CHAPTER
SIX
When Asher woke the next morning, it was without the crushing weight of a corgi on his sternum. As he lay there staring at the cool blue ceiling, he decided to take his solitude as a good omen. Rehearsal yesterday had not gone as well as he’d hoped. As much as he loathed to admit it, Jeremy’s little speech had rattled him. The royal family had chosen Asher, and his maestro had tried to talk them out of it. It wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence.
Whatever. Today was a new day. He just needed to shake it off and play his instrument like he knew he could . . . like he’d played it the other night at Westminster Abbey. If he’d managed to pull himself together to play for the princess, surely he could do it again.
He took a few deep breaths. Going forward, everything would be fine.
Then Asher made the mistake of climbing out of bed.
First, he tripped over the furry lump that had situated itself—intentionally, no doubt—directly in his path to the bathroom. Then he flipped on the light and identified the furry lump as Willow.
He called her name. She didn’t bat an eye at him, but instead kept on gnawing on the stick in her jaws. Asher turned toward the toilet and wondered, naïvely, where a corgi would get a stick at Buckingham Palace. He stopped, turned back around, and realized it wasn’t a stick at all. It was his cello bow. His very rare, very expensive, Tourte bow, handcrafted in France in 1820.
“What the fuck?”
Willow lifted her head, panting with glee.
“Give me that.” Asher lunged to rescue his bow, but just as his fingertips brushed the smooth surface of the stick, the impertinent dog snatched it up and took off with it.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Bad dog,” he yelled.
Yes, he was definitely screaming this time. Not in terror, as the princess had accused him of before, but in anger. He was royally pissed off. The bow was irreplaceable. One of a kind. He’d paid nearly $200,000 for it at auction.
Willow bounced into a downward dog–type position and wiggled her backside. The bow dangled from her mouth. By some miracle, it was still in one piece. But even from three feet away, Asher could see teeth marks all over the narrow shaft.
At best, it would probably need to be smoothed out and recambered, to realign the curve of the bow. There definitely wasn’t time to get all of that done before the wedding. Asher would have to play with a chewed-up bow . . . if the damned dog didn’t snap it in two.
She readjusted her bite, and Asher’s heart nearly stopped when he heard a sickening crunch. He managed to keep breathing as he realized it had a fresh new set of bite marks but wasn’t broken in half. Yet.
He held out his hand. “Give me the bow. Now, you monster.”
He walked slowly toward her. With every step he took, the dog’s stumpy tail gave a little wag. When Asher was about an arm’s length away, he dove again. And missed. Willow scurried under the bed, dragging the bow with her.
“No!” Asher screamed. “This can’t be happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” someone behind him said. “I’m just not sure what it is.”
The princess. Again.
Asher’s eyes closed. Maybe he was having a nightmare. Maybe if he kept his eyes shut, counted to three, and opened them again, he’d be back in New York, miserable and unemployed. Ah, the good old days.
He opened his eyes and once again found himself facedown on the palace’s powder blue carpet.
“Mr. Reed, is there a reason you’re screaming at the floor?” There was no mistaking the amusement in the princess’s tone.
Asher was in no mood for jokes. He rose onto his hands and knees and glared at her. “Yes, as a matter of fact there is. Your beast of a dog is under the bed with my priceless cello bow. And she’s eating it.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. “For the record, she’s not mine. Willow belongs to my mother. Huge difference. Massive. And why does she keep coming in here?”
The princess’s brow furrowed and she bit her plush bottom lip, drawing Asher’s attention directly to her mouth. The subsequent surge of arousal that shot through him caught him off guard. He shouldn’t be turned on while on his hands and knees screaming at a dog. Nor while he was about to lose a couple hundred grand.
“Because the corgis have the run of the place. It’s the number one rule of Buckingham Palace.” He’d shot her own words right back at her. “Or so I hear.”
Her mouth, which, nonsensically, was still the primary focus of his attention, curved into a wry grin. “Touché, Mr. Reed. But Willow doesn’t like anyone, and she clearly likes you. It’s quite odd.”
“I really don’t care. I just need to get my bow back before she destroys it.” He peered under the bed. Willow’s eyes glowed back at him. Asher’s bow, the world’s most expensive chew toy, rested on top of her paws.
He groaned, rose to his knees again, and sat back on his heels. When he glanced up at the princess, he realized she was staring at his bare torso. Again. Specifically, his abs.
He cleared his throat. “Could you stop ogling me long enough to give me a hand here?”
Her face went crimson. Asher had probably shattered every last shred of royal protocol, but he didn’t give a damn. He’d bow, curtsy, or do whatever she wanted once he had his bow back in one unbroken piece.
“Fine, I’ll rescue you one more time,” she huffed, looking anywhere and everywhere except at him. “But you should probably stop waltzing around the palace half-clothed.”
He snorted. God, she was unreasonable. “Duly noted. Henceforth, I’ll try to remain fully clothed in the privacy of my own room at all times.”
“Excellent.” Her kimono billowed behind her as she headed to the other side of the bed. Asher would have made a crack about the fact that she wasn’t entirely dressed herself, but he didn’t exactly mind her satin kimono, silk pajamas, and bare feet. He rather liked them.
Still, he’d managed not to outright stare. At least he hoped he hadn’t.
“Get ready,” she said, plopping down next to the bed. “I’m going to sneak up on her from behind and try to drive her out so you can grab her.”
Asher would’ve preferred not to do the grabbing since he wasn’t altogether sure Willow wouldn’t bite him, but at this point, what did he have to lose? Maybe she’d bite him hard enough so that he’d have an excuse not to play and he could go back home and pretend none of this mess ever happened. He’d probably never get hired for another high-profile gig as long as he lived, but so be it.
“Ready . . . set . . .”
Asher peered under the bed again. He could see the princess grinning at him from the other side, and despite his desperate circumstances, he smiled back at her. He was almost having fun, which was ridiculous.
It had been a while since he’d had fun. A long while. Maybe he’d forgotten what it felt like, because this sure didn’t seem like the time or place for it.
“One . . .” The princess drew out the word for at least three syllables. “Two . . .”
“For God’s sake, just do it.” For all practical purposes, he was begging. He didn’t care. He just needed his bow back.
She yelled “Three!” as she dove under bed, catching Willow off guard. The corgi came charging out from beneath the bed and plowed straight into Asher’s face.
It hurt like hell. Once again, Asher wondered how much Willow could possibly weigh. She looked about as big as his gym bag, but he felt like he’d just been hit by a truck.
He had a mouth full of fur and a raging headache all of a sudden, but he shook it off and checked beneath the bed for the bow.
Nothing.
“Damn it.” He scrambled to his feet, prepared to chase Willow right into the throne room if necessary.
The princess’s cool voice, dripping with self-satisfaction, stopped him. “Tada.”
Asher looked up and found her holding the bow up in the air with a triumphant grin on her face.
“You got it.” And it still somehow resembled a bow. Asher’s entire body exhaled in relief.
The princess’s gaze flitted briefly to his abdominal muscles again, but he chose to ignore it this time. She’d rescued the bow. She could ogle all she wanted now.
“I did indeed.” She examined the bow, turning it over in her hands.
Asher couldn’t help but think she looked like she was holding a sword, ready to touch it to his shoulders and knight him. Clearly getting hit in the face by a corgi had knocked a screw loose in his head somewhere.
She shrugged one elegant shoulder. “It’s got a few bite marks, but the damage doesn’t look too bad.”
They stood on opposite sides of the unmade bed, eyeing one another. A thousand inappropriate thoughts that had nothing to do with the bow he’d been so worried about whirled through Asher’s mind. He crossed his arms to stop himself from reaching out to grab her and toss her onto the crisp white sheets.
Don’t do it. Do. Not.
He waited a beat. Then he inexplicably found himself charging across the mattress like it was part of a very plush obstacle course. He hopped off on the other side, cupped the princess’s face in his hands, and kissed her within an inch of her royal life.
She let out a tiny gasp of surprise, but it was almost instantly replaced with a hungry sigh that was sweeter than any song Asher had ever heard. Then her palms were on his chest, and the thought of tossing her onto the bed suddenly didn’t seem like the most outlandish idea he’d ever had.
Until her fingertips crept lower and he realized that if she was exploring his abdominal muscles it meant she was no longer holding the bow.
Simultaneously, they broke apart.
“The bow!” they both said at once, crouching down to grab it and nearly knocking their heads together.
Asher managed to reach it just before Willow snatched it again.
“Ha!” He waved it in triumph at the corgi.
God, what had happened to him since arriving in London? He was losing his mind.
“That was a close one.” Amelia cleared her throat. Her gaze darted to the suite’s open door.
He’d just kissed her in plain view of anyone walking down the palace hallway.
Yes, but she kissed you right back.
“Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” he said, feeling conspicuously exposed all of a sudden. If mornings in the palace were going to be this chaotic, he should probably start sleeping with a shirt on.
“You can call me Amelia.” She smiled, but the glimmer in her blue-green eyes left him feeling bittersweet. “When no one else is around, I mean.”
“Understood.” He smiled back and pretended he wasn’t disappointed with the qualifier. Because what was he thinking, anyway?
She’s engaged.
She’s royal.
She was a breath away from the British throne.
This is crazy. The past couple months had made Asher into something of an expert on the art of self-sabotage, but being attracted to Princess Amelia Grace Amcott was taking things to a whole new level. Kissing her was another matter entirely.
He took a sizeable backward step.
“Thanks again, Amelia,” he said, placing special emphasis on her first name. “I should let you get back to whatever you have going on today. I’m sure you’re busy with wedding plans.”
“Yes, I am. Quite.” Her beautiful face closed like a book. “Give a shout if you need rescuing again, Mr. Reed.”
“Call me Asher.”
There wasn’t any harm in calling each other by their first names, after all. It didn’t mean anything.
But it seemed to put some of the spark back in Amelia’s eyes as she glided out of the room, all the same.