Hank closed the door to the shop behind him and ran a hand back through his hair. Had he really almost pressed that girl up against a refrigerator and kissed her? Yes, he had. And who was he kidding, he would have fucked her up against that fridge if she’d have let him. Way to live up to the stereotype. But Christ, she was sweet and kind and smelled like vanilla—granted, maybe that was the shop—but when her fingers brushed against his the sensation shot straight to his cock. And when she offered him a taste and her delicate pink tongue darted out to wet her lips he’d nearly come in his pants.

He turned around, unable to resist stealing once last glance through the shop’s glass storefront. His beautiful pastry chef was back to work, but he could still see her through the kitchen door’s portal-like window. As he watched her, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was about this girl that had him so instantly enamored. In her apron and trainers she was far from his usual type. Then again, he usually met women in one of two scenarios: public events designed to see and be seen by royalty, or nightclubs designed to see and be seen by anyone willing to pop for bottle service. Both were decidedly stiletto events. For all he knew, this was how all women dressed when they weren’t on the hunt. Still, it wasn’t just the way her faded jeans hugged her generous curves that had caught his attention. It was more than that, although for the life of him he couldn’t put his finger on what.

A wisp of an auburn curl slipped in front of her green eyes. He watched as she reached up to brush it back with her wrist, leaving a smudge of flour just above her delicate brow, and all at once he pictured those curls fanned out across a pillow, those wrists held together above her head, and those eyes clouded with the haze of an orgasm. The thought had an audible groan vibrating in the back of his throat. He knew he should keep walking, but he couldn’t take his eyes off her. And despite the small, yet rational part of his brain that told him he was on the verge of being a right proper creeper, he stood his ground, taking in the sight of her as if his very life depended on committing every detail to memory.

She turned toward the door and he jerked back, drawing a sharp breath as he flattened himself against the brick wall of the shop. For a moment he feared he’d been seen, but when he risked a peek around the window frame he was relieved to find her still working and, more important, blissfully unaware of her audience of one. She was facing away from him this time, and although being discovered would make him look like the town pervert, he lingered for a moment more, letting himself enjoy the sight of her very fine, denim-clad ass. His vantage point didn’t afford a full view, not that it mattered. What he couldn’t see his memory was more than happy to fill in, although at the moment his mind was busy conjuring images of her wearing nothing but that red apron—her flawless pale skin a sharp contrast to the bright fabric—and a pair of matching stilettos that would make her the perfect height for bending over the counter . . .

Fuck me, he thought. His mind was staging a full-on bakery porn. While lurking outside a storefront. He chuckled to himself as he stepped into the street. Not exactly low profile. Adjusting the front of his button fly jeans, Hank squinted into the setting sun. It had to be close to six, which meant Clayton was probably on the verge of launching an international search party. The responsible thing would be to head on up to the B&B and put the poor man out of his misery, but at the moment his brain was taking a number behind his cock.

He was just about to make a U-turn back to the bakery when a familiar voice called his name.

“Henry?” Matthew said. “It is you. Christ, I barely recognized you without the beard.” He clapped a hand on Hank’s shoulder and pulled him into a man hug. “Was worried you’d missed your flight, but then I remembered you don’t fly commercial like the rest of us peasants.”

“Landed a while ago actually. Just been getting to know this charming town a bit better.” His gaze instinctively shifted over Matthew’s shoulder to the bakery’s red-and-white awning. Sue’s Sweets & Treats was printed across it in intricate scroll. Sue . . . his beautiful stranger didn’t seem like a Sue to him, not that he knew exactly what a Sue looked like or that it mattered. The important thing was he now had a name to go with the angelic face. Not to mention the naughty fantasies.

Matthew glanced at his watch. “Well, you better get a move on.”

Hank frowned. “Am I late?”

It should have been a rhetorical question. Despite having a team of what he sarcastically referred to as his caretakers, Hank was late to almost every event, personal or public. In most cases it was of little consequence. After all, they couldn’t very well launch a new ship until he smashed the champagne across the bow, now could they? But in this instance he was flying solo. Last thing he wanted was to crash and burn on takeoff.

“Dinner? The pub? All the dicks, none of the chicks?” Matthew rattled off prompts. “Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Right, right, the stag night that’s not really a stag night.”

“It was Em’s idea, for the guys who couldn’t make it to Vegas. Mostly older family members—our dads, her uncles, a few cousins and family friends.”

“And yours truly.” Hank shook his head. “Bloody shame that was.”

“Consider yourself lucky. One of the guys ended up hitched that weekend.”

“No shit? I thought that only happened in the movies.”

“Long story. But you’ll meet him this weekend so you can ask him yourself. Makes for good entertainment. He and his bride tell very different versions of the same story. After a few drinks you can really wind them up.”

“I look forward to it. Not as much as I was looking forward to those lap dances though. Still gutted over that one.”

“Well you’ll have to spend your singles at the juke box because sadly there aren’t any lap dances in your future tonight.”

“Singles?” Hank tsked. “Didn’t I teach you anything in Monte Carlo?”

“We can’t all pull out a roll of hundreds.”

A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Hank’s mouth. “Ah, but if you do, you get a far better grind.”

Matthew laughed. “No happy endings tonight I’m afraid. Just dinner and drinks with the guys, then as much pool as we can play before we pass out.”

“Sounds like far too many balls for this bloke.”

Matthew’s smile faded as he looked left, then right. “Shouldn’t there be some really scary looking Secret Service types lurking around?”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Secret Service is a yank term.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Matthew corrected himself. “Shouldn’t there be someone from Her Majesty’s Royal Babysitting Club lurking around?”

“You’re an arse,” Hank groused, but truth be told he’d miss this. His flatmates from uni were the only people who ever gave him shit about anything, let alone busted his balls. It was a nice change of pace from the constant ass-kissing he was subjected to back home. “Contrary to what you may think, I am quite capable of taking a stroll through town without causing an international incident.” Just don’t ask me to find my way with nothing but a crumpled map, he thought. Almost instantly images of his beautiful stranger flooded his mind.

“So long as they don’t send out a royal search party. The dogs and horses will trash the gardens.”

Hank snorted. “More like tanks and Humvees.”

“Right, as if you’re that important. Isn’t there a cousin or someone who could take your place?’

Hank’s eyes narrowed. “Fair point. There is one in nappies. But then poor Clayton would be sent to the tower, and as much as the man annoys me, I’d hate to see his head on the block on my account. Speaking of, I better check in before we really do have the military invading this sweet little town.” A few hours MIA was about as far as Hank wanted to push poor Clayton.

“Fuck, yeah, Emily will kill me if the tulips are trampled. And my dad will kill me if he doesn’t get to make his toast before dinner—something about a bottle of scotch he’s been saving since I was born—so put a move on.”

“I’ll grab my mobile and be ready to go.”

Matthew looked at Hank as though he had two heads. “Don’t you want to change?”

“Casual night at the pub, yeah?”

“Yeah, I just assumed you’d be wearing some designer shit.” He smirked. “Or the bat suit,” he added, no doubt referring to the full dress regalia Hank wore to formal events. Then his eyes narrowed as he took a closer look at his friend. “Since when are you a Bulldogs fan?”

Hank adjusted his cap. “Trying to blend in, mate. So can we cool it on the royal ballbusting?”

Matthew tried his best to look offended. “Would I do that?”

“Yes, you would. Thoroughly and repeatedly. But aside from you, none of these chaps have a clue about my alter ego and I’d like to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”

“Right.” Matthew chuckled.

Hank gazed at him nonplussed.

“You’re serious?”

Hank nodded. “If it’s all the same, I’d like to just be one of the guys this weekend.”

“So that explains the shave and the longer hair,” he said, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “But you really don’t think anyone will recognize you? I mean, I can’t even run to the store for milk without seeing your face in the checkout line.”

“My supermarket notoriety notwithstanding, you said yourself you barely recognized me. And besides, no one will be expecting European royalty at your wedding. No offense.”

“None taken. But introducing yourself as Prince Henry will sort of be a dead giveaway.”

“Which is why this weekend I’m simply Hank Green, in from the East Coast.”

Matthew chuckled. “That accent is nowhere close to New England.”

Hank shrugged. “Tell them I bummed around Europe after uni.”

“At least that part’s true.” Matthew eyed him as though he still needed convincing. “So you really don’t plan to flash the royal crest in a pathetic attempt to get free drinks and more pussy than one man could ever need?”

“First of all, there’s no such thing as too much pussy. Second, I reference the ballbusting comment from two minutes ago. And third . . .” He let out a breath and fixed his mate with a sincere gaze. “I’m completely and utterly serious.”

“Fine,” Matthew said after several excruciating beats. “But if you think this gets you out of buying a round of drinks, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, mate. I have a whole stack of your ridiculous same-shaped currency ready to go.”

* * *

The location Matthew’s family had chosen to host his “stag night that wasn’t really a stag night” was an Irish pub on Main Street. The name didn’t inspire much hope, but despite sounding more like a place for ribs than pints, Bub’s Irish Pub was actually quite authentic. The wood-paneled walls were as dark as the beer, and the bartender who greeted them upon arrival had a brogue thick enough to rival those on the Emerald Isle’s western coast. The generous pours of Jameson weren’t too bad either, but it was the view that topped Hank’s list. Their group had a private room above the bar that overlooked the center of town, and if he positioned his chair just right, Hank had a clear shot of the small bakery at the end of the street. He was ashamed to say, his chair had been at that angle most of the night.

Christ, he was a right tosser for acting this way. This was a boys’ night: drinking and debauchery and then another round of drinking. And while the odds of a literal roll in the hay with an overserved, overly sentimental bridesmaid were definitely in his favor, that wasn’t what this trip was about. Chasing tail, as the Americans so eloquently put it, was something he could do any day at home, or pretty much anywhere else for that matter. The next few days were about reconnecting with an old friend. It had been years since he’d seen Matthew. Life after uni had taken them in different directions: Matthew to Harvard to study international business and Henry back home to study the family business. They’d kept in touch, but despite their best intentions, something—usually Henry’s obligations—kept them from following through on their plans to get together. Which was why this weekend was so important. This was a time for Hank to be one of Matthew’s mates, just another bloke in town for the festivities, not a playboy prince on the prowl.

But no matter how hard he focused on the evening at hand, he couldn’t get his beautiful stranger out of his mind. He tried his best to engage in the various conversations, chatting with Emily’s Uncle Bob about the future of peanut oil or Matthew’s father about the merits of scotch over bourbon. He even attempted to feign interest in sports when a group of Emily’s cousins began talking about their fantasy baseball teams, but when the largest one hijacked the conversation to the topic of the NFL draft, he was done. After years in the public eye, Hank could bullshit his way through any number of mind-numbing conversations, but even he couldn’t pretend to give a flying fuck about American football.

Not that it really mattered. All he could think about was her.

For a moment he indulged his fantasy, letting his mind wander to what might have been had Matthew not surfaced when he did. No doubt he would have gone back into the bakery, but the question was, would his sweet and sexy stranger have welcomed the second interruption? She’d seemed just as keen as he was to explore a few possibilities, or at the very least to let him explore her panties. But the smoke billowing in from the kitchen had looked bad and smelled even worse. Fuck, what had he been thinking? He should have offered to stay and help her clean up the mess. Not that he had much experience with such matters, but a few of his married mates had told him that nothing turned their wives on more than a man willing to roll up his sleeves. According to them, hoovering the rug was a lock for having her hoover their cock. Hank couldn’t imagine having to work so hard for a blow job, but then again, he’d been born with a bit of an advantage.

Blue balls aside, it was probably just as well. If he’d gone back into the shop, he would have surely been late to the pub and just as surely given Clayton a coronary. His head of security had been waiting in the lobby of the bed and breakfast when he arrived. He’d looked a bit conspicuous, sitting in an upright chair with his eyes trained on the entrance, but to his credit he’d at least made an attempt to blend in, trading his usual dark suit for a pair of charcoal dress pants and a button-down shirt. The tiny microphone and earpiece were still in place—Hank suspected he slept with them—although barely visibly unless you knew what you were looking for, but other than that he could have been just another tourist enjoying a cup of coffee.

When Hank came through the door Clayton had fixed him with a look not unlike those he’d received when he was a teenager who snuck out of boarding school for a night of debauchery with his mates. It was a look of relief mixed with anger that made Hank feel like he was suddenly fourteen again, though mercifully without the acne. Although to be fair, the man charged with ensuring the safety of the royal family was relatively calm all things considered, leaving Hank to assume he’d swept the town during his absence and decided there wasn’t anyone of great concern, at least no one from the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. That, or he had used the time to strategically place undercover agents in various parts of town. He’d done that after the first boarding school incident, placing a few undercover security guards in pubs throughout the small city.

Another round of drinks was brought to the table and Hank took a moment to scrutinize the waitress for any sign of being in Her Majesty’s royal service. If she was, he had certainly never seen her before. Then again, Clayton didn’t really staff Hank’s detail with beautiful women, probably because he was too afraid of sexual harassment claims which, if his personal bodyguards looked like the pretty barmaid serving his beer, was a distinct possibility.

She leaned over to place the pint on the table in front of him, letting her generous breasts brush his arm as she did. Hank smiled, partly at the obvious attempt to get his attention and partly at the realization that perhaps it wasn’t just the crown that attracted women ready to write their number on a cocktail napkin or even their knickers. Not that it mattered. On most any other night he would have made plans to meet her at the end of her shift, most likely for a quickie in the alley given the time difference. But let’s face it, no amount of jet lag could keep a man from enjoying a good blow job in the back seat of a car. Hell, even the front seat would do. He’d known more than a few birds who could straddle a gear shift while sucking cock like a midnight ninja. But for some reason he wasn’t interested, and despite the sizable cleavage swaying in front of him—and the indisputable fact that those enormous tits would look absolutely smashing with his cock sliding between them—at the moment all Hank could think about was a redhead in an apron not a hundred yards away.

Hank stretched back in his seat, taking in the sight of the darkened street below for what felt like the hundredth time. It wasn’t much of a view, just the faint glow the light from the front window of the shop cast across the sidewalk. But it was enough to tell him his stranger was still hard at work. It was ridiculous really. They’d shared nothing but a brief encounter—he didn’t know anything about her aside from her occupation and first name—but those few moments had left him wanting more, and as long as that light was on, it was as if their connection was still in place.

If only he could see her again.

Slipping his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans, Hank launched the web browser. He held the phone discreetly under the table and typed “Sue’s Sweets and Treats Georgia” into the search bar. Hundreds of images filled the screen, but they were all photos of various pastries and cakes. Not a single shot of his beautiful stranger anywhere, despite how far he scrolled. No matter. If he closed his eyes, he could picture her perfectly—soft auburn curls that fell free from their messy knot, full lips that were quick to curve into a welcoming smile, and wide green eyes, that while looking as innocent as the day was long, had a sparkle that hinted at a vixen hidden beneath all that sweet charm. And it wasn’t just her physical attributes that were etched into his mind, but her expressions and how she moved. Everything about her had enchanted him, from the way she bit her lower lip as she studied the map, to the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, to the way she gasped ever so softly when his fingers brushed against hers.

“Nodding off on us?” Matthew asked from across the table.

Hank opened his eyes just in time to see a peanut shell splash into his pint of Guinness.

“Nice shot,” he said, plucking the shell out of his ale. “And you’re one to talk. Don’t think I haven’t noticed all the texts you’ve been sending Emily when you thought no one was watching.”

Matthew’s ears reddened. It had been his tell for as long as Hank had known him. In this case it revealed his friend was a pussy-whipped nob. But as much as it pained him to admit it, the fact that Matthew wanted to text his fiancée while out with the boys was rather sweet. Like the syrupy Christmas treats that gave you a belly ache when you were a kid, but still.

The reaction wasn’t lost on the soon-to-be in-laws either. Two of Emily’s cousins picked up on it right away, and thanks to their ribbing, more than just Matthew’s ears turned red.

“So what are the ladies doing tonight?” Hank asked in an attempt to let his friend off the hook. “It better be a quilting bee or something equally droll because so help me God, if you tell me they’re all gathering for a Georgia version of Magic Mike . . .”

The larger cousin laughed so hard, Hank was fairly sure he saw a bit of beer leak from the man’s nostrils. “Are you shitting me?” he asked, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his denim jacket. “We don’t have nothing like that down here. Closer to Atlanta maybe.”

“Jackson has a titty bar,” the younger cousin said just as Hank lifted his beer to his lips. He couldn’t help but smile over the rim of the glass. It was always the ones you least suspected.

“They’re open till three.” The young man shifted in his seat then added a quiet, “Or so I heard.” He lifted his baseball cap off his head and ran a hand through his hair as he waited for a response. Normally Hank would have been the first one to suggest just such an outing. But the look on Matthew’s face was far beyond unease. The man was in a full-blown panic.

“Tempting,” Hank said, “but I think our boy here used his one and only hall pass in Vegas.”

“Hell yeah, he’d be limping down the aisle,” the larger cousin agreed. This one wasn’t wearing a hat but his jacket had the same logo as his cousin’s cap. It was the letter A formed partially with a tomahawk. Hank made a mental note to do a quick Google search before the next event. At least then he’d have a way to redirect the conversation should someone started asking too many questions about his life.

A wide grin spread across the younger cousin’s red face. “Can’t have that now, can we?” he said, no doubt thrilled to have the spotlight back on the groom as opposed to shining a light on what appeared to be his extensive knowledge of strip clubs within a ninety-kilometer radius. “Gonna need his legs for carrying Em across the threshold.”

Matthew breathed an audible sigh of relief just as his future father-in-law rose from his chair at the far end of the table.

“I’d like to propose a toast to the newest member of the Ford clan.” He picked up a pint that was only half full. “To Matthew, may you make a better husband than pool shark.” The man’s face spilt into a wide grin as he raised the glass into the air.

“That sounds like a challenge if I ever heard one,” Emily’s brother said over the low rumble of laughter.

“Looks like my future in-laws want to take my last two dollars.” Matthew dug into the front pocket of his jeans and pulled out a rumpled bill and few coins. “Make that my last buck seventy-five.”

Hank shook his head. “Seems you’ve forgotten everything I taught you.”

“Care to help me win back my cash?”

“Don’t you mean your dignity?”

Matthew chuckled. “That too.”

“I’m afraid you’re on your own. Jet lag seems to have caught up with me. I’m bloody knackered.” He drained the rest of his beer. “What’s the plan for tomorrow then?”

“For me? Not a damn thing until the rehearsal. Thought we could get some lunch and maybe nine holes.”

Hank groaned. If there was anything he hated more than American football it was golf. Chasing a little ball around for hours was about as thrilling as watching paint dry. He much preferred to whack the fuck out of a ball while riding full steam ahead on a horse. But seeing as how this was Matthew’s weekend, and considering it was unlikely there was a polo club anywhere close by . . .

“Sounds great,” he said. “Text me the details in the morning.” Hank thanked their host and said his goodbyes, and while it was true that the six-hour time difference was beginning to take its toll, at the moment jet lag wasn’t his main concern. The more pressing ailment was the unfamiliar anxiousness that bubbled up from his gut. Because as Hank made his way down the back staircase of the pub, the only thought weighing on his mind was whether or not the light would still be on in that bakery.