanging up on him; I hadn’t heard from him since. But now all I could think about was talking to him again. Trying to maybe make things right.

I still hated Luke for what he’d done. But I was also so, so in love with him. You couldn’t just make that kind of love go away on demand. At least I couldn’t. People made mistakes. There was a chance we could come back from this. There had to be.

“Miss Kilpatrick.”

I started, slamming my laptop shut. I looked up to see Mr. Thorne standing in the doorway to his office. Something about his cut glass British accent gave his voice a deep, authoritative edge.

Or maybe the edge was there on account of him being a prince.

At the London School of Economics, Mr. Thorne may have been just another lowly assistant. He led the Friday morning section for my marketing class. But outside our little bubble of academia, he was Prince Christopher Louis James Henry Thorne (known popularly as Prince Kit), the Queen of England’s grandson and third in line to the throne.

Maybe it was the American in me, but I wasn’t as awed by his royal status as everyone else at school seemed to me. His security detail popped into class every so often, sure. And he did rock his tailored suits in a way only a prince could. But to me, he was just another TA—albeit a very handsome one.

Mr. Thorne was impeccably dressed, as always, in a suit and tie. Impeccably put together. His thick blond hair was carefully parted. He slid his hands underneath his jacket and put them in his pockets. His bright blue eyes were wide with concern as they moved over my face.

He tilted his head toward his office. When he spoke, his voice was softer. “Please, come in.”

My throat closed in. Shit. Why did people being nice to me when I was upset only make me want to cry harder?

I took a deep breath. As much as I didn’t want to be here right now, I did need to talk with Mr. Thorne about the exam. Explain myself. I’m not sure heartbreak qualified as a credible excuse, but there had to be a way to keep one exam from tanking my grade for the semester.

Best to just rip the band aid off. Tucking my laptop into my bag, I stood and walked into Mr. Thorne’s office. As I passed him, the familiar smell of his skin filled my head—a mix of lemon and spice. The scent was too clean to be cologne. I’d decided a while ago it had to be some kind of aftershave. Very delicious, and probably very expensive, aftershave.

A whisper of awareness caught between my legs, like it always did when I got close to him. I’d gotten really great at ignoring it. Of course I’d never acted on it. I had a boyfriend. But the attraction was there. And for some reason, today it was harder to ignore. Maybe my body’s way of getting back at Luke.

Whatever. I just wanted to get this meeting done. Ten minutes, max, and then I could get out of here and drown my sorrows in a pint of mint chocolate chip.

* * *

I closed the door behind me, and watched Miss Kilpatrick sink into the chair in front of my desk. Her bag fell off her shoulder onto the floor. Her face was drawn. Pale. Her eyes, usually luminous, were swollen.

My hands curled into fists inside my pockets. I’d known the moment I started grading her exam that something was off. But nothing could have prepared me for just how defeated she looked today. How different from her usual self.

Seeing her hurt made me hurt, too. Which was a bad fucking sign.

I stepped in front of my desk and leaned the backs of my legs against it, crossing my ankles. “I’ll get right to it. You failed the exam, Miss Kilpatrick. Considering you didn’t miss a single question on the last one, I’m concerned. What’s going on?”

The sinews of her throat worked as she swallowed. My body lit up with a familiar, blaring awareness of hers, like I’d been doused in petrol and she’d just lit a match. I smelled the trace of perfume on her skin. Wondered at the fullness of her lips. Realized just how close she was, an arm’s length—less than that—away.

Stop. I had to stop thinking about her like this. It was a losing battle. But it was a war I had to wage nonetheless.

“Please talk to me,” I said. “You know you can talk to me, right? Nothing leaves this office.”

“I know,” she replied, looking away.

“I won’t let my best student slip. Not when we’re so close to the end of the semester. I’ve done the math. As long as you get a 90 percent on the final, you should still get an A in the class, even with this exam grade. But I want to make sure that 90 is going to happen.”

“Best student?” She managed a tight smile. “Liar.”

I grinned. “Don’t play coy with me, Miss Kilpatrick. Together you and I teach this class. We teach my students how to think. Don’t you see that?”

She swallowed again. “Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “I do.”

“So tell me what’s wrong. Are you okay? Are your parents okay?”

That got her attention. Her eyes snapped to meet mine.

“My parents? They’re fine. It’s just—” She rolled her lips between her teeth. She looked away again. Then she abruptly stood, crossing her arms as she turned to look out the window. Turning again, she moved behind her chair and, uncrossing her arms, curled her fingers around its back. We were standing close now. I’d never seen her fidget like this.

She leaned forward, making her braid hang down over her neck. I was seized by the wild idea of taking that braid in my fingers. Running my fingers along its silken length.

“Luke—you know, my boyfriend—”

“I know.” My pulse skipped. “You’ve talked about him before.” And I’ve hated every minute of it.

Emily nodded. “Well. Turns out he’s been cheating on me while I’ve been away.”

My heart stuttered. Excitement? Fuck, I hoped it wasn’t excitement I felt. First of all, being excited about Emily’s boyfriend hurting her like this was a total dick move. And second of all, I could not touch this girl. No matter how much I wanted to.

I don’t know when I’d started to fall for Emily. I’d fought it, I did. But no matter how hard I tried to keep my distance, she always managed to work her way past my defenses. Maybe it was her liveliness. She was an enthusiastic participant in class. When she was at the board with me—which was more often than not—her green eyes would light up, and she’d chew on her bottom lip, one side of her mouth pulling into a grin when she knew she’d hit on something good.

Maybe it was the way she spoke to me like I was just a normal bloke. There was no pretense with her. No pretending. I bloody loved our debates. The conversations we’d have after class about everything and anything. I felt like I’d made a true friend for the first time in forever.

I don’t know what it was, exactly, that made me want Emily Kilpatrick the way I did. But I wanted her all the same. Even though there wasn’t a chance in hell we could be together. Relationships between staff and students were strictly forbidden by the department. But more than that, Emily was not royal material. At least not according to my uncle, Prince Carlton, a stickler for old school rules. And his opinion mattered, because unless the Queen named my father as her heir—which was unlikely—Carlton would be king one day. He believed we needed to be with people like us. British people, who came from a certain class and station in life.

Emily was an American. I didn’t know who her family was. She was outspoken and ambitious—things my uncle didn’t exactly value in a woman.

Things I found incredibly sexy. I’d never met anyone quite like Emily. I’d dated plenty of girls—socialites, models. Heiresses. Girls my uncle would approve of. But none of them could keep up with me the way Emily could. None of them talked to me like Emily did.

Bloody hell.

I had a lot riding on being a good TA. People were always so confused about why a member of the royal family would bother getting a PhD in Economics. They were especially dumfounded by my position at the bottom of the totem pole as an assistant. But I’d do anything if it meant I could one day lead The Prince’s Foundation.

My dad, Prince Edward, was the Queen’s second son, after my uncle, Prince Carlton. Although dad was the more popular—and progressive—of the two princes, he probably wouldn’t inherit the throne. Carlton had married a (much) younger second wife, and we all expected them to have kids.

So dad had focused his attention on giving back to the community, underprivileged youth especially. The Foundation raised money and awareness for initiatives aimed at helping all young people reach their potential, no matter their background. In the twenty years since its establishment, mum and dad had grown the foundation by leaps and bounds. The Queen very much approved of their work. She understood the people loved my parents and their causes; and the peoples’ love was the basis of our power and influence as England’s royal family.

As the oldest of four siblings, I had a lot of experience with children. I’d had a keen interest in The Prince’s Foundation since I was little. Dad said he’d pass it on to me on one condition: that I earned it. My parents had raised me and my siblings Rob, Jack, and Jane to believe that hard work and humility were the keys to success, so it didn’t surprise me one bit that dad wouldn’t just hand me what I wanted.

He wanted me to see the world, to meet people of all backgrounds. Most importantly, he wanted me to get a top-notch education so I could lead the foundation in a way he never could. Which was why I was currently enrolled in one of the best PhD programs at one of the best universities in the world. Yeah, the hours were long, and the departmental politics could get intense. Like every PhD candidate, I had to TA several classes, an unglamorous part of the job. But teaching students like Emily Kilpatrick made it worth it. I got so many ideas from her. Stuff about business and marketing and strategy that I hoped to use one day at the foundation.

“Christ,” I said, an automatic response. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Mr. Thorne, it’s tearing me apart. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. Never mind ace an exam.”

I swallowed.

I hate to see you hurting, I wanted to say.

I want to make you feel better.

I will do anything to make you feel better.

“This bloke sounds like a proper knob head,” I said instead. Best to stick to safer subjects for the time being.

Her lips twitched, even as a tear fell down her face. “You Brits and your cute little curse words.”

“Knob head means dickhead, you know.”

“I know. Still sounds kinda tame, though, doesn’t it?”

“All right.” I pushed off the desk to stand in front of her, the chair between us. “What would you call him?”

She pursed her lips, pretending to give it some thought. “Hm. A scumbag, probably. An asshole son of a bitch. A dickweed.”

“Dickweed.” I nodded my approval. “Woefully underused, that one. Would you consider twat as well, or would that be too ‘tame’ considering the circumstances?”

Emily smiled, and I swear to Christ the whole room got brighter. This was the real Emily. I was drawing her back out.

I wanted to see more of her.

“Oh, no, I like twat,” she said. “I think it fits the circumstances perfectly. Good call.”

I laughed. No one ever talked to me this way. Ever. It was like people assumed that because I was a prince, my precious royal ears would fall right the fuck off if profanity—or God forbid the truth—was ever uttered in my presence.

Not Emily, though. She talked to me like I was just another twenty four year old bloke. She liked the word twat.

I liked her.

Bollocks. I really, really liked her.

I knew now was the moment to step back. To keep things professional. But the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, egged on by a semester’s worth of pent up longing.

“So this twat ex of yours tore you apart,” I said. “What can I do to help put you back together?”

Emily furrowed her brow, her smile fading.

“Why would you want to do that?” she asked. “That’s not your job.”

I took my hands out of my pockets. I kept my eyes locked on hers. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. I was full to bursting. Full of her. Hurt. Hope.

“Maybe I want it to be my job,” I said. “Maybe I miss you—the real you. The girl who’s fearless and smart and sexy as hell.”

Something flickered in her green eyes, making them spark. I waited for her to step back. To tell me to fuck off.

What the hell was I doing?

“I’m sorry,” I said, looking away as I kicked at an imaginary pebble on the floor. My face burned. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

I looked back up to see Emily staring at me. I couldn’t read her expression. But she didn’t move. Good sign? Bad?

“Kit,” she said. It was the first time she’d used my first name. Fuck, I liked the sound of it on her lips. “I have a boyfriend.”

I was already in for a penny. Might as well go for the pound.

“The dickweed who cheated on you? That boyfriend? I care about you, Emily. And I mean it when I say I want to help you.”

She blinked. “Help me,” she repeated. Her voice was hoarse again.

Her eyes flicked to my mouth. They went a little hazy. I could practically see the idea forming in her head.

The muscles and sinews in my core tightened. Came alive. Energy—a magnetic heat—pooled between us. Did she feel it, too? I knew I was being stupid. But was I mad as well? This fire inside me, stoked by a semester’s worth of exciting conversations and ideas and glances that lasted just a little too long—it burned so bloody hot, I wondered how the hell she’d not feel it.

“Yes,” I said. “Anything you want.”

She took a sharp breath. “God, you smell good.”

“Thanks. I showered today, just for you.”

She scoffed, biting down on her bottom lip.

“You can help me forget,” she replied. “Forget him. Forget the hurt.”

I nodded. “Of course. Just tell me what to do.”

Emily looked at me for another beat, like she was debating whether or not to say what she was about to.

“You can fuck me,” she said at last.

My heart leapt to my throat. I started. “Pardon?”

“Just this once. Nothing leaves this room, remember?”

It was my turn to stare. Out of all the things she could’ve said, I was definitely not expecting that. Hoping for it? Fantasizing about it? Yes. But expecting it—hell no.

My cock leapt at the idea. I’d wanted to put my hands on Emily—really put my hands on her body, get to know it, savor it—for bloody months now.

It was wrong. But I wanted it. Badly. And now that I knew she wanted it, too…

“Now or never, Kit.” She swallowed. “Please.”

My body moved before my mind did. I angled my foot against the chair between us and shoved it aside. Emily’s lips parted at the sound.

Fuck it. If this is what Emily Kilpatrick wanted, then I’d give it to her.

I’d make her forget this asshole ex of hers. Maybe then she’d think about me instead.

I’d make her mine.

I didn’t hesitate. I stepped into her, pressing my body against hers. This felt so good. So bloody good. My pulse thundered as I cupped her face in my hand. In one smooth, impatient motion, I bent my neck and tilted her head and brought her mouth up to meet mine.

She drew a breath as I kissed her, rising into my caress.

I kissed Emily Kilpatrick in the middle of my office like I had nothing to lose.

It hit me that I didn’t. I’d already lost myself to her a long time ago.