“I’m going to die a virgin.”

Olivia pulled a stool up to the stainless steel workspace that filled the center of the small industrial kitchen. Without missing a beat, she dismissed her best friend’s prediction. “You can’t die a virgin. You’ve already had sex.”

“Well it’s been so long, I’m sure I’m re-virginized.”

Olivia snorted. “That’s not a word. Or a condition.”

“It should be. I can be the first documented case.”

“Cassandra Miller, patient zero.” Olivia cocked her head to the side. “You need a man.”

Cassie glanced up from the clipboard where she’d been ticking off the items in the afternoon delivery and blew a stray auburn curl out of her eyes. “No time.”

“Call me crazy but I’m fairly sure your sex life won’t improve until you actually start spending a little more time around humans and less around convection ovens and stand mixers.” She picked up a dough prickler and spun the wheel. “Although this looks promising.”

Cassie reached across the counter and snatched the gadget out of Olivia’s hands. “You know I’ve been pouring every spare minute into this bakery.” She tucked the small pastry wheel into the front pocket of a neon pink apron with SUGAR RUSH printed across the front. “The grand opening is less than two months away and there’s still so much to do.”

“Your business partner must be a real slacker,” Olivia said with a laugh.

“Yeah, total nightmare. Runs off and elopes with a gazillionaire, and next thing you know she decides that she needs to invest in a cupcake shop.”

“You know, when I offered to be your silent partner, I didn’t envision you working eighteen-hour days.”

“First, when have you been silent about anything? And second, you’ve made my dream come true, Livvy. I just want to do you proud. I wouldn’t even be taking this weekend off if it wasn’t my brother’s wedding.”

“And even in Podunksville you’ll be spending more than half your time in an apron.”

“The town is called Madison and it’s not podunk. It’s charming and quaint.”

“Uh, hel-lo, farm girl here,” Olivia said, aiming her thumb at her chest. “I know podunk when I see it. But a weekend away is still a weekend away and while it might not be Vegas, I for one, plan to make the most of it.”

Cassie lifted a brow. “Need I remind you that you got completely sloshed in Vegas and ended up sleeping with the enemy?”

The smile that lit Olivia’s face was the perfect combination of sentiment and smut. Cassie would tease her best friend—covering her ears and shouting “TMI!” when Olivia would wax nostalgic about the wild night she’d spent with her now-husband, at least the parts she could remember—but the truth of the matter was, Cassie couldn’t have been happier for her. There’d been a time when Olivia had given up on romance. Seeing her so happy renewed Cassie’s hope that maybe someday she’d find a love like that as well. Of course, that day was a long way off. Right now, she had a shop to open. There were invoices to check and shelves to stock and vendors to meet with and ads to place. The list went on and on, which meant Cassie had absolutely no time whatsoever for men.

“Letting my hair down in Vegas ended up being the best decision of my life.”

“Don’t you mean letting your top down?” Cassie asked, referring to Olivia’s bold decision to go topless at the hotel’s adult-only pool.

Olivia laughed. “Well if I can untie my bikini top, least you can do is untie those apron strings.”

She had a point, but it was moot. “I promised Matthew and Emily that I would make their wedding cake. It’s my gift to them.”

“And that’s sweet and all but it’s not like Prince Charming is going to stroll into the bakery to sample your sweets and sweep you off your feet.”

It had been so long since anyone had sampled Cassie’s sweets, as her friend so eloquently put it, there might as well have been a permanent CLOSED sign in the window. And with the way things were going, that was going to be the case for the foreseeable future. Not that she was complaining. Three years ago—when she’d quit her job as a CPA at one of Chicago’s top accounting firms to pursue her true passion—Cassie would have never envisioned opening a pastry shop anywhere, much less in the heart of Millennium Park. The entire venture was the opportunity of a lifetime, and she was darn sure going to make the most of it.

“I don’t have time to be swept off my feet.” Cassie opened the recipe book that was sitting on the counter next to her and began flipping through the pages. “Maybe just pressed up against the fridge,” she added with a giggle.

“Well you won’t find a cure for re-virginization in one of those cookbooks,” Olivia said. “What you need is a little adventure. Put some spice in your life.”

Cassie rolled her eyes. “So says the woman who spent last weekend crawling over rocks looking for snotty-nosed vermin.”

“Hey, those little vermin brought Cole into my life.”

Indeed they had. Although there were times when Cassie still found their entire relationship hard to believe. For three months Olivia had made it her life’s work to lobby—or harass, depending on which one of them you asked—Cole into moving his latest venture to an area that wouldn’t threaten a long-eared bat that looked to have a serious sinus issue. Then a night in Vegas led to a marriage of convenience and the rest, as they say, was history.

“We can’t all protest our way into the perfect marriage. Besides, I don’t have time for a love life.” She waved a hand at the boxes stacked in the corner. “I literally have piles of work to do.”

“I’m not talking about having a relationship, just a little fling.” Olivia wiggled her eyebrows. “And this weekend is the perfect opportunity. Weddings are always a good place for a hook-up.”

Cassie’s green eyes grew wide. “You want me to have a weekend fling at my brother’s wedding?”

“Sure, why not? He and Emily will be the center of attention anyways. All you have to do is wear some hideous bridesmaid’s dress and smile.”

“And decorate the wedding cake.”

“You could do that in your sleep. There will be plenty of time to get busy with non-frosting-related ventures. Then again . . .” Olivia reached for a small test batch of frosting and dragged her finger through the fluffy cream. “I can think of a few places I might like to spread this on Cole.”

Cassie snatched the bowl out of her hands. “TMI,” she said. Oversharing aside, Olivia did have a point. While Sugar Rush was definitely Cassie’s top priority, there wasn’t much she could do from Georgia. Maybe she should try to cut loose a bit this weekend? After all, once she was back in Chicago it was going to be crunch time. Cassie could easily see herself working eighteen-hour days indefinitely, something she was more than prepared to do. But that certainly wasn’t going to do much for her current dry spell. Hell, who was she kidding? It was an all-out drought.

“Give it some thought,” Olivia said. “You, a hot groomsman, a secluded hayloft . . . his fingers winding through your windblown hair as you tug his bow tie free and rip open his shirt. His hard . . .”

Cassie held up her hands. “Stop! I get the idea.” She laughed. “You know it’s times like these I suspect you have dozens of dog-eared romance novels hidden under your bed.”

“I do not.” Olivia feigned shock but then added, “They’re all on my Kindle.” She smiled. “That way I can word search the smutty parts.”

“Well right now I don’t even have time to read about somebody else’s sex life, let alone have one of my own.”

“Maybe not, but this weekend you will. For the next three days you don’t have to be Cassandra Miller, overstressed entrepreneur. You can be Cassie Miller, hot single girl without a care in the world.” Olivia shot her friend a knowing grin. “Just be sure Mr. Weekend Fling doesn’t nail you against the refrigerator too hard.” She winked. “You still need to walk down the aisle.”

* * *

Henry ran the clippers over his chin until nothing remained but a fine stubble. His father was a fan of shaving foam and a straight razor, but after years of sporting a beard, he wasn’t about to go all in.

His hair was next. Henry turned on the small faucet and scooped some of the water into his hands. Once he was satisfied he’d washed away most of the gel, he reached for a towel and rubbed his head into a perfectly disheveled mess. He studied himself in the mirror. Not too bad, if he did say so himself. All that was left was a wardrobe adjustment and he’d be ready to roll.

He’d just finished with the last button on his shirt when a female voice called to him over the plane’s intercom.

“Pardon me, sir, but the captain has informed me that we are preparing for our descent. If you would please return to your seat and fasten your seat belt.”

He hit a small button on the wall. “Thank you, Natasha. Will you ask Clayton to join me in the main cabin?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here goes nothing,” he mumbled to himself. After one last look in the mirror Henry returned to the leather captain’s chair he’d occupied for most of the transatlantic flight. As requested, the head of his security detail was now seated next to him. His eyes flared ever so slightly at the sight of Henry’s bathroom makeover, but he said nothing.

Henry buckled his seat belt then reached for his cocktail, swirling the scotch that still filled his glass. The amber liquid was doing nothing to quell the sense of dread that had been building over the course of the flight. Then again, it would have helped if he’d actually drunk some of it. He’d poured himself three fingers’ worth, not from a fear of flying—he’d been doing that on the regular since birth—but from the unease that coiled in the pit of his gut. Fuck, he was acting like a teenager getting ready to ask his father for the keys to his new car, not a grown man with a direct order for his security team.

Still, he knew his decision was going to go over like the proverbial lead balloon. Change of any kind was historically met with a litany of objections. A change of this magnitude might very well cause an international incident. Because what Henry was about to propose was not only unprecedented, it went against all acceptable procedure. Which was why he waited until the plane had safely landed before divulging his plan to the head of his detail. The last thing he wanted was to give the poor man a heart attack at thirty-five thousand feet.

“I want you to call me Hank,” he said just after the wheels touched the ground.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Henry had lost count of how many times he’d asked him to drop the “sir,” especially when they were alone. But Clayton Hill was old school. He’d been protecting members of the royal family since before Henry was born, and according to him there was an order to such matters that should never alter.

All the more reason to fear the worst.

“For the duration of this trip, I’d like you to call me Hank.” Henry watched for any sign of an impending medical emergency. So far so good.

Clayton cleared his throat. “That’s hardly protocol, Your Highness.”

“Your Highness” was even worse than “sir,” and definitely not the direction Henry was headed.

“I understand. But this weekend I am not Prince Henry. I’m simply Hank . . .” He looked around for inspiration until his gaze fell on a toss pillow at the far end of the leather sofa that stretched along one side of the plane. “Hank Green.”

“Sir, I could never—”

Henry took a deep breath. No sense wading in slowly. The only way to do this was to jump right into the deep end. “And I think it best if the rest of the detail remains here in Atlanta.” Their flight plan had been based on the assumption that a private jet of that size would attract less attention at an international airport than at a smaller airstrip. The decision had meshed perfectly with Henry’s plan. “You and I can continue on to Madison alone.”

“Still, I’d feel more comfortable if the advance team—”

“You mean the team that was already here last month?”

Clayton stiffened in his seat. “You know about that, sir?”

Henry laughed. “All appearances to the contrary, there’s not much that gets past me.”

Henry and his grandmother had gone round and round on the topic of his travel. Official visits were one thing. On those occasions the hype and subsequent coverage from the press was to be expected, but when Henry traveled on leisure, he tried to keep the details of his whereabouts on a strictly need-to-know basis. But his grandmother, while being Her Majesty Queen Eleanor, was, after all, still just a grandmother—and an overprotective one at that. In her opinion, there was no such thing as too much security, regardless of the cramp it put in Henry’s lifestyle.

His father, Crown Prince Edgar, on the other hand, was a bit more understanding. When his grandmother was out of earshot, his father would wax nostalgic about his wilder days spent traveling with the Formal One team he’d sponsored in his younger years. Henry suspected his father would have become a driver if it hadn’t been for family obligations. But since racing around a track at over two hundred miles per hour was frowned upon when you were next in line for the throne, he’d had to settle for team ownership, although even that had to be relinquished as his royal duties increased. Now he indulged his love of motor sports by hosting one of Formula One’s most prestigious races. Winding through the city and along the waterfront, the track his father had helped design was considered one of the toughest on the circuit. Hosting the annual event was the highlight of Edgar’s year, although judging by the look in his eyes when he visited the pits, waving the green flag was a poor substitute for gripping the wheel.

Bottom line, a royal bloodline came with many perks but it also came with a price, one Henry would pay when the time came for him to take his place on the throne. Which frankly, was all the more reason to make the most of the time he had when his responsibilities were less. For the most part, his father backed him on that. Edgar understood the need to blow off steam while you could. So as long as Henry showed up when expected and played the part he was born to play, then his father was happy to run interference. But like any other man wanting to avoid the wrath of a worried woman, he tended to side with the queen when it came to matters of security, especially when traveling abroad. Problem was, not only was an advance team a dead giveaway, more often than not it only made things worse. And although he would never admit it to the queen, Clayton agreed with Henry on this one. Which was why he went to great lengths to conduct his recon under the radar, even going so far as to keep it from Henry if he thought it meant peace in the palace.

“Advance reconnaissance is standard protocol when a member of the royal family is traveling abroad. But I can assure you, we managed to do so without alerting the press.”

There was little doubt about that. Not only because Clayton was arguably one of the best in the world when it came to protection detail, but because Henry hadn’t seen a single mention of his trip to the United States in any of the rags that devoted half their pages to the minute details of his life.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s keep it that way.” Leaning back in his seat, Henry crossed one leg over the other, ankle to knee. That wasn’t so bad, he thought. In fact, Clayton had actually taken the news much better than he’d expected.

“Keeping your movements out of the press is always a priority, sir, as is maintaining a safe perimeter.” A muscle in Clayton’s jaw ticked, and all at once Henry knew the relief he’d felt was premature. “Both of which require the resources of my full team.”

Henry stared out the window of the plane, watching the lush Georgia landscape pass by as they made their way to the private hangar. While it was true that other trips had resulted in run-ins with aggressive paparazzi or a few over-eager fans operating under the mistaken impression that they were contestants on some royal version of The Bachelor, that wouldn’t be the case this weekend. Not if they followed the plan he had in mind.

“Clayton, one of my best mates from uni is getting married this weekend. I don’t want to draw attention away from the happy couple. As it is, I’m sure the bride’s family feels as though their lovely town is being invaded.”

The plane rolled to a stop, and both men unbuckled their seat belts.

“Thanks to your efforts the press is unaware of this trip,” Henry said as they stood. “And aside from the bride and groom, none of the other guests will even know who I am.”

“You’re not exactly an unknown, sir. Your face is on the cover of half the magazines in Europe.”

“Maybe so, but as Prince Henry. Dressed like this”—he glanced down at his faded jeans and button down shirt—“I’m just your average Hank.” He cracked a lopsided grin as he pulled a rolled-up University of Georgia cap out of the back pocket of his jeans and tugged it low over his head.

“What about Her Majesty?”

And there it was, the fear that outweighed all the others. While to Henry his grandmother was the woman who kept a stash of butterscotch candies for him in her desk drawer—never mind that for several years now he’d have preferred the “scotch” of a different variety she kept in the cabinet behind her—to the rest of the world she was Queen Eleanor, the woman who had ruled their kingdom with a sharp eye and a tight grip for nearly fifty years. She was loved by her subjects, but those who sat across from her knew better than to be fooled by the sweet granny exterior. She could be hell on wheels when she wanted to, a fact Clayton knew all too well. But Henry had anticipated the inevitable and was ready with his reply.

“What the queen doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Or any of us,” he added with a laugh. “I mean, there’s always the possibility of a beheading, but that would be extreme even for her.”

The attempt at levity was lost on Clayton. “I could never lie to her Majesty,” he said with a straight face.

Henry matched his serious tone. “Nor would I ask you to. But as long as everything goes smoothly, there’s no reason for my grandmother to be told that the trip was anything but typical.”

“And if there are any glitches?”

“Then I will take full responsibility.” Clayton might have been the queen’s favorite when it came to matters of security, but Henry was her favorite when it came to most everything else. As long as he didn’t create an incident worthy of being splashed across the tabloids, he’d eventually have Grandmum grinning in spite of herself. Of course she’d give it to him with both barrels first, then blame him for adding a few more gray hairs to her royal coif, but eventually she’d come around.

Prince Edgar would be on his side as well. Over the years his father had done his best to let Henry have as many “normal” experiences as possible. He’d even gone so far as to convince the queen to break tradition by allowing Henry to attend a university outside of their borders. Instead he’d sent his son to England, a country where they were far too busy tracking the every move of their own royalty to pay him too much notice. The result was a university experience most like any other bloke as long as you didn’t count the undercover agents—but even they went to great lengths to go unnoticed. Surely a man who’d wanted his son to experience university without a cumbersome crown wouldn’t begrudge him a weekend without one as well?

Clayton ran a quick hand over his gray crew cut. It was a gesture Henry had come to know well over the years, one that meant he was recalculating. Mission accomplished.

“Don’t worry so much.” Henry clapped a hand on Clayton’s shoulder. “Everything will be fine. I just want a normal American experience, and to do that I need to keep as low a profile as possible.”

The stairs of the plane unfolded to reveal a black stretch limo with tinted windows waiting alongside a caravan of black SUVs. “Fuck,” Henry mumbled. All that was missing was the royal crest and a few billowing flags.

“My apologies, sir,” Clayton said dryly. “I wasn’t aware we were going for low profile this weekend.” He gave the cuffs of his shirt a sharp tug beneath the sleeves of his dark suit.

Henry nodded. “No, my bad. I should have said something sooner.” He trotted down the stairs of the plane to greet the members of his detail. One by one he shook their hands with Clayton one step behind him the entire time.

“I’ll wait for you in the car,” he told him once they’d reached the end of the line. With that, Henry made his way across the tarmac, bypassing the stretch limo and climbing into one of the SUVs instead. He watched as Clayton updated his team on the change of plans, noting the frown that knit his brow when he saw Henry waiting in the front seat.

When the briefing was complete, Clayton joined him. He didn’t say a word about the seating arrangements as he climbed into the car and started the engine. In fact, he didn’t say a word about anything. Not that he usually had much to say when he was behind the wheel, or really ever for that matter. But for some reason the deafening quiet felt uncomfortable. Maybe it was being in the front seat, or maybe it was knowing that Clayton was grinding his molars as he drove. For whatever the reason, the silence that stretched out between them made the trip seem twice as long.

Forty-five minutes later they reached the small town where Matthew Miller would be the next of Henry’s friends to take a bride. While in theory Henry was quite chuffed for him, their union was just one more reminder of the ticking clock. As the eventual heir to his country’s throne, marriage was a foregone conclusion. But despite the not-so-subtle reminders from his grandmother about wanting great-grandchildren before she was too old and senile to know who they were, a royal wedding was nowhere on the horizon. His father was young and in excellent health, which meant Henry had plenty of time to enjoy the spoils of youth before settling down under the weight of the crown. And while it was inevitable that day would eventually come, it was still a long way off and, for now at least, Henry had no desire to do anything but enjoy life.

He waited until Clayton had turned onto the main street, then told him to stop the car.

Clayton pulled over and put the SUV in park. “Is everything all right?” Concern was etched in the hard lines of his face. “Should I notify medical?” The small microphone he wore at his wrist was in front of his mouth before Henry even had a chance to reply.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just thought you could drop me off here. That way I can do a bit of sightseeing while you trade this in for something a little . . . less.”

“Sir, I—”

Henry tilted his head to the side.

“Hank.”

Henry smiled, but the brief sense of triumph faded as Clayton continued.

“I’m not comfortable with you wandering the streets without protection. Maybe if you’d allowed the entire team to accompany us, if I could have done a proper sweep of the area, set up a perimeter . . .”

“Clayton, relax. We’re in the middle of nowhere in a town that according to the sign we just passed has a population of less than three thousand.” He looked out the window at the cobblestone street that led two blocks to the center of town. “I’ll just take a look around and meet you later.”

“But sir.” Clayton paused at the sight of Henry’s raised brow. “I mean Hank, you don’t even know the location of the house I rented.”

“That’s the other thing. I don’t want to be staying at some fortified mansion on the outskirts of town.”

Clayton’s grip on the wheel tightened. “The location we secured was chosen for—”

“For a prince,” Henry said, finishing his thought. “But I’m simply another member of the wedding party, remember? It’s bad enough I missed the bachelor party in Vegas, I’m not missing out on everything here as well. We’re staying at a local bed and breakfast.”

The last line was said with resolute conviction, his tone making it clear that the discussion was over. Standard protocol was one thing, but Henry was still the prince after all, and in the end his commands were to be followed. It wasn’t a card he played often, but if push came to shove, he would.

“A bed and breakfast, sir?” Clayton looked as though he’d swallowed something foul.

“Quite a charming place from the looks of the web site.” Hank opened the door. “Both rooms are under your name.” He smirked. “Hope you don’t mind I used your credit card?”

“Sir—”

Hank flashed the grin he knew never failed to get him out of trouble. Or into panties, for that matter. “Meet you there in an hour.” He shut the door of the SUV, effectively ending the conversation, then turned to face the small town that would offer him anonymity for the next three days. With his hands on his hips, he drew a deep breath. For the next three days, he wouldn’t be His Royal Highness Prince Henry William Arthur George, third in line for the throne of a European nation best known as the playground of the rich and famous. He was simply Hank Green, just another wedding guest without a care in the world.