Chapter 1

Charlotte

The ballroom is decorated to look like an enchanted forest, complete with tall trees, chandeliers dripping with crystals, and flowers. Fairy lights are wrapped around anything and everything that is stationary.

However, my favorite part is the mural of a maiden in a tower that my brother had commissioned just for the ball. She’s gazing out her window, waiting for her rescuer to come. Over the hill on his white horse, he’s galloping toward her.

A nod to Rapunzel, one of my favorite fairy tales. Although I adored Tangled, the Disney version, so much that I watched it at least a million times. My crush on Flynn Rider is only eclipsed by my crush on a certain journalist with a penchant for exposing my family’s secrets.

But it is better to long and lust for a man I will never have, and therefore never be hurt by…unlike the supposed Prince Charming I dated before.

I scan the room again, keeping my smile bright and friendly, but not too friendly. I don’t want to actually have to carry on conversations longer than, “Would you care for some punch?” Or “The restrooms are to your left.”

Out of the corner of my eye, a movement catches my attention. My pulse begins to pound, although I can’t see anything due to the crush of people at the entrance.

The crowd thins out and I see…

Oh dear.

He’s here.

At my house.

In our ballroom.

My breath catches at the sight of him striding confidently into the ballroom, exactly like a man assured of his place in the world. I can’t tear my eyes away. He’s so fit, so handsome in his tux.

And he knows it.

He doesn’t care because he’s so used to it. He revels in the attention.

I can’t help but stare at him.

I shouldn’t stare.

I know I shouldn’t, not to mention that it’s terribly rude, but I literally can’t help myself. Seriously, I should put myself in the corner and face the wall. Close my eyes tight and promise to never Google images of him again.

Never look at his picture again.

Never gaze upon his face in public…or private.

Or drool over his Instagram when he shares pictures of himself wearing custom-made suits that emphasize how fit he is.

Or the way his blue eyes gleam with self-assured victory right before he strikes his opponent in a debate—

Holy crap.

He’s coming this way.

He’s heading my way.

Don’t slip is my chanted mantra as I attempt to run in high heels to the punch bowl—the station I should have been manning all along—and begin ladling the pungent liquid into crystal glasses the size of teacups.

I will my traitor of a heart to stop beating so hard and loud while I glance up every so often to see how close he is. But it doesn’t bother to listen.

Which is reason number 506 that I wouldn’t make a good queen.

“How are you this evening?” His voice, low and without the southern accent I know he should have, washes over me.

I slosh punch over the rim and onto my hand. “Fine. Thank you.” My voice stays mostly neutral, but even I can hear the slight rise in pitch. “Punch?” I hold out a glass.

His fingers brush against mine and my knees shake, not with fear, though. Not even close.

“Spiked?”

“Not unless you consider sherbet to be particularly uninhibiting,” I reply.

“Depends on what’s in it,” he says.

“Milk, sugar, sweetened fruit juice, and—” I stop, realizing that is not what he meant at all. “The drink is nonalcoholic. However, you are welcome to an assortment of adult beverages at the bar on the left side of the ballroom.”

“Is there a reason why you won’t look at me?”

“No.” I force my chin up, thinking I should be fine when I finally see him this close. Our gazes collide and my world crumbles beneath me.

His eyes are blue with brown circling the irises and fringed with heavy, dark lashes. My eyes drift down his face, taking in his straight nose, high cheekbones, and full lips, then back up again to his gleaming, light hair. He’s wearing it very conservatively tonight, like he’s trying to hide who he really is.

Only I know exactly who he is.

Brooks Walker, the man who exposed our family’s secrets to the entire world.

“You’re a horrible liar.” He takes a sip of the punch. “I’m interested in the reason, good or bad. I can take it.”

“Actually…I wanted to make sure I didn’t spill more punch. It will take loads of bleach to get out the mess I made.”

His mouth parts in obvious surprise, then he licks his full bottom lip and I can’t help but stare.

I want to kiss his lips. Want to feel them on my skin, in every place that I’ve touched and pretended that it is Brooks’s mouth touching me, exploring me…making me come undone.

A betrayal of my family, to be sure, with the way Brooks destroyed our privacy, but I can’t seem to help myself.

My cheeks start to heat and he smiles knowingly, revealing his white, straight teeth. “Who would have thought the queen does laundry.”

In a flash, my desire for him dries up like a shallow puddle of water in the middle of summer. He thinks I’m Imogen. Now I’m faced with the decision of playing along or setting him straight.

Honestly, it grates on my nerves that anyone confuses us. We’re fraternal twins for goodness’ sake. Yes, I will concede that we do look identical; but Imogen and I don’t dress the same, don’t wear our hair or makeup the same and—I frown.

Will I ever be the sibling who’s not a royal wallflower?

“Touchy subject. I get it.” He winks at me, then leans in. “I was only teasing, Charlotte. I know who you are. Those pretty hazel eyes have been haunting me for years.”

He thinks my eyes are pretty. Wait, he’s been thinking of me for years? Don’t dwell on that. He tried to get you to think that he mistook you for your sister.

“It wasn’t very kind of you,” I say primly, instead of satisfying my curiosity.

Curiosity killed the queen. Literally, it killed one of my ancestors because she fell into a well and drowned. She was curious of its depth but didn’t factor in that her skirts would pull her under.

“What I wouldn’t give to know what you’re thinking about right now,” he says in his very charming way.

“Drowning.”

“Me or,”—he jerks his thumb over his shoulder—“the guy who keeps requesting the DJ play the greatest hits of Pennykeep? All three of them.”

I try to not smile, try to not be charmed, but I am so weak when it comes to this man. A man I hardly know except by reputation, his news site, and social media posts.

“Both.”

He sucks in air through his teeth. “Ouch.”

“If you knew I wasn’t Imogen, why did you come talk to me? Your site low on scandals?”

He laughs, loudly, uncaring that he’s gotten the attention of my oldest brother, Colin. Colin’s eyes narrow and he starts to head our way, but his wife, Della, holds him back. Not literally, of course. With only a glance.

A dreamy sigh escapes me. What I wouldn’t do for a love like that.

“I thought you were the nice royal.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You make nice sound like an insult.”

He shrugs, his broad shoulders lifting his fitted tux jacket. “In my world nice gets your ass handed to you.”

“Perhaps you should consider relocating to a different planet.”

“Would you come with me, help me become a better man?” His voice drops into a deeper, even sexier octave. “Teach me the error of my ways?”

Yes. Yes. Yes. “No,” I scoff. “A woman couldn’t change you and that’s not what you mean.”

His blue eyes gleam. “Such a shame. I thought you’d like a challenge.”

“Like it’s a challenge to sleep with you,” I blurt and want to die, but I won’t and not in front of him. I tip up my chin and dare him to say something unkind.

His brows rise. “Do tell how you came to that conclusion.”

This time my cheeks heat to levels that I can’t hide. “I’ve seen the images you post. You’re not exactly private or modest.”

“There’s no such thing as privacy, and modesty is overrated.”

“Only because those things make it more difficult for people like you,” I counter. My nerves are tingling, and not just with desire for this man. I feel alive while talking to him. He doesn’t care who I am, or that no one talks to me like this…or at all, for that matter, at these events. The media doesn’t call me the Royal Wallflower for nothing.

His hot gaze slides over me, making my nipples hard, my breasts heavy, and my panties damp. “Would you like to get out of here?”

My head is nodding before I can say no.

He holds out his hand and I take it, uncaring that my name is being called as we walk to the front door. Okay, so he’s walking and I’m jogging, but his strides are so long that I have to in order to keep up.

“Are you really six three?” I ask.

“Afraid so, shorty.”

“I’m average. Five five.”

He gives me another hot look. “Nothing average about you.”

Oh my.

Peter opens the door for us and I automatically smile at him. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Have a good night and—”

Brooks steps between us. “I thought you wanted to go.”

“Oh I do.”

“Then stop flirting with your security guard and get your sweet ass in my car.”

At his crass command, I yank my hand out of his. “I changed my mind,” I lie.

“No, you didn’t.” The valet pulls a silver Bugatti up to the curb and hops out, opening both doors. “C’mon, Princess, live on the wild side. Promise to have you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

I tilt my head to one side, hesitating while I mentally weigh my options.

“Fine. I get the hint.” He lifts my hand to his mouth, kissing my knuckles in the most princely of ways. “Such a pleasure meeting you, sweetheart.”

No one’s ever called me sweetheart.

No one outside of my family has ever called me Charlotte, either, at least not to my face.

He lets go of my hand and strides away.

Oh, you stupid girl. You could have given yourself one night to be wild. One night to be just Charlotte and enjoy the lack of pressure in your life.

But no.

You had to be pragmatic and practical. Peter didn’t bother to follow you because he knew you wouldn’t leave.

“Fuck it,” I hear Brooks mutter, then he pivots and stalks over to me. My heart slams hard against my chest a thousand times before he speaks again. “You need a reason to go, don’t you?”

My lips part, but nothing really comes out except a squeak that kinda sounds like a yes. Well, it would sound like a yes if I spoke chipmunk.

“I’ll give you one.” He touches my shoulder, then his big hand is gliding up my neck and curling around.

“Give me one what?” Please let it be a kiss and a real one, too. By real, I mean not for a photo op.

He smiles a little, right before his mouth lowers to mine. “This.”

“Oh.” He stops, peering at me from beneath his lashes. It’s like he’s waiting for something or someone. He’s waiting for me. “Go on, then.”

Brooks touches my face as his lips whisper over mine. I tip up my chin, wanting more…of everything. I grab him by the lapels of his tux and twist the material, giving me purchase so that I can rise up on my toes and kiss him like I’ve always dreamed.

Except this is nothing like my dreams and late-night fantasies. The man whose mouth skillfully moves over mine is flesh and blood. His fingers caress my cheeks.

Sweet Lord, he’s a face toucher when he kisses.

He pulls me flush against him. I gasp into his mouth and he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue inside mine. Suddenly, I don’t care if anyone’s taking our picture because this is the best kiss in the history of kisses.

Slowly, Brooks stops kissing me, his head tilting at an odd angle as he lets go of my neck and stops touching my face.

“Keep your fucking hands off my sister.”

“Shouldn’t she have a say in this?”

It takes me nearly a full minute to realize what’s going on.

Fisting my hands on my hips, I glare at my brother Colin, who’s holding a hot pink water gun to the side of Brooks’s head.

“Put the water gun down,” I order in my sternest voice.

“Go inside.”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, and I have the right to kiss whomever I want.”

“Wait until next week and then we can talk about your new penchant for making out with scumbags.”

Brooks laughs low in his throat. He doesn’t look like a man who just had his life threatened. He looks…bored. Perhaps he’s used to people threatening him with guns.

I answer before Colin says something that will make me see things his way.

“No.” Grabbing Brooks’s hand, I tug on it. “We’re leaving. Do have a lovely night, Colin.”

I wave as I get in the Bugatti, not realizing that the steering wheel is right in front of me until the valet closes my door. “Oh dear, I’m in the driver’s seat.”

“Looks like you belong there.” He tosses me the key fob. “Go ahead and drive, gorgeous…unless you regret what happened and want to go back to your punch station.”

Back to my boring wallflower of a life? Back to charity balls and remaining utterly serene while I want to shout I exist? I’m here for a purpose other than just being the spare heir.

“Absolutely not.”

Then I put the car into drive and hit the gas.