You could call it denial if you wanted to, but I decided the best way to deal with my situation was to work out until my body ached and my brain shut down. Focus on the match ahead of me tomorrow.

The Wimbledon finals.

I should have been thrilled—or bricking it. I’d never thought I would come this close to glory, but here I was, one match away from the championship.

And all I could think about was Emmy.

My brain kept yapping at me. It was like one of Great-Aunt Elizabeth’s annoying corgi dogs, nipping at my heels, unable to let me be. I just wanted to forget what had happened: the look on Emmy’s face, and how much it hurt to walk away from her.

I wanted to forget how totally shitty I felt when I read her messages about her ex.

And I really wanted to forget that I was too much of a coward to respond.

Instead, I threw myself into exercise, training way too hard considering I should have been conserving my energy for tomorrow. But to hell with that. I was lifting until my arms burned, squatting until I couldn’t feel my legs, doing crunches until I was sore. It wasn’t the best course of action, but it was either that or drinking, and I had a feeling that if I started drinking, I was going to have a hard time stopping. And even that reminded me of Emmy. Because before her, I probably wouldn’t have even hesitated to get pissed. I would have barreled full force ahead, not even considering the consequences—wound up bladdered in bed with a gorgeous woman—or three. Now I couldn’t even find it in my heart to call up my old stand-bys and drink the pain away. Because of her.

“Fuck,” I muttered, letting my weights clang onto the ground.

“That’s enough.” Garrett found me in the gym. “You’re done for the night.”

“Just another hour,” I told him, bending to grab the weights.

But he stopped me. “I never thought I’d have to stop you from training, but here we are.” He gave me a look. “Go home, Charlie. Get some rest. You’ve got the big match tomorrow, we can’t have you exhausted before you even step out on Center Court.”

“I just—”

“No,” he ordered sternly. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep going at this pace. Just—” He paused, and looked almost pained. “I almost hate to say this, but just go take the night off. Go out. Relax.”

“Are you feeling alright?” I asked, joking.

Garrett scowled. “Enough lip, boy. It seems to have worked for you so far, and we don’t want to spoil a winning strategy this late in the game. Whatever you’ve been doing to win your other matches, keep it up tonight.”

My heart plummeted. Emmy was my good-luck charm, and I doubted I was getting a kiss from her tonight—or anything more. So I found myself heading to the hotel bar. Fuck my good behavior. Fuck the consequences.

I just wanted to forget.

“Fuck me,” an annoyingly familiar voice said.

I looked up at the face I was going to be staring down in the finals.

“Black,” I addressed Killian flatly.

“Davenport.” Before I could deny him the opportunity, he slid onto the stool next to me. “It’s funny that I should find you here,” he said.

“I think you’ll find I don’t have much of a sense of humor these days,” I told him.

“Yeah, you do seem to have gotten a little . . .” He glanced over at me. “Boring.”

I ignored him, focusing my attention on the pint of beer in front of me. At least I didn’t want to smack it in the face.

“Not like your former love,” Killian was still talking. “Who is out having the time of her life.” He reached into a bowl of nuts, took a few and tossed them into his mouth. “Doesn’t seem like she’s that upset about your break-up.”

“Fuck you,” I muttered.

“Ironically, she said the same thing.” Killian laughed. “Though, I’m sure she meant it differently, if you know what I mean. She’s a feisty one. A little too much meat on those bones for my liking, but you can’t ignore a rack like that—”

“Don’t talk about her,” I cut him off, warning.

“Or what?” Killian smirked. “You’ll punch me in the face? I don’t think so. You wouldn’t risk hurting your hand with the big match tomorrow.”

“Try me.” I pushed me chair back and rose to my feet, staring him down.

“I haven’t even told you what Emmy and me got up to, back in my hotel room . . .” Killian smirked. “I can see why you went for her. She’s certainly experienced—” Killian was cut off by my hand, tightening around his throat.

“I said, shut the fuck up.”

Killian spluttered and struggled, but he didn’t fight back—not really. His precious hands couldn’t take the risk, not with the finals looming.

I snorted. “See, that’s the difference between you and me, mate,” I growled, releasing him. “There are things I care about more than winning. So just try me, Killian. Just you fucking try.”

For a moment we were eye to eye, staring each other down. Then Killian backed up. “We’ll settle this on the court, like real men.”

“Good luck with that.”

He slunk away into the crowd, and I caught my breath. My blood was still boiling from the things he said about Emmy, and he was lucky I didn’t lay him out right there.

“Well, that was certainly a show.”

When I turned, I was surprised to find Hugh watching. I sighed. “Let me guess, royalty doesn’t get into fights. Well, I’m not sorry, the wanker had it coming.”

“I agree.” Hugh cleared his throat, looking awkward.

I sat down again, still pissed. “What are you doing here? Come for a last-minute lecture about playing my best and doing the family proud? Crown and country and all.”

“Not quite.” Hugh joined me at the table. “I’m worried about you.” He shot a look in Declan’s direction, and I knew who had reached out to my brother. Traitor. “We all are.”

“Your concern is touching,” I growled.

“We might have been wrong, about Emmy,” Hugh said, surprising the hell out of me.

I paused. “I don’t want to talk about her,” I told him.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Hugh said. “Because I’m the oldest, so you have to do what I say.”

I scowled. “When has that tactic ever worked for you?”

He thought about it. “Never,” he admitted with a smile. “But I figured you might have wised up to the fact that I know a little bit about certain things. Like trying to balance relationships with responsibility. I know our life has its challenges. There are sacrifices you have to make.”

I paused. Hugh never talked about his own romantic life, but I could see from his expression that he clearly had some regrets about making the safe choice.

“This is different,” I said bluntly. “I trusted Emmy, and she betrayed me.”

“Did she?” Hugh asked. “Or did she simply neglect to tell you about a very painful chapter in her past because she wanted to move on?”

The guilt hit me hard, but I pushed it away. “Wait, why are you defending her? You’re the one who’s been on my case all tournament about how she’s just another groupie, ruining the royal reputation.”

Hugh cleared his throat. “That’s where I might have been wrong about her,” he admitted. “She doesn’t seem to be after your title, or the fame. If that were the case, she would have already sold her story by now, or signed up for some god-forsaken reality TV show.”

My brother. Admitting he was wrong. I would call for a round of drinks if I didn’t feel so shitty.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I can’t trust her.”

“Really?” Hugh arched an eyebrow. “So you believe the tabloids—that she used this Zeke fellow for good grades, and was sleeping around through college?”

“No,” I answered automatically. “Emmy would never do that.”

“And what about Killian’s claims, that he was with her in his hotel room last night?”

I snorted. “He wishes he stood a chance. Emmy wouldn’t touch an arse like him.”

Hugh looked smug. “There you go. You do trust her. You’re just too proud to admit you were wrong.”

I blinked. “I . . . but . . .” I tried to find an argument, but I kept coming up blank.

“She told me that I should come to the match tomorrow,” Hugh added. “That you would want me to be there.”

“Of course I do,” I told him. “You’re my brother.”

“That doesn’t always mean you want me around,” Hugh reminded me.

“True,” I admitted, feeling a little sheepish. “But that’s just because you’re such a tight-arse.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Hugh replied. “But please, Charlie, think about it. You have a woman you’re smitten with, who, for some unearthly reason, feels the same about you. Trust me when I tell you how rare that is. And how lucky you are to even have the choice to pursue it.”

I saw the regret in his eyes again, and for the first time realized that Hugh made plenty of sacrifices, too. I may have felt the pressure to live up to his royally perfect example, but he was the first-born—he never even had the choice to rebel. My tennis career, the bad behavior, and long line of women—it was only possible because he took on the full responsibility of our family name. And yes, he could be a bloody wanker about it sometimes, but he’d never complained. Not once.

“Thanks,” I said gruffly, and pulled him in for a brief hug. “For everything.” I slapped his back.

Hugh looked startled. “Err, you too.” He pulled away. “Think about what I said. You can choose pride, or you can choose to be with her. It’s up to you. Now, I better get back to the palace. And you should get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow,” he added, stern again. “The whole country is rooting for you, and—”

“I know, I know. I don’t want to let them down.” I finished for him. “Have you ever thought about a career as a motivational speaker? Because this is inspiring stuff.”

Hugh sighed. “Good luck out there.”

He walked away, leaving me with that uncomfortable prickle of guilt. Hell, it wasn’t so much a prickle as a roaring tide of the damn thing.

What was I doing?

I wanted to believe him. Wanted so badly to believe that Emmy did care about me. But I couldn’t ignore the sting of betrayal I had felt, seeing that news plastered everywhere.

But how must she have felt, having all her secrets blown up in the press? Because of me?

The arguments flew back and forth in my mind, and I didn’t know what to feel anymore.

Dammit. Something told me I wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight.