Love at first sight. A myth, right? A silly notion for silly people. That's what I used to think, anyway. Right up until the day Eva James stepped out in front of my motorcade.

I remember it so clearly – the sudden screech of brakes, the sound of my phone clattering to the floor, my driver unleashing a blistering stream of curses from the front seat.

The first thought I had when I looked up was that we'd hit a large, colorful bird. She was still for a few seconds, splayed out on the asphalt of Cambridge Street in front of us in her bright blue coat. I leapt out of the car and rushed, along with the rest of my rather large security detail, towards her.

As we got closer it became apparent that the girl was laughing. "I'm OK," she said, in an immediately apparent American accent, as she sat up and brushed grit out of her dark, copper-tinged curls and shook her head. "I knew I was going to do this one day. Four months and I still can't remember what side of the road you drive on here. You didn't even hit me, I just – I thought you were going to and I tried to jump out of the way."

And then she looked up. I stood there, speechless, watching the expressions on her face change like clouds flitting across the sky on a windy day. Embarrassment, surprise, confusion and then, when her eyes finally landed on me, recognition.

"Oh my God –" she spluttered, taking my hand and letting me help her up. "What the – what's going on?"

She was beautiful. Not the kind of beautiful that requires thousands of Euros a month to maintain, either – which is the kind I'm used to. No, this girl was not that kind of gorgeous. She didn't even seem to be wearing make-up. Her skin was the color of dark caramel and she hadn't made any effort to hide the smattering of freckles sprinkled across her nose. I've always had a weakness for freckles.

"I'm Killian," I said. "And you are?"

The poor girl was completely discombobulated, looking around at my heavily-armed security team like she wasn't yet convinced it wasn't some elaborate prank.

"I'm Eva James," she responded, shaking my hand. Firm handshake, that was good. "And I – I know who you are."

"Of course you do," I told her as she brushed off her clothes. "Everyone who doesn't live under a rock in Siberia knows who I am. You're actually lucky, you know. If one has a habit of wandering into traffic there's no better driver to do it in front of than Dan here, he's got excellent reflexes."

I didn't know if Eva with the bright blue coat and the adorable freckles was in shock or not, but she seemed unable to stop grinning. Dan made a move to usher us onto the sidewalk as the rest of my security team fretted and that's when I spotted her bag a few feet away, contents strewn across the road. Tissues, mobile phone, lip gloss, hand sanitizer, countless bits and pieces – the secret paraphernalia of women. When I started to collect the spilled items Eva laughed out loud. Such a lovely sound.

"What's so funny?" I asked, handing the bag back to her.

She cocked a sardonic eyebrow at me. "Oh, nothing. This happens every day. Almost getting run over by the Prince of Rhenland and then having him pick up all my stuff for me."

There was a moment's hesitation after she said that, when she realized that she'd just made a sarcastic crack at a Prince. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean to, um, I'm sorry Your High– your, uh, Sir?"

"Killian," I repeated my name, chuckling. "It's just Killian. And you don't have to be sorry, this isn't a state banquet, I think we can dispense with the formalities."

We stood there for a little while, grinning at each other like a couple of idiots, surrounded by my increasingly nervous security team. It's not like me to be thrown for a loop, not at all. But Eva was something else. I could describe everything about how she looked that afternoon, I could even tell you how her perfume smelled, how it was so light I only noticed it when I was helping her to her feet. But I run into beautiful, charming, sweet-smelling women all the time and none of them seize my attention the way she did. It was more than what she looked like, more than her perfume or the way she smiled at me. Who can really say what specifically it is when you meet another person and something inside you just reacts with what almost feels like recognition? Oh, yes, here she is. Of course.

"Sir," Dan finally addressed me directly, "we need to get off the street. The police can get the young lady's information but we have to get you back in the car. Now."

I didn't want to get back in the car. I didn't want to go to whatever meeting I'd forgotten I was on my way to. I wanted to stay right where I was, talking to Eva. I wanted to stay there for hours, listening to her laugh and watching her lips curl into that cheeky smile I was already captivated by. I couldn't do any of those things, but I wanted to.

"Wait!" I protested as Dan tried to lead me back to the car. I turned to Eva. "You have to give me your number."

"Why?"

I was already pulling my phone out of my pocket when she said that. I looked up, genuinely not sure I'd heard her correctly. "What?"

"Why?" she repeated, looking right at me. Bold. That's what she was – bold. Her eyes were the color of espresso and fringed with long, thick lashes. And they were focused right on me. To say I'm not used to being challenged, especially by pretty girls, would be an understatement.

"Because I want to see you again," I told her, high on the strange fizz in the air between us.

"And I suppose you always get what you want?" she teased. "You just order strange women to give you their phone numbers and they always do?"

"No," I began, before realizing that she was actually completely correct and laughing in spite of myself. "Actually, yes, you're right. They always do."

Eva's expression was playful. "Do they?"

"Pretty much. And I'll have you know it's a serious breach of protocol to refuse the Prince a phone number, so, you know..."

"Well I wouldn't want to create an international incident, would I?" she laughed, taking my phone and entering her number.

There were a number of questions forming in my head at that point. Was she busy that night? Was she in the Capital for long? Did she have a boyfriend? It only occurred to me later, back in the car, that those questions were probably the ones that come to the minds of most men when they meet a woman. But they were all brand new to me. It had never really mattered if women had plans – or boyfriends – because they knew as well as I did that plans could be cancelled and boyfriends conveniently forgotten about. So why did it matter in Eva's case? I didn't know. All I knew was that I needed to see her again.

"Be careful, Sir."

I looked up at Dan as we drove off, distracted by my own thoughts. "What?"

"Be careful, you only just got yourself out of the Cassandra predicament."

Ah, Cassandra. Dan was talking about the soap opera actress Cassandra Wilkins. I'd met her at a charity polo match that summer. After grainy, long-lens photos of the two of us making out had appeared on the front page of every tabloid in Rhenland, she'd sold her rather embellished story to the highest bidder and caused a big ruckus for my PR team and various members of my family, sensitive as they were to any whiff of scandal.

"All I did was get a number," I replied, somewhat defensively.

Dan caught my eye in the rearview mirror and gave me a deferential-yet-still-faintly-disapproving nod. A few minutes later we were at Bloomsford, where I was scheduled to give a speech at a group home for troubled youth. I stayed for a little while afterwards, taking selfies with the kids and letting the media get their photos, but I was pre-occupied with thoughts of Eva James. As soon as I was back in the car I took out my phone and composed a message. And then re-composed it. And re-composed it again. Damnit. What the hell? I never think about things like that, because girls always message me back. So why was I so concerned about getting the message to Eva just right? In the end I just fell back on my sense of humor and sent her the following:

Twenty minutes later I was at the Pritchard Palace apartment – my portion of the large estate in the center of the Capital owned by my family – and Eva James hadn't responded. Dan must have seen the look on my face because he clapped his hand on my back when I got out of the car, chuckling.

"No message back? Now you know how we all feel, mate."

Once I was inside – and alone, finally – I made a decent attempt at pretending I had things to do that weren't waiting for Eva to message me back. Played some FIFA, ate some leftover roast beef from last Sunday's lunch with Charlotte (Sunday lunches with my sister are a tradition – a necessary one as we both get older, busier and inevitably see less of each other) and paced the long, echoing halls of my home.

Dan was right – I didn't know how it was for regular men. But something told me I was about to find out.