The only thing that could put a damper on my fantastic post-date mood was the one thing at my hotel room door at six a.m. the next morning. I had been dreaming about Emmy’s gorgeous lips and her fantastic body, and thinking of all the things I wanted to do with her the next time I saw her. The list was getting quite explicit, which was why I was so not in the mood for Garrett’s “winning is everything” attempt at a motivational pep talk. I was really starting to regret hiring him. The bloke had no visible sense of humor, and was standing there wearing his usual frown.

“Jesus,” I groused at him. “It’s too early for this shite.”

He slapped a newspaper against my bare chest and pushed me out of the way. I glared at Declan, who was standing outside my room, and who should have been protecting my god-given right to a lie-in and a little privacy, but who instead gave me an uncaring shrug.

“Wanker,” I mouthed. Slamming the door behind me, I faced my irate coach.

“This wouldn’t be so annoying if you weren’t so talented.” Garrett poured himself a cup of tea.

“Why coach.” I put my other hand against my chest, on top of the one that was holding the newspaper. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“I care because you pay me to care,” he sniped. “And you have to pay me to care because you obviously don’t.”

The words stung, but this argument was a variation of what I had heard my entire life from my father, my mother, and my brother. I could handle it.

“How much more do I have to pay you to get you to care at a reasonable hour?”

Garrett glared at me and gestured towards the newspaper. I sighed and turned it over. It was some tabloid rubbish—exactly the kind of thing I did my best to avoid. And exactly the kind of reporting that Garrett himself had called distracting. But as my eyes scanned the headlines, I saw exactly why he had brought it and exactly why he had shown up at my doorstep at this ridiculous hour.

Flipping through the front pages, I found what the cover had alluded to. “Prince of the Parties,” it read. “Is this his new princess?”

Declan had been wrong. Those girls at the bar had managed to get a few pictures with their cells, but luckily most of them were blurry and none of them caught Emmy’s face. I hid my relief and balled up the newspaper, tossing it into the rubbish bin next to Garrett.

“I believed you when you told me you were done with this,” he said, not looking at me. “In fact, the only reason I agreed to train you was because you assured me that this kind of behavior was under control.”

“It is under control.” I sat down on the edge of the bed, so not in the mood for this conversation. “I went out last night. It happens.”

“You went out the night before,” he reminded me. “And the night before that.”

“And I still won my match yesterday,” I countered.

He waved his hand dismissively. “You got lucky.”

“Not as lucky as I would have liked,” I muttered, thinking again of all the fantasies I had been entertaining about Emmy.

It wasn’t like me to get so fixated on one girl, but everything about her fascinated me. And there was something undeniably appealing about how little she seemed to care about my wealth, my title, or my celebrity. In fact, all the trappings of that part of my life seemed to make her uncomfortable. The same way it made me uncomfortable.

“You have another match tomorrow,” Garrett interrupted my pleasant daydream about how great Emmy’s tits had looked in her dress last night. “Or have you forgotten?”

“I haven’t.” I crossed my arms. The Wimbledon schedule of a day on, a day off was designed to give players a chance to rest and recuperate between matches. “I also haven’t forgotten that Marquez wiped the floor with me last year and by all accounts has gotten better in the past year, not worse.”

“So have you.” It was a rare compliment from Garrett. “Or you would have if you weren’t so interested in attending parties and actually practiced before your matches.”

“One more day of drills and running up and down the court isn’t going to make me good enough to beat Marquez,” I told Garrett. “And we both know it.”

He threw up his hands. “I have never worked with a player so insistent on ruining his chances before he even picks up his racquet.”

“I’m being realistic,” I argued. “Besides, I still want to enjoy tennis when I’m done with this. I don’t want to train until I hate every aspect of it. I want to have a good time on the court tomorrow.”

“That’s your problem.” Garrett shook his head. “It’s always about a good time with you.” He sighed. “I don’t think you’re worried about losing. I think you’re afraid of caring.”

I didn’t have a response for that, but thankfully we were interrupted by Declan.

“We have to go,” he told me.

Thank god, I thought. Declan might have done a shite job keeping Garrett out of my room first thing in the morning, but at least he could come up with some excuse to get him out of there. But when Garrett left—still glowering—Declan just stood there expectantly.

“I’m not tipping you,” I joked.

He snorted. “I’m not asking.” He held up his phone. “You’ve been summoned.”

I groaned. Only one person “summoned” me. And I wanted to see him even less than I wanted to see Garrett. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Declan shook his head. “As always, your brother’s timing is impeccable.”

“I hate everyone this morning.” I gritted my teeth and shoved off the bed.

“And how is that different from any other morning?” Declan wanted to know.

I threw a shirt at him. A shirt he easily snatched out of the air and tossed down on the arm of the chair he settled into.

“Are you going to watch me get dressed?” I asked.

“I’m going to make sure you don’t slip out the back like you did the last time your brother called for you.”

Fuck. That was exactly what I had been planning on doing. I reminded myself that I needed to surround myself with people who didn’t know me as well as Declan did. I needed a bodyguard that was easier to trick.

“Tick tock,” said Declan, pointing at his watch. “Want me to pick out your clothes for you?”

I gave him the two-finger salute, and dug through the drawer of clothes I had brought to the hotel. My flat was more central to London, but having a hotel near Wimbledon was much more convenient during the tournament. Still, I missed the comforts of home. Especially the privacy that a well-secured flat offered me. One where I didn’t have to have people parked outside my door at all hours shooing away paparazzi or overzealous fans (of both tennis and royalty).

I was shrugging into a clean shirt when Declan cleared his throat.

“Emmy seems nice,” he said.

I shot him a look. “Are we really going to do that now?”

“Do what?” he asked innocently.

“Your rubbish attempt at being my conscience.” I buttoned my shirt. “I have one in perfectly working order, I’ll have you know.”

“Just thought I’d check.” Declan lifted his shoulders. “Given your track record and all.”

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “My track record?” This day was just getting worse and worse. “My track record of being completely upfront about my priorities?”

“Your priorities being parties, tennis, and women? In that order?” Declan clarified.

“Some best mate you are,” I muttered. “You make it sound like I’m some self-centered playboy who only wants a good time.”

Declan didn’t say anything.

“Seriously?” I asked him. “You know I’m going to get this kind of speech from my brother, do I really have to get it from you as well?”

“Look.” Declan stood. “You know I’m on your team. And I’d take a bullet for you—whether you were paying me or not—but you need to be careful.”

“Careful about what?”

Declan pointed to the crumpled-up tabloid in the trash can. “That you don’t start letting your reputation speak louder than your actions.”

It really annoyed me that Declan was right. Not that I would ever admit that. Instead, I got dressed, the both of us silently agreeing that our heart-to-heart was over. Well, almost over.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” I told him.

“You never do,” he responded. “At least, not purposefully.”

* * *

I hated meeting my brother for breakfast. I hated meeting him for any meal, actually, but at least I could have a pint or two during lunch or dinner. Asking for alcohol at seven a.m. would probably just add more fuel to whatever fire had been lit under his arse this morning.

And it took me less than a minute to conclude that the tabloid that had brought Garrett to my door had also been responsible for this breakfast meeting. A meeting with my brother and the entire royal PR team. Fuck. Bugger. Bloody hell.

“Ladies.” I nodded to Patricia and Helen, in charge of reputation management. “Gentlemen.” I gave a jaunty wave to Anton and Travis, in charge of risk management. None of them were great fans of mine, as I made their job extremely difficult. Or so they liked to remind me every single time they saw me.

“Once again, you’ve made our job incredibly difficult,” Patricia said as I sat down.

“No foreplay today?” I joked.

My brother glared at me from across the table. I suppose that the people who said we looked alike were correct. We had the same blue eyes, the same dark hair, the same dimples. But Hugh rarely smiled and wore his hair so shellacked to his head that I was pretty sure it ruined our resemblances. At least, I hoped it did. The last thing I wanted was to look like I had swallowed a fucking lemon, which is how my brother always looked.

“I assume you know why you’ve been summoned,” my brother said, but pushed a copy of the tabloid down the table towards me.

“You know I don’t read that trash,” I told him.

“No, you just appear in it,” said Hugh snidely.

“Jealous that I get all the attention?” I fired back.

Hugh said he didn’t care about my reputation as the bad boy (read: attractive) member of the royal family, but I knew it bothered him. It had to be the reason he kept harping on it—calling ridiculous family meetings like this instead of just letting the PR people do their job and smooth it all over. I knew they could handle it without us having another one of our extremely annoying and ineffective heart-to-hearts.

“Who is she?” Hugh wanted to know, nodding to the paper.

I squinted at the pictures. “A little too blurry to tell, don’t you think?” I pretended to think. “Maybe it was Venetia? Or Charlotte?” I feigned a frustrated sigh. “I just can’t keep track of all of them.”

“You’re just making this harder on yourself,” said Hugh.

“We want you to do some interviews,” Patricia told me. “Redirect the public to Wimbledon, instead of focusing on your party-boy persona.”

“I’m not available for interviews, I’m afraid.” I checked my watch. “In fact, I’ve got a practice scheduled.”

“You don’t,” Hugh responded. “Unless you’re practicing without your coach, who by the way, agrees with me about your playboy ways.”

“Been checking in on me, have you?” I stood.

“Someone has to keep an eye on you.” He did the same. “Before you ruin the family name.”

“At least people will still remember it,” I shot back. “If it was up to you, the family name would die of boredom.”

“You have a responsibility to our family,” said Hugh. “Whether you like it or not.”

“I should be allowed to conduct my personal life as I choose,” I argued.

“You may do whatever you like in private,” my brother informed me. “Just make sure it stays out of the tabloids.”

I pushed away from the table. It wasn’t fair. All I wanted was a night out with a girl I fancied. I couldn’t even do that without it becoming a public crisis.

“Is that all?” I asked.

“For now,” said Hugh.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed, turning on my heels and getting the hell out of that room.

All this trouble, just because I wanted to have some damn privacy, and a life of my own. I knew Hugh was probably wondering why some girl was worth the bother – it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty of options out there, who would be far more discreet, to boot.

But I liked this one. Emmy. She was smart, and funny, and sexy as hell. And I didn’t care what my brother, or his PR lackeys, or even the damn British press had to say about it.

I wanted to see her again.