WHEN I WAKE UP IN the morning, Sarah is nowhere to be seen. And the ghost of being blown off after a one-night hookup walks over my grave. But I brush the feeling aside.
Because today’s the day that the fun really starts. I have a workout date with Libby Loutenhiemer down at the beach, which means sweat and panting and her in some tight, scanty spandex outfit. Maybe we’ll have an after-workout cocktail . . . which will hopefully lead to an equally sweaty but different kind of physical exertion, off camera.
My morning wood is particularly persistent, probably due to the delectable scent that filled my nostrils as I slept and still clings to my skin. But I don’t have time to rub one out, so I head to my room, quickly change into a sweatshirt, running shorts, and cross-trainers, and jog to the beach.
An hour later, I discover yet again that none of this is how I envisioned it.
And I’m not in nearly as good of shape as I fucking thought.
Because Libby is an animal, and I don’t mean the doggie-style type. The woman is an Olympian, but still . . .
A three-mile beach run, rope-jumping, sit-ups, push-ups, and a hundred mountain climbers later, I think I may actually be having a heart attack.
Which means if Granny kicks it, the throne goes to dumb Cousin Marcus—the only person less suited to rule than I am. For that reason, I power through, but it’s not easy. I may not give Libby the diamond tiara, but I’m having serious thoughts of giving her the position of being my personal trainer.
Finally, we stop to catch our breath. We’re on the beach, both bent at the waist, hands on our knees, the cold sea blowing on our heated, dripping skin.
“This was so fun!” Libby chirps. “You’re the first man who’s ever been able to keep pace with me.”
I give her a thumbs-up. It’s all I can manage, because my muscles and vital organs would very much like to lie down and die now.
She moves in closer and whispers in my ear, “I want to suck your big, sweaty cock, Henry.”
Scratch that—not every organ is ready to die just yet.
“That’s the best damn thing I’ve heard in ages.”
She giggles, taking me by the hand, turning around . . . and walking straight into Vanessa Steele.
No.
“That was great, you two—hope you had a good time. Libby, we need you in hair and makeup for your after-date, hot-seat session.”
Fuck no.
“And Henry, you have to be showered and dressed for your afternoon date.” She taps her wrist. “We’re on a schedule.”
Talk about a royal cock-block.
Libby looks just as disappointed as I feel. She toys with the collar of my shirt.
“Later on, yeah?”
I nod, and she gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
Behind her, someone on the beach in the distance grabs my attention. I squint, peering closer. She’s alone, in an oversized T-shirt and black leggings, doing what appears to be a martial arts routine, and looking very fine doing it. Just when I think I have this girl pegged . . .
Libby notices and turns around too.
“Sarah knows aikido,” she says. “She’s quite good.”
When Vanessa ushers Libby away, I stay right there for a while longer.
Watching.
Later in the afternoon I have a dog-walking, picnic date with Cordelia Ominsmitch.
We meet in the courtyard of the castle and while the other ladies and crew are several yards away, behind the cameras, if I keep my back to them, it feels almost normal. Cordelia walks up to me, smiling, carrying a well-fed white miniature poodle with beady, angry black eyes.
The cameras roll as Cordelia reaches me, wearing snug blue jeans, high brown leather boots, and a flowy, flower-patterned blouse with a revealing neckline. She’s lovely. I stand straight, one arm folded across my lower back, and nod.
“Hello, Henry.”
“How are you, Cordelia?”
“I’m very well now.” She flutters her lashes coyly. “But I’ve been thinking, I’d like to get our first kiss out of the way. Then, I won’t be nervous thinking about it, and I’ll already know how magical we are together.”
She’s playing for the cameras—I’ve seen it done enough to know. But I don’t care.
“I’m game if you are.”
And I lean in, she reaches up—then the unpleasant mongrel in her arms growls and tries to bite my face off. Luckily, I pull back just in time.
“Oh! Walter, no!”
She smiles apologetically. “This is Walter.”
I wave. “Good to meet you, Walter.”
He snarls back.
Cordelia bites her lip. “Sorry. He’s very protective of me.” She gazes down at the dog and he starts to lick her chin. “Aren’t you, precious?” she coos to him. “You love your mummy. You want to give Mummy a kiss? Okay, give Mummy all your kisses.”
And then Walter plants one on Cordelia—with tongue. And she lets him. He licks her chin, her lips, and as she laughs . . . it looks like her teeth and tongue get a thorough cleaning too.
Then she puts him on the ground and turns to me, starry-eyed and smiling.
“Now . . . about that kiss?”
I look at Cordelia’s lush, perfect mouth, and then down at the pudgy pooch . . . voraciously licking his own arsehole. And I grimace.
“Maybe later.”
Or . . . not.
“Cut!” the director yells.
And Vanessa walks forward, with a clipboard in hand. “That was great. Lots of simmering, sexual tension with a tease for more to come. Love it. Let’s freshen up and we’ll get some shots of Henry and Cordelia in the convertible for the montage and voice-over piece. Then we’ll move to the picnic area; it’s almost ready.”
But then, from behind the camera, someone knocks into the lighting tripod. It tilts over and crashes, the lens bursting with a loud pop and splintering shatter. A minute later, there’s a commotion, the ladies crowding together. There are whispers and concerned looks, and Laura Benningson asks if someone should get a doctor.
“No,” I hear Penelope answer. “No, she’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
I push through the crowd to the center, where Sarah stands unnaturally still. Her skin is ashen, her face is frozen in terror, and her eyes are flat and blank. And I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, because I remember this. From last year at the pub, the very first time I spoke to her. When someone dropped a tray of glasses, and she froze up in fear.
Penny has her arm around Sarah’s lower back, softly whispering words I can’t hear. And it’s like my heart stops in my chest and my stomach roils at the sight of her so still and afraid. I go to move closer but before I get to her, she comes to. Waking up gasping and blinking, reaching for her sister.
What the hell was that?
Penny catches my eye and shakes her head, telling me silently not to come closer. To pretend that everything is fine.
Eventually, everyone goes back to their tasks—the crew prepares for the next taping, the ladies chat and drink Champagne.
But Sarah remains off on the side. And she looks smaller somehow, like she’s trying to sink into herself. Fold up and disappear. I don’t like it. Sarah’s too pretty to not be standing straight and tall so everyone can see. And she’s . . . nice. Believe it or not, that’s rare in my circle. She helped me last night. Even though it made her uncomfortable, she did it anyway.
And now I want to do something for her.
I want to see Sarah Titebottum smile. A brazen, bold, unselfconscious smile. But more than that, there’s a small, selfish part of me that wants to make her smile. Be the one she’s smiling for.
I glance around the set—everyone is buzzing like worker bees getting ready for the shot. Cordelia’s getting primped and powdered by a makeup girl, Vanessa is speaking with a few of the cameramen, and the convertible I’m supposed to drive is just sitting there . . . all by its lonesome.
And look at that—someone left the keys in the ignition.
Stealthily, I sidle up to Sarah.
“Have you ever driven in a convertible?”
She looks up sharply, like she didn’t see me approach. “Of course I have.”
My hands slide into my pockets and I lean back on my heels.
“Have you ever been in a convertible driven by a prince?”
Her eyes are lighter in the sun, with a hint of gold. They crinkle as she smiles.
“No.”
I nod. “Perfect. We do this in three.”
Now she looks nervous. “Do what?”
I spot James across the way, eyes scanning the crowd—far enough away that he’ll never get over here in time.
“Three . . .”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Two . . .”
“Henry . . .”
“One.”
“I . . .”
“Go, go, go!”
“Go where?” she asks, loud enough to draw attention.
So I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her off her feet, carry her to the car, and swing her up and into the passenger seat. Then, I jump into the driver’s side.
“Shit!” James curses. But then the engine is roaring to life. I back out, knocking over a food service table, and the tires screech as I turn around and drive across the grounds . . . toward the woods.
“The road is that way!” Sarah yells, the wind making her long, dark hair dance and swirl.
“I know a shortcut. Buckle up.”
We fly into the woods, sending a flurry of leaves in our wake. The car bounces and jostles, and I feel Sarah’s hand wrapped around my arm—holding on. It feels good.
“Duck.”
“What?”
I push her head down and crouch at the same time, to avoid getting whipped in the face by the low-branch of a pine tree.
After we’re past it, Sarah sits up, owl-eyed, and looks back at the branch and then at me.
I smirk. “If you wanted me to push your head down, love, you could’ve just said so.”
“You’re insane!”
I hit the gas hard, swerving around a stump. “What? You’re the only one who gets to make dirty jokes?”
We have a sharp turn coming up ahead. I lay my arm across Sarah’s middle. “Hold on.”
And as quick as that, we emerge from the trees, up a steep slope, and onto the smooth asphalt of the highway. I check the rearview mirror, and the coast is clear.
Sarah blinks at me. Her glasses are crooked, so I fix them for her.
“I get the feeling you’ve done that before.”
I tilt my head up, enjoying the feel of the sun and breeze—like a dog on a joyride. “Ditching security is one of the thrills of my life.”
She shakes her head, flabbergasted. “Why?”
“Because I’m not supposed to.”
And then she smiles. Just like I wanted her to. Big and shamelessly. And my chest goes warm and my heart beats hard.
I flick the knob on the radio, and “Setting the World on Fire” by Pink and that country bloke comes from the speakers.
“This is a good song,” Sarah says.
“Then turn it up,” I tell her.
She does, then she holds her hands out, trying to catch the wind.
We both decide we’re hungry. And though Sarah’s hometown, Castlebrook, is the town nearest to the castle, there’s no Mega Burger in Castlebrook. So, we head in the opposite direction, because Mega Burger is worth the extra forty-five-minute driving time.
When I pull up to the order window, the lad in the pointy paper hat jumps.
“Holy fuck!”
I glance at Sarah. “I get that a lot.”
“Damn, man . . . you’re Prince Henry.”
I nod. “Good to meet you.”
“Hey, can I get a photo?”
“Sure.”
He leans out the window and I lean out of the car, and he snaps a selfie.
“Do me a favor,” I ask, “don’t post it on social media. I’m supposed to be working and if the Queen finds out I’m slacking off, she’ll be angry. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry.”
He laughs, nodding.
After the boy brings our order and I pay, I slip him an extra wad of cash. “Use this to treat as many cars as possible that come after me. If there’s any left over, it’s yours.”
His head bobs. “Awesome. I always thought you were cool.”
“I try.” We bump fists and then I pull out.
I feel Sarah watching warmly as I drive.
“That was very nice.”
“That was easy.” I shrug. “My mother used to say that kindness is contagious. It only takes one person to start the best kind of epidemic.”
I pull up to a deserted lot near the beach, kill the engine, and Sarah and I perch on the hood of the car to eat our flaming-hot heart-attack-waiting-to-happen with fries.
Hesitantly, I ask about her earlier episode. “Are you feeling all right now?”
Her smile is small and embarrassed. “Yes.”
“Does what happened . . . happen often?”
She tilts her head. “Not too frequently.”
I’m in unfamiliar territory here. I don’t want her to be uncomfortable, but at the same time I want to know more about those episodes. More about her, full stop.
“Look, Sarah, feel free to tell me to piss off, but is it . . . a medical condition?”
“Temporary fugues, brought on by loud noises. I’ve tried a few treatments, but it’s just something I live with. If there’s a crash, sometimes I just . . . blink out.”
“You looked so frightened. Where do you go when you blink out?” I ask very gently.
Sarah swallows, staring at the ground. “Nowhere. It’s just . . . gray. There’s no floor, no ceiling or walls, no sound. It’s just as if I’m . . . suffocating in gray.”
I cover her small, warm hand with mine. “I’m sorry. Do you know why? What caused them to start?”
Sarah’s smile is tight. “Everyone has their quirks.”
Then she breathes deep and deftly changes the subject. “Are you enjoying filming the show?” Sarah asks. “Narrowing down your choice for queen?”
I nod. “So far, Guermo’s my top pick.”
She chuckles.
“What do you think of the show, so far?” I ask.
She grunts. “I think it’s a glorified beauty pageant.”
“You don’t approve?”
She shrugs. “I suppose it could be worse. At least they’re including a variety of women, not just those who check the boxes of those disgusting laws on who a crown prince can marry.”
“Are you a virgin?” I ask.
“Well . . . yes.”
“Then why are you complaining? You qualify.”
Sarah’s eyes flash with annoyance and she practically growls at me. “Because I’m more than my hymen, Henry! To base the value of an accomplished, intelligent, passionate woman on a flimsy piece of skin is degrading. How would you feel if your worth rested on your foreskin?”
I think it over. And then I grin. “I’d be all right with that, actually. I’ve heard it was an impressive foreskin—all the nurses were fawning over it. It’s probably being showcased in a museum right now.”
She stares at me for a beat, then she laughs out loud—a rich, throaty, sensual sound.
“You’re a terrible human being.”
“I know.” I shake my head at the calamity of it all.
“And you’re an even worse feminist.”
“Agreed. That’s something I need to work on. You’ll help me, won’t you? We should spend as much time together as possible—every minute of the day and night. I’m hoping you’ll rub off on me.”
Sarah pushes my shoulder. “Ha! You’re just hoping I’ll rub you off.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Because she’s not even a little bit wrong.
“But there’s never been anyone? Really?”
Sarah shrugs. “Penny and I were tutored at home when we were young . . . but in year ten, there was this one boy.”
I rub my hands together. “Here we go—tell me everything. I want all the sick, lurid details. Was he a footballer? Big and strong, captain of the team, the most popular boy in school?”
I could see it. Sarah’s delicate, long and lithe, but dainty, beautiful—any young man would’ve been desperate to have her on his arm. In his lap. In his bed, on the hood of his car, riding his face . . . all of the above.
“He was captain of the chess team.”
I cover my eyes with my hand.
“His name was Davey. He wore these adorable tweed jackets and bow ties, he had blond hair, and was a bit pale because of the asthma. He had the same glasses as I and he had a different pair of argyle socks for every day of the year.”
“You’re messing with me, right?”
She shakes her head.
“Argyle socks, Sarah? I am so disappointed in you right now.”
“He was nice,” she chides. “You leave my Davey alone.”
Then she laughs again—delighted and free. My cock reacts hard and fast, emphasis on hard. It’s like sodding granite.
“So what happened to old Davey boy?”
“I was alone in the library one day and he came up and started to ask me to the spring social. And I was so excited and nervous I could barely breathe.”
I picture how she must’ve looked then. But in my mind’s eyes she’s really not any different than she is right now. Innocent, sweet, and so real she couldn’t deceive someone if her life depended on it.
“And then before he could finish the question, I . . .”
I don’t realize I’m leaning toward her until she stops talking and I almost fall over.
“You . . . what?”
Sarah hides behind her hands.
“I threw up on him.”
And I try not to laugh. I swear I try . . . but I’m only human. So I end up laughing so hard the car shakes and I can’t speak for several minutes.
“Christ almighty.”
“And I’d had fish and chips for lunch.” Sarah’s laughing too. “It was awful.”
“Oh you poor thing.” I shake my head, still chuckling. “And poor Davey.”
“Yes.” She wipes under her eyes with her finger. “Poor Davey. He never came near me again after that.”
“Coward—he didn’t deserve you. I would’ve swam through a whole lake of puke to take a girl like you to the social.”
She smiles so brightly at me, her cheeks maroon and round like two shiny apples.
“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “I’m all about the compliments.”
Sarah shakes her head. “Anyway. Once word got around school, no one else wanted to come near me. And here I am—twenty-five and probably more of a virgin than the Virgin Mary was.”
Sarah makes the sign of the cross, just in case that’s blasphemous, I guess.
“But you have some experience, don’t you?” I slide my fingers together meaningfully. “Even . . . just with yourself? Rubbing one out is good for the soul.”
Her reaction is a level-five blush . . . crimson.
“That’s private,” she murmurs.
“That’s a yes.”
And holy hell, the images that come to my mind. My cock moans—willing to give up a neighboring nut for a peek at Sarah Von Titebottum pleasuring herself.
“Since I’m staying in your room, we should work out a system. A sock on the door or such. I don’t want to deprive you. Or . . . you could let me watch—I’m a fantastic audience member.”
She glares, still blushing. “I don’t like you anymore.”
I tap her nose. “Liar.”
When we pull back into the castle courtyard, James is waiting. And he does not look happy. Actually he looks like a blond Hulk . . . right before he goes smash. Sarah sees it too.
“He’s miffed.”
“Yep.”
We get out of the car and she turns so fast there’s a breeze. “I should go find Penny. ’Bye.”
I call after her. “Chicken!”
She just waves her hand over her shoulder.
Slowly, I approach him. Like an explorer, deep in the jungles of the Amazon, making first contact with a tribe that has never seen the outside world. And I hold out my peace offering.
It’s a Mega Pounder with cheese.
“I got you a burger.”
James snatches it from my hand angrily. But . . . he doesn’t throw it away.
He turns to one of the men behind him. “Mick, bring it here.”
Mick—a big, truck-size bloke—brings him a brown paper bag. And James’s cold blue eyes turn back to me.
“After speaking with your former security team, I had an audience with Her Majesty the Queen last year when you were named heir. Given your history of slipping your detail, I asked her permission to ensure your safety by any means necessary, including this.”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out a children’s leash—the type you see on ankle-biters at amusement parks, with a deranged-looking monkey sticking its head out of a backpack, his mouth wide and gaping, like he’s about to eat whoever’s wearing it.
And James smiles. “Queen Lenora said yes.”
I suspected Granny didn’t like me anymore; now I’m certain of it.
“If I have to,” James warns, “I’ll connect this to you and the other end to old Mick here.”
Mick doesn’t look any happier about the fucking prospect than I am.
“I don’t want to do that, but . . .” He shrugs, no further explanation needed. “So the next time you feel like ditching? Remember the monkey, Your Grace.”
He puts the revolting thing back in its bag. And I wonder if fire would kill it.
“Are we good, Prince Henry?” James asks.
I respect a man willing to go balls-to-the-wall for his job. I don’t like the monkey . . . but I respect it.
I flash him the okay sign with my fingers.
“Golden.”