A surge of panic tore through me as the dry warmth of Kit’s palm seeped into the back of my hand. I looked down at our hands; his was enormous, with well-made fingers and a network of sinewy veins popping up against the skin.

I didn’t mind being touched by guys, as long as it was 1) consensual, 2) shamelessly sexual, and 3) meaningless. In fact, I really liked to be touched in just the right place during a hookup. The curious fingers, the impatient hands, the hot squeeze—I loved it all.

But I absolutely, positively hated being touched like this—gently and sweetly. Ever since my divorce, this kind of relationship-y crap—especially hand holding—set my teeth on edge. It made me feel vulnerable. Foolish.

I was not going to let another guy make a fool of me.

Kit must’ve sensed my discomfort, because he pulled away, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. If people saw me clam up when we touched, our fake relationship would be over before it even started.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if it was okay to touch you.” He furrowed his brow, clearly confused. “Are you all right?”

I knew that if we were going to sell this thing—if we were going to convince the world we’d fallen head over heels in love—Kit and I were going to have to touch each other in a lovey-dovey, committed-relationship kind of way. And with the future of EP Designs on the line, I had to get it done.

I reminded myself to keep breathing. It was all fake. All for show.

My heart drummed. Could I really do this?

I used to think that if my divorce hadn’t killed me, nothing could. The past two years had been absolute hell. I was proud that I’d made it to the other side. But I’d clearly not made it unscathed.

I hated that Luke still had sway over me like this. Could I ever get that part of myself back? The part that trusted people not to hurt me the way he had?

Looking into Kit’s eyes—the ice was still there, but it looked a little less sharp, a little less cold—I wondered what he’d done with his pain. Had he thoughtfully and deliberately processed it the way a healthy person would? Or had he swallowed it like me, allowing the hurt to eat away at him from the inside out?

I shoved the question aside. Kit’s personal life was none of my business. That was a line I would not—could not—cross.

“I’m fine,” I said, grabbing my menu. “Should we order something to eat? I’m starving.”

* * *

Later that night, I checked my inbox to see an email from Kit.

• The engagement shall last ninety days
• Both parties are to appear genuinely in love at all royal appearances
• Beyond required public displays of affection, there shall be no contact of any kind between the parties

I ignored the delicious little somersault my stomach did as I read that last part. Kit was just trying to charm me; I hadn’t signed anything.

Yet.

But I couldn’t help but wonder if his knob head reference was a throwback to the conversation we’d had that afternoon ten years ago. He’d made me laugh when I was hurting.

Just like he was making me smile now. What red-blooded woman didn’t like being complimented by a handsome guy? Even if that guy was totally, contractually off limits.

With a sigh, I clicked on the attachment to open it. I couldn’t forget this arrangement wasn’t about cutesy emails or compliments. It was about saving EP Designs. Saving my future, and Aly’s too.

* * *

The thin metal headband slid into place behind my ears. I shivered.

“All right. You can open your eyes now.”

I did as I was told, blinking at my reflection in the three way mirror. I took in the perfectly tailored day dress and coat, the shiny new pumps, the cheeky fascinator on my head.

For several beats I just stared, a startled smile playing at my lips.

It had been a week since I’d signed the contract. Before the ink was even dry, I was sent into an intensive royal-in-training program. I took classes on dinner conversation (really) and diplomacy. I met about a hundred secretaries. Press secretaries, private secretaries, secretaries whose entire job seemed to be overseeing Kit’s wardrobe.

But it was worth the trouble. The contract stipulated EP Designs would receive half the two-hundred-thousand dollar payout now, half when the engagement was over. The money had been deposited into our account two days ago. Which was huge. Already I was picking up where our business left off before things went south.

A few months back, Lord and Lady Pearce had tried to hire us to restore their family’s property, Stallings Castle. We hadn’t been able to afford to take it on then. With Kit’s big chunk of change in our account, however, we were back in business. I’d called Lord Pearce as soon as the transfer was complete. Luckily, he hired us on the spot.

Speaking of wardrobe. Today’s styling session at a posh department store in Kensington was definitely my favorite part of princess training. A clothing allowance that was three times my monthly rent back home—well. It did not suck, not one bit.

I bit my lip. “I look…”

Sloan, the stylist the palace had hired for me, grinned. “Like a princess?”

I glanced over my shoulder in the mirror. Aly sat on a bench in the corner of the dressing room. Arms and legs crossed, foot bobbing, gaze sharp with judgment—yeah, she was definitely not feeling this get-up.

“Sloan, do you mind giving us a moment?”

“Of course.” She disappeared, the door closing behind her with barely a whisper.

I turned to Aly, hands on my hips. “Out with it.”

She didn’t hesitate. “I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, Em. This is a bad idea.”

“Are you jealous of the fascinator?” It was a lame attempt at a joke, but the tension in the air was so thick I could cut it with a knife. I had to try something. “I could probably get you one if you wanted.”

“The fascinator’s fucking adorable. Stop.” Aly uncrossed her legs. “I don’t think you realize just how much attention you’re going to get. Your face is going to be on every paper and computer screen across the world, Em. People are going to tear you apart. Do you really believe the royal family is going to keep you safe? Defend you?”

I smoothed the dress over my thighs, the thick, buttery crepe like a dream. “I hope so. Either way, it’s worth the risk. After all the work we’ve done, and all the shit we’ve been through, don’t you want to win? This is our way out! God, how great is it going to be when Luke sees his nefarious little plan to ruin my life didn’t work out?”

Aly was looking at me, a mixture of annoyance and sympathy in her eyes. “It’s been two years, Em. I thought you were over Luke.”

“I am over him,” I replied, maybe a little too emphatically. “He texted me, by the way.”

Aly’s eyes bulged. “Luke? What did he say?”

“I guess he heard the rumors about my engagement.” The palace had been strategically leaking hints about a ‘big announcement’ that would be coming from the royal family this week. “The text was nasty. Basically said I was a gold digger with a past that would get me into trouble if anyone ever found out about it.”

“He threatened you?” Aly said.

I waved her away. “Whatever. By the time Luke can do any damage, this engagement will be over. I’m not worried.”

“What an ass.” Aly was shaking her head. “Although I do have a bad feeling about this. You’re going to get hurt, Em. Whether it’s the monarchy that hurts you, or the press, or even Kit—”

“Kit can’t hurt me,” I sniffed. “What happened in college…it won’t happen again. I know better than to get involved, and so does he. This is a business arrangement. Mutually beneficial. Nothing more.”

She arched a brow. “Famous last words.”

“Please.” I dropped my arms. “Please, Aly, I need you on my side on this. I didn’t have a choice. We’re out of options. I’m doing the right thing here. Or I’m trying to, anyway.”

Aly let out a sigh. She stood and came to me.

“Of course I’m on your side. I’ll always be.” She wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a hug. I blinked back tears. “I’m just looking out for you, that’s all. You’ve been through a lot. It’s time you found a little happiness. And the royal family—they don’t seem like very happy people. I mean, you’re getting engaged to a dude they call the Ice Prince.”

“Fake engaged. I’m getting fake engaged to the Ice Prince.”

“Exactly.” Pulling back, Aly looked me in the eye. “Don’t forget the fake part, all right?”

I swallowed. “I won’t.”

* * *

Aly’s warning rang in my ears as my chauffeured car pulled through the gates of Primrose Palace. It was a massive complex that was divided into several apartments, each one assigned to members of the royal family by the Queen. Kit kept the largest apartment there, while his younger brothers, Robert and Jack, lived in the cottage next door.

My stuff—two measly suitcases and laptop bag—had been delivered to the palace earlier that day. Which meant I was officially moved in.

The car moved smoothly into the well-kept palace courtyard. It was just getting dark, and the last rays of a weak winter sun streamed through the bare branches of the trees onto the driveway. The Palace itself was a majestic, Georgian style building, its enormous windows glowing warmly in the early evening gloom.

My skin prickled with goose bumps. Did it ever get old, I wondered, being surrounded by so much history and beauty? This was a different world. A dream world.

A world I definitely didn’t belong in. I was the scrappy girl from Georgia who loved her job and hated her ex-husband. I had more hang-ups than I knew what to do with. Britain needed a princess who wasn’t quite so jaded. Someone lighter and more hopeful and whole. That’s the princess I pictured in my mind, anyway.

For now, though, I’d try to play the part as best as I could. Kit and I would announce our engagement in three days’ time, after we were seen out together on our first date tomorrow night.

Kit’s front door opened before I was even out of the car. He stood in the doorway, wearing jeans and a sweater and an expression I couldn’t read. His eyes, so blue they seemed to glow in the growing darkness, followed my every move.

I felt weirdly self-conscious as I made my way to the door. His handsomeness was a thing to behold. But I couldn’t behold it. Well, I could. But it had to stop right there. Because I could do meaningless sex, and I (hoped) I could do the hand-holding thing this fake engagement required. But I couldn’t do both with the same person. I knew my heart. Knew how soft and vulnerable it could get when I mixed sex with emotion.

I knew how fucking awful and embarrassing it was to have that vulnerability used against me.

“Hello,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets.

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “Hey.”

“Everything go all right today?”

“Everything was great,” I said. Adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I stepped up onto the stoop.

“So,” I said.

He looked at me. “So.”

“We’re really doing this.”

“We are.” He opened the door wider and held out an arm. “Welcome home, Emily. I’ll give you the tour.”