by Tamara Lush
Tate turns, and the worry on his face about his brother is evident. “Damien just got married a few months ago, right before he went to Syria. I can’t imagine what Kate’s going through now.”
“It’s good she has all of you for support.” I set the photo on the island counter.
“Yeah, she’s really become one of us. She takes care of Chunky quite a bit. Oh, and she’s best friends with Lauren. That’s how Max met Lauren, at Damien and Kate’s wedding. Lauren broke her ankle a couple of days before the ceremony, then Max played nurse and fell in love. It was a whole saga.”
I nod, a pang of envy hitting my chest. They all seem so close.
“You’ll get to meet everyone, since they’ll be coming over Sunday for dinner.” Tate pauses, a wooden spoon in hand. “Ah, hell. I forgot about that. Will that be a problem for you, having a house full of my family? Will you be uncomfortable? I’m sorry. I can cancel. I don’t want to upset you.”
“No, no! Don’t do that. I’d love to meet everyone. I mean, unless you don’t want me to.”
“Of course I want you to meet them. They’ll adore you. And they’re not going to care you’re…about your…ah. That you’re a princess. They won’t say anything to anyone. I promise. If there’s a family that doesn’t care about status, it’s mine. Trust me. We’re a little weird, but we accept everyone as is.”
We stare at each other and grin. There’s a definite attraction between us, a sexual tension that’s crackling through the air. This feels like a first date. Or, no, an actual relationship. What is this, exactly? I think the mojitos and jetlag are affecting my judgment. And the hunger. Other than the potato chips at the bar, I haven’t eaten anything solid since my ill-fated granola bar while kayaking.
“Hey, do you want something to drink? Water? Juice? Wine?”
“No more alcohol,” I groan. “Water would be perfect.”
“Good deal. Why don’t you relax on the sofa, and I’ll bring it to you? You’ve had a hella long day.”
I shuffle over to the sofa, where Chunky’s taking up one pillow. When I sink next to him, he rests his block-shaped head on my thigh and instantly falls asleep.
“Glad he’s making himself at home,” Tate laughs, handing me a tall glass of water.
“Tell me how you adopted him,” I say, stroking the soft fur on his back.
Tate walks back into the kitchen and begins slicing vegetables. “I’d raised money for the county shelter by running a half-marathon. When I went to take them the donations, they took me on a tour. That’s when I spotted him in a cage. It was about six months ago. His prior owners dropped him off because they were moving. Can you imagine?”
I shake my head. “Terrible.”
“Yeah and he was pretty overweight. His old owners hadn’t cared for him at all. So I adopted him. Kept his name—Chunky—because he wouldn’t respond to anything else. He’s my wingman, though. Little dude sleeps with me every night.”
All those muscles, a love of the environment, an adopter of dogs.
My ovaries, which before now had been dormant blobs in my abdomen, burst open like roses in spring. Tate looks up from chopping and grins. The ovaries send up a white flag of surrender.
There’s only question left: when is he going to kiss me and take me to bed?
Ten
Tate
Bella has one hell of an appetite. She ate two bowls of my cheesy-mushroom-garlic pasta and is on the sofa cooing about how delicious the strawberries are. I’d sprinkled some sugar on top of the berries and added a splash of cream because Ma once did that, and I thought it seemed classy.
The only other dessert option was the Double Stuff Oreos.
“These are the best strawberries I’ve ever eaten.” There’s a little dot of cream on her bottom lip, and my entire body aches to leap over there and lick it off.
I stay firmly rooted in my chair, a safe three feet away. “Surely your country has delicious berries. Those are just strawberries from here in Florida.”
“We do, but these are amazing. My country’s more known for honey. There’s a beehive on our royal crest.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.” I pause for a beat, feeling uninformed and like a small-town rube. Which compared to her, I guess I am. She eyes her empty bowl. “You can put that on the coffee table. Or do you want more?”
“No. I’m full. Your dinner was delicious. Truly. Thank you, Tate.”
Maybe it’s her royal heritage or the fact she probably went to finishing school, but she’s so effusive and polite about everything.
“I have a confession,” I blurt.
She leans forward and sets her bowl and spoon on the coffee table, then runs her tongue over her bottom lip, erasing the spot of cream. My loins tighten.
“What’s that?”
“I’ve heard of your country, of course. But I never knew that it had royalty. Sorry. I thought I’d bring this up. I feel very un-worldly around you.”
She waves a hand in the air. “Oh goodness. Don’t. Many Americans don’t even know my country exists. And most people don’t know about all the minor European royals.”
“I know about Charles and Diana. And Harry and Meghan. But only because Meghan is from the U.S. and was on that TV show. Well, and because she’s cute.”
Bella grins. “There are a lot of royals beyond the ones in the United Kingdom.”
“Apparently so. I guess as Americans, we don’t pay much attention.”
“It goes against the essence of your country,” she says dryly, and I chuckle.
“What’s it really like, though? Being a princess?” Somehow, after our dinner and easy conversation I feel like I can ask her this question, which has been swirling in my mind for hours. “You seem so down-to-earth.”
She throws her head back and chortles. “Everyone always says that. The tabloids call me the plain princess because I’m so down to earth.”
“What? You’re not plain at all. You’re gorgeous.” I stop myself. Jesus, I need to get a handle on what I say to this woman. She’s my client, and there has to be limits. Not only could I be disciplined for getting too involved with a client, but I’m also about to run for office. I can’t afford any scandals. “I’m not trying to be pervy or anything. But objectively, you’re an attractive human being.”
She rubs her lips together, stifling a smile. Probably thinking about what a loser I am. “Thank you. But in my world, I’m considered different because I don’t just give lip service to my charity work. I spend many months out of the year traveling to help animals and other environmental causes. I like to work, love to be in the field. My particular expertise is organizing and running nonprofits. I only wish I could do it more often.”
I frown. “Then why don’t you? I don’t get it. You’re single, and you obviously have the financial resources to do whatever you want.”
“It’s complicated.” Her gaze goes to Chunky, who sounds like a small, sleeping chainsaw. “My financial resources come from my parents. And they’re insisting I marry.”
“Oh.” I hope my voice didn’t just come out as alarmed as I feel. “Do you have someone in mind? A boyfriend back home?”
“I don’t. Well, not exactly.”
Oh hell. She’s already in love with someone. My stomach, full with pasta and garlic, churns uncomfortably. I’m such an idiot. Of course she’s in love with someone. Probably some rich duke or lord or something. Is a duke better than a lord? I need to read up on royal hierarchy, I guess. “What’s so complicated?”
She sighs. “My parents want me to marry a prince from a neighboring country. It’s a tradition between the two countries. There are strained relations between Montignac and Lutzelbourg, have been for decades. Our parents are pressuring us into a royal wedding. Have for years.”
I hesitate to respond while grinding my back teeth. “I guess I’m not following here. Is this a done deal? And is this an arranged marriage? Why do your parents care who you marry? I read where your brother’s go
ing to be king someday of Montignac. Did they do this to him, too?”
She tilts her head from side-to-side. “Yes, my brother is going to be king, and he’ll be a proper and excellent one. He followed the rules and fell in love with a Dutch princess. Their wedding is scheduled for late next year, which is why the Queen—my mother—wants me married off before the main event. I think she hopes I’ll be pregnant by Josef’s wedding, so our family can dominate the headlines. Fat chance of that, though. I’m the family rebel and the last thing I want is to be in the papers.”
She laughs bitterly and takes a sip of water, then continues. I get the feeling that she hasn’t talked to anyone about this in a while, because she’s getting worked up. Her face is flushed. Or maybe that’s from the drinks at the bar earlier.
“It’s difficult to explain to an American, because you’re not used to our system. Royals are supposed to marry other royals. In that sense, yes, it’s a bit like an arranged marriage. But it’s not a done deal. I can say no. If I do, I lose my title and my allowance.”
I nod. Maybe she’s not the brave and unique woman I thought she was, if she’s considering going through with something like this. Or perhaps this prince is a great guy, and she figures she’ll eventually love him.
“But here’s the thing,” she cries, her formerly serene expression suddenly animated and enraged. “On one hand, I’ll be able to do so much good if I marry him and am queen. All of my projects will be funded, and I’ll have the world’s stage to promote awareness about whatever I want. Elephants, endangered species, climate change.”
“And on the other hand?” I lean forward in my chair. This is quite a cluster fuck, from the sounds of it.
“Prince Jacques de Rousseau of Lutzelbourg is a total, unmitigated, douchebag.”
The word sounds harsh in her formal accent and my eyebrows lift in surprise. “Why do you dislike him so much?”
My stomach is definitely sour now. I don’t know who this Prince Jacques de Whatever is, but I already hate him.
She turns in my direction and bends her knees so she’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “Let me count the ways. He’s been arrested for fighting, drunk driving, and drunk boating. Once I went to a party with him and the tabloids printed false rumors about me, that I did drugs with him. Oh, and he does lots of drugs, for real. His last exploit happened in Las Vegas, when he snorted cocaine off a woman’s butt.”
“I see why the two of you would be incompatible.”
She stares at Chunky. “And it’s not just that. He’s everything I hate. He’s entitled and arrogant. He throws money around and doesn’t care about anything but parties and clubs. We’re total opposites. My mother thinks we’ll eventually be great together because we’re opposites, but that’s not going to happen. I don’t want to be forced into marriage with a man like that. I want someone I respect. Someone kind and chivalrous. Someone with whom I share the same values. About animals and the environment and…”
She looks up, into my eyes. The meaning of her words, the tension, and our attraction, suck up the oxygen in the room. And holy fuck, it’s terrifying.
Because it’s pretty clear we’re meant for each other. Except that one little problem: I’m her attorney. At least for now. Okay, and one other issue: she’s a princess who is almost engaged to another man, it sounds like.
“That’s quite a dilemma,” I murmur, my heart plunging into my stomach at the thought of her being with a guy she doesn’t even like.
All I want is to take her into my arms and kiss her. Tell her that she doesn’t need to marry that prince. That she never needs to leave my house. That I’m the man she’s been looking for.
Which, considering we’ve known each other for all of forty-eight hours, is absurd. She’d probably run screaming from here if I said any of this out loud. I reach for her bowl, stacking it into mine. An uncomfortable silence settles between us.
“May I have another glass of water?” she asks, her voice trembling.
“Absolutely.” I jump up, eager to do something, anything, than what I’m about to do. Which is make a fool of myself. “I’ll wash these dishes, too.”
I busy myself in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher, carefully wiping down the counters. Maybe I should just lay it all on the table with her—tell her I’m attracted to her but I can’t do anything while I’m her lawyer. That I’m interested but we need to wait.
She’ll understand, right? Or will I scare her off?
I pour glasses of water for both of us and return to the sofa. “Bella, I thought I’d clear the air—”
I glance down. She’s stretched out on the sofa, eyes shut. A faint snore escapes her lips. Her hair’s spilling down the cushion, and her dark eyelashes graze her cheekbone. And the freckles on her nose, holy hell. Sexy as all fuck.
Chunky’s nestled into her bare calf, and he’s snoring too. I set the glasses of water on the coffee table.
“Bella, why don’t we get you into the guest room,” I murmur.
She doesn’t respond. Gently, I slide my arms under her body. Chunky lets out a growl that sounds more like a pig’s snort. “Shh,” I whisper to him as I lift Bella up.
I carry her into the guest room, Chunky following close at my heels. Inside the room, I lay her on the bed and cover her with a fluffy white blanket.
She lets out a little groan and mashes her face into the pillow while rolling onto her side. The achy longing inside me is back with a roar, mixed with a deep desire to spoon her body and fall asleep. As I turn to walk out, I notice that Chunky’s sitting at the side of the bed, looking up expectantly.
He whimpers.
“You want up?” I hoist the dog onto the bed, and he curls up against Bella’s stomach. Normally, he sleeps on my bed, but his allegiance has obviously shifted.
I chuckle silently to myself and walk out. Damn dog’s luckier than I am. Guess I’ll be sleeping alone tonight.
Eleven
Isabella
The morning light doesn’t filter into my room in a gauzy haze.
It blasts, laser-like, squarely into my face.
Squinting and rubbing my eyes against the blinding sunshine, I roll onto my back. Oof. What time is it? I don’t think I’ve slept that deep in forever. And why didn’t I shut the curtains before I went to sleep?
Looking down, I realize I’m still in the cotton dress I’d worn out last night. Hunh? Something else I never did—fall asleep in my clothes. How did I get in here? My last recollection was talking with Tate in the living room, eating those delicious berries, and then… passing out on the sofa.
Tate.
I rise and stretch, feeling unusually refreshed and smiling at the idea of Tate carrying me in here. I spend the next few minutes unpacking my bag and showering in the en suite.
It’s shocking how eager I am to see him, as if we hadn’t spent several hours together the night before. Now dressed in a crisp pair of khaki shorts and a clean white t-shirt, I bound out of the room.
The kitchen’s empty. So is the living room. My heart lurches. Where is he?
My gaze lands on a piece of paper on the island counter. I pad over and scoop it up, taking in the blocky handwriting.
BELLA-
I’m so sorry, but I had to go to the office this morning to take care of some things. I might be a little while. Didn’t want to wake you after the day you had yesterday.
There’s fresh coffee in the pot and probably enough food for you to forage breakfast and lunch. If you need something specific, text me, and I’ll pick it up on the way home. I was thinking we’d cookout tonight.
Please make yourself comfortable and relax. Eat anything in the cabinets or fridge. The pool’s warm, the beer’s cold, and the books are plentiful. There are magazines stacked on the table near the front door.
— T
P.S. I took Chunky with me. Bad idea. He misses you already.
I re-read it several times, grinning stupidly. I love his casual openness, his generosity,
the way he cares about my comfort. Is it because he’s American—or are those his own unique qualities?
I wander over to the table near the front door to scan the five-inch thick stack of magazines. NatGeo, Science, Discover. Somehow it’s charming that he reads in print. Several of them are crinkled and dog-eared, and I imagine him studying each one with an intense, handsome expression.
My purse is also on the table, and I root around inside for my phone. I flick it on, figuring I’ll text a thank you to Tate. But I’m assaulted with texts.
My best friend Poppy wants to know how it’s going with Tate. The manager of the elephant conservatory sent a photo of a new birth. And my mother.
Ugh. I roll my eyes.
Call me right now, young lady.
Screw that.
I saw the reports of your arrest. You’re a disgrace to this family.
My stomach roils. So the story of my arrest is out. Wonderful. I tap over to my email, where I’ve set up a Google search on myself. Yep. There they are. Multiple tabloid stories about me and the alligator. Some are accurate, quoting only the arrest report, while others…
I chortle out loud, reading one story that claims I’d wrestled an alligator in a swamp and then kicked an officer in the crotch. Sinking into the sofa, I can’t stop my giggling. It’s too much.
Mother, it’s true. I wrestled an alligator. And won. That’s what I’ll do to Jacques if I have to marry him, I text, hooting with laughter. Maybe I’ve gone crazy, but knowing my message will incense Mother even more is part of my joy. I imagine myself wrestling with Jacques, submerging his head in murky water.
Me? Wrestling an alligator? I have to admit it sounds kind of badass. Even if it’s something I’d never do in a million years.
Mother doesn’t respond, and I don’t expect her to. More than likely, this will shut her up for a day or so.
I screenshot the article and text it to Tate. He responds quickly.