I spent my days putting together high stakes business deals. She spent hers training as a princess impersonator. At the end of each day we both needed to unwind. For close to ten days we fell into a routine of going out to eat every night. We alternated cuisines and venues.

Hot dogs at the White Sox game—her pick. I attended my first baseball game, learned about the 7^th inning stretch and kissed Vivian for the first time.

Tapas at Café Segovia in Old Town—my pick. I told her about my family’s bloodline going back to Spanish, Portuguese and German royalty. She confided that when her parents died in a motorcycle crash she wasn’t sure how she was going to make it.

Cheeseburgers at Billy Goat Tavern on Lake Street—her pick.

I looked at the plastic wrapped menu. “What should I get here?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“No.”

“‘Cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger, no fries. Chips,’” she said. “Saturday Night Live. John Belushi. Do you live under a rock in Bellèno?”

“No,” I said and laughed for the first time in ages. “You make me happy, Vivian. I haven’t felt this happy in a long time.”

“Good. As long as I don’t have to teach you everything.”

My driver parked a block and a half away to give me privacy as I walked Vivian to her apartment. There were no stars in the sky this muggy night. Just heat. Desire. Want.

“Vivian, are you going to ask me in tonight, love?” I tilted my head to better stare at her ass when she bent forward and wiggled her key in the door of her walk up.

“Not tonight, Prince Maximillian.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled.

“Stop calling me that. It sounds ridiculous falling from your lips.”

“You prefer I call you Hot Ginger Prince?”

I was torn between tackling her and tickling her, or tackling her and fucking her. But I was an adult. I could restrain myself. I could show a modicum of decency, although try telling that to my perpetually hard cock. “I will kill you if you call me Hot Ginger Prince.”

“Hot Ginger Prince it is. Night.” She giggled and closed the door firmly behind her.

For ten nights I went back to my suite and beat off in the shower. I imagined her naked, wet, squeezing her beautiful breasts together, saying, “I want you to come on my chest, Hot Ginger Prince.”

And I’d say, “I’m going to fuck your pretty tits. And then I’m going to bend you forward and fuck you so hard you’ll forget all those ridiculous words for good, Vivian. I’ll make you climax over and over until you promise to never call me Hot Ginger Prince ever again.”

In my fantasy she laughed and said, “Game on.” And after worshipping her tits with my cock, I bent her forward and grasped her hips. I pulled her ass in the air, teasing her clit with a finger or two, then rubbed my length back and forth against her moist pussy until she moaned, the heat almost too much to restrain for the both of us. She begged, “Please, Max, please put your dick inside of me, now. Fill me. Fuck me. Make me see stars.”

Check. Check. Check. In my dreams.

One night we went for breakfast at Ann Svenson’s, a Swedish diner that baked homemade cinnamon rolls with icing drizzled on top. Her pick. One bite and my eyes rolled back into my head.

“Admit it,” she said. “That’s an orgasm on a bun.”

I waggled my eyebrows. “I’ll show you an orgasm on a bum.”

“Not on a bum, Prince Sex on the Brain. A bun.”

“Let’s do both and then make up our minds. I already know which I’d prefer.”

And just like that, nearly two weeks in Chicago flew by. The Crown Affair had started off as an idea. I lucked out when I stumbled across Vivian at MadDog. I was thrilled that Catherine had seen fit to hire her, and over the moon that she had been trained so well in all things necessary to be perceived as royal.

One tiny problem.

I was developing feelings for her.

A bigger problem.

I couldn’t let that get in the way of why we’d hired her.

I still wanted tonight to be special, something she’d remember if I saw her in passing in Bellèno.

Our five star Italian dinner at Castellamare on Taylor Street in Little Italy was not only special because Vivian had now graduated from princess training school, it was likely our last unencumbered, uncomplicated night together. Tomorrow was her free day to clear up loose ends, attend to her personal life, and do whatever she wished. If all went according to plan, my darling Vivian would be leaving for Bellèno in less than forty-eight hours with Mr. Cartwright and stuffy Zara to chaperone her.

Castellamare was old school, tiny, and used to be someone’s living room. It usually took months to get a reservation but I called in a favor and one of my banker pals pulled some strings. The tuxedoed waiter dropped off the first course. Vivian swirled her a fork in the creamy pasta, lifted it to her mouth, and took a bite. She paused, confusion crossing her face. “This is what fettucine burrino is supposed to taste like?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It tastes nothing like the stuff in the box.”

I smiled. “No, it doesn’t. You’d be surprised what other items, once unwrapped, taste like.”

“Are you talking about the chicken rustica?” She closed her eyes, savoring the dish.

I stared at her lips. “The chicken rustica’s the best I’ve had since I visited Milan a few months ago. But no. I was not thinking of the chicken rustica.”

“You’re spoiling me, Max.”

“I want to spoil you more. Give me a chance. Say the word.”

She pressed her napkin against her lips, set it on the table, and looked at me. “Word.”

“Wait.” I shook my head. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“I’m serious. Word.”

“Prince Maximillian Rochartè? Your Royal Highness? Is that you?”

I startled and turned to the sound of the voice at the next table. My heart sank. Someone had finally recognized me.

“Yes, so good to see you, Phil, yes? Phil Constantine?”

“You remembered,” he said. “Pleasant surprise to see you here. What are you doing in Chicago?”

“What I’m always doing. Business.”

“When was the last time we stumbled across other?”

“The party at the consulate?”

“Which one?”

“Balls if I know.”

He laughed, and gestured to curvy, short brunette with a cute face to his left. “Might I introduce my fiancé, Angela Katsaros.”

“Lovely to meet you, Angela. This is my friend and business associate… Lady Catherine Fontaine.”

Vivian looked at me, eyes widening.

Show time.

She nodded to Phil.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Fontaine,” Phil said.

“And you.” Vivian smiled.

“Lovely to meet you, Lady Fontaine,” Angela said. “Are you in town for business as well?”

“You could say that,” Vivian said, glancing at me.

Angela turned to Phil. “Honey, our party tomorrow?”

“Right,” Phil said. “Angela’s parents are hosting our engagement party at Athena’s. It’s a last minute invitation, I know, but we’d love it if you’d stop by.”

We’d be honored if you made an appearance,” Angela said.

“Cici calls the shots. I’m practically at her beck and call these days,” I said.

“Don’t exaggerate, Max,” Vivian said. “We’d love to attend your engagement party.”

“Aren’t you getting ready for a trip?” I asked.

“Love should be celebrated. We can make time for a celebration of love.”

“Great,” Phil said. “I’ll message you the details.”

---

I held Vivian’s hand as we made our way from the car to the front stairs of her walkup apartment. “Word?” I asked.

“Words have come and gone. Replaced with the harsh reality of work.”

“I missed my moment?”

She released my hand. Hers lit on the wrought iron rail, its paint peeling from wear. I gazed at her a bit moonstruck as she put her key in the lock. “Come on, Vivian. Ask me inside tonight.”

“Not tonight, Max.”

“We won’t have forever, you know.”

She met my look. “That’s what scares me.”