All I Ask

by Tamara Lush

  Maybe if I give him some space, he’ll be able to see how toxic my situation is for his career. There’s no reason why I need to stay at his house now; the paparazzi are gone, having covered my court hearing and the first couple of days of my community service.

  For him, the damage is underway, in the form of that Bar investigation. Guilt is eating away at me because of this, and I can barely concentrate on anything.

  I tap on my computer for a bit, checking news sites and Facebook, hoping for a distraction. There’s a Facebook ad that promises the secret of “one little text to captivate a man.”

  Hmm. What if I could text one thing to Tate that would allow everything to be okay again?

  Total clickbait.

  I click and immediately lose ten minutes of my life to a silly video, which seems to withhold the secret of that one important little text. Still, I amuse myself by fantasizing about what to text Tate that would make him love me forever.

  It’s taco Tuesday

  I bought a 50” HDTV, a six-pack of Shock Top and that bean dip you love

  I will let you play with my butt tonight.

  No, none of those things will put a hypnotic love spell on him, especially not if my very existence causes paparazzi to crawl into his life and scrutinize every angle. Which they will if he runs for office. Which they will when I tell the world I’m giving up my title.

  Maybe I should deal with that before I embark on a serious relationship. Get my own royal palace in order, so to speak, before messing up someone else’s kingdom.

  With a heavy heart, I grab my cell and dial Natalia.

  “Hello,” I say in a fake, cheerful voice. “I was wondering if you have any rooms at the resort. For the rest of the week.”

  “Oh! Hey there. You expecting company?”

  “Um. No. It’s for me,” I say sheepishly.

  She lets out a little growl. “Did you and my brother have a fight?”

  “Not exactly. I think we need some space, though.”

  There’s a pause, and I lick my lips while waiting for her to answer. “It’s none of my business, and I presume you know what’s best for you. So, yeah, I do have a room.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grateful. “I’ll be there later today, after my community service. And please don’t say anything to him. I’ll tell him my plans in my own way.”

  I hear Nat inhaling sharply. “I won’t. I promise.”

  If I felt horrible when making that reservation, it’s even worse writing Tate a letter in longhand.

  Dear Tate—

  This is a difficult letter for me to write. I’ve decided to stay at a suite at the resort for a week or two. I think we need some space for a little while. Our relationship has been a wonderful whirlwind but given everything you’re facing, and the chaos I’m causing in your life, I feel we need to think things through. You need distance from me. I also have to work through some details in my own life, and that’s best done alone.

  I will be forever grateful for your help.

  This probably seems like a goodbye letter, but it isn’t. I still want to see you, if that makes sense. Oh, hell, I’m not making sense to myself, I guess. It’s a confusing time for me. And for you, I suppose. We’ve been through a lot in six weeks.

  Please text me when you get this, and we can talk this over in person. If you want, of course. If you don’t, I understand. I’ve put you through so much already. I’m so sorry. I care for you so much that my heart hurts sometimes, and I want to proceed with caution.

  The last thing I want to do is shatter what we have.

  Yours,

  Isabella

  I leave the letter on the island counter, pack my suitcase into the trunk of my rental car, and toss Chunky in the back seat. First, I drop him off as scheduled at Kate’s tiki bar. Even though it’s one in the afternoon, it’s packed with day drinkers and tourists, and I send a silent prayer of thanks to the universe that she doesn’t have time to chat or ask why my eyes are rimmed in red.

  I sniffle away tears as I drive away from the tiki hut.

  Thing is, I love the life I’ve fallen into on Paradise Beach. I adore Tate. No, I love Tate. Fiercely. I’d like to stay here with him, if possible. If he’ll have me.

  I tick off all the things I love about his world. His family. Natalia, Lauren, and Kate have become the sisters I’ve never had. I even like the small-town camaraderie with the locals and don’t mind that everyone knows I’m a princess—probably because no one here seems to give a fig.

  Maybe I’m doing the wrong thing by decamping to the resort. Maybe what we need is a good talk over a bottle of wine. Now I’m more confused than ever.

  At the turtle hospital, I spend the afternoon cleaning tanks. Because the sanctuary helps injured turtles, there are various holding tanks of different sizes, for different types of turtles. Loggerheads go in one tank, box turtles in another, snapping turtles in a third. Today, there are three empty “beds,” which is what the staff calls the recuperation tanks for unfortunate creatures that have been hit by boat propellers, gotten in fights with other creatures, or are tangled and strangled with plastic six-pack rings.

  I scrub the tank sides with long brushes and rinse with hoses, grateful for the manual labor to take my mind off the sadness of leaving Tate’s house. There’s no air conditioner in this part of the sanctuary, because turtles prefer warmer, humid environments.

  By the end of the day, I’m exhausted and dripping in sweat. I also smell like the inside of a half-empty can of tuna that’s been left in the Florida sun for three days in August.

  Back in the car, I blast the air and roll down all four windows. Yikes. I’m ripe. Even the desk clerk at the Paradise Beach Resort gives me an odd glance when I check in.

  So different from when I first arrived.

  “I’ve just been at the turtle hospital,” I say lamely.

  She nods and smiles. “I can smell.”

  Catching a whiff of myself, I cringe. For the first time, I notice that this is the same clerk from when Tate and I met all those weeks ago. “Hey, um, if my man friend comes by, please give him my room number, okay?”

  “Sure thing, doll,” she says, eyeing my dirty t-shirt.

  “Thanks a bunch.”

  I drag my aching body and the suitcase to my room, feeling lonelier by the second. Tate should be getting home soon and will see my note. He hasn’t texted all day, which confirms my worst fears.

  He’s trying to distance himself, I know it. I need to talk with him. I pick up my phone. No messages.

  Please call me ASAP. I think I made a mistake

  As I’m tapping out the text, there’s a loud banging knock on my door. I scowl and set the phone down before sending the message.

  “Who is it?” I call out.

  Bang-bang-bang.

  I check my watch. Maybe it’s him?

  “Tate?”

  No answer. My heart starts to pound.

  I creep to the door and press my eye to the peephole. Then I gasp when I see the raven-dark hair, the sharp cheekbones, and the bloodshot eyes.

  It’s Prince Jacques of Lutzelbourg.

  The man who will eventually be a king.

  The man who is supposed be my husband.

  Twenty-Three

  Isabella

  I’m so shocked that I stand aside and let Jacques ooze into my suite. What is he doing here?

  Wrinkling his nose, he squints and looks around, taking off a ridiculous Tampa Bay Buccaneers trucker hat. I’m not sure if that’s hipster fashion or a disguise, nor do I care.

  He sniffs. The simple, airy décor probably doesn’t live up to his gaudy standards.

  “Hey, princess.” He’s always called me that in an ironic way, and it makes me itchy with annoyance. “I came to talk with you.”

  “Obviously.” I fling myself on the small sofa and glance worriedly out the sliding glass doors of the balcony. Even though my suite is on the second floor, I wonder how many paparazzi have followed hi
m here. “Why?”

  Jacques takes a seat in the comfy, overstuffed sea foam green chair, still wearing a pinched expression on his haughty face. “I was in Miami for a few weeks, hanging out with some friends.”

  He sniffs again loudly, and I realize that hanging out with some friends probably means snorting mountains of coke on some yacht. “Okay. And?”

  “No need to sound so nasty. I’ve been reading about your exploits here on Paradise Beach. Quite entertaining. Especially since I’m usually the one in the papers.”

  “None of it’s true.”

  “Come on,” he smiles. “Not even the part about you doing the humpy-squirty with your lawyer?”

  I cover my eyes with my hand, ignoring his remark because I know he wants to get a rise out of me. He’s done this since we were children, which is yet another reason I can’t marry him. I’d kill him in an instant. Humpy-squirty indeed.

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed you from the turtle place, then charmed the front desk woman into telling me your room number.”

  Allowing my hand to drop onto the sofa cushion, I roll my eyes. Hell. I’d told her to give my man friend my room number. Wrong man friend, though. “Great. I should be upset, but at this point, I’m over it. I have no privacy.”

  He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s amazing what flirtation will get a man.”

  For a few seconds, I study his face, my bitchy, thousand-yard stare firmly in place. I haven’t seen him in…I do the mental calculations. A year? Yeah, it’s been that long. He looks exhausted. Older. He looks like he’s pushing forty, and he’s only a year older than I am. His normally glittering and mischievous blue eyes are dull, and now that I’m paying closer attention, his skin’s a bit sallow looking. Like he’s been in a hyperbaric chamber of cigarette smoke.

  “You okay, Jacques?”

  He curls his lip. “Why?”

  I lift a shoulder. “You don’t look like the sparkling young thing I last saw when we were both at that royal wedding in Luxembourg last year.”

  “Yeah, well, you don’t, either.”

  I glance down and realize I’m still wearing the tan shorts and t-shirt I’d worn to clean the turtle tanks. My shirt is gray and says I LIKE COFFEE AND MAYBE 3 PEOPLE, and the sentiment definitely applies at this very second. And Jacques is not one of the three people.

  “I’ve been working,” I say, smirking. “You know, labor? That thing regular people across the globe do every minute of every day?”

  “Pfft. It’s overrated. You smell like dirt and dead things. Uh, and fish.”

  “Turtles. I smell like turtles.”

  “Whatever. Disgusting. God, you just brought back memories, mentioning that wedding. That thing sucked, didn’t it?” He grins.

  I can’t help but chuckle. “It sure did. But I was quite entertained watching you get blasted on champagne and calling all of those stuffy royal cousins of yours filthy names in three languages.”

  He reaches up and stretches. “I ended up vomiting all over some Earl and his wife. It was a minor scene in the garden, because the Earl’s wife had just unzipped my—”

  “Ooookay,” I say, holding up my hand. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to reminisce about your romps around the storied royal palaces of Europe. What gives, Jacques? I need to shower.”

  I also need to talk with Tate. Finish sending that message. But my phone’s across the room and Jacques’ sudden arrival, as annoying as it is, takes precedence. Unfortunately. He’s never sought me out for anything, so this must be important.

  He stares at me and blinks. Is he coming on to me? I never can tell with him. He’s the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.

  “Jacques, wipe the smirk off your face.”

  “You think I want to fuck you? Please, Isabella. You’re like my sister.”

  I loathe him with every fiber of my being. “Why are you here? Is everything okay? Are my parents okay?” My voice rises in alarm. Surely the royal palace would send someone other than him if they were in trouble. At least I’d hope they would.

  He frowns. “I guess they’re fine. Dunno. Haven’t talked with them.”

  “You came here on your own, or did they send you? What is the purpose of your visit? Chop-chop.” I clap my hands, exasperated. What if Tate’s trying to text me? What if he’s reading my letter right now?

  “Jesus, you’re still bossy.”

  I send a look of pure anger his way.

  “Fine. I’m here to tell you I don’t want to get married. I’m…sorry.” He presses his palms together and takes a big sigh. If I didn’t know him, I’d think he was actually apologetic. He stares at me with a tight-lipped, sad smile. A feeling of compassion burbles in my chest.

  Maybe he is sorry.

  “Well, that’s good to hear. A relief. Because I had no intention of marrying you. So we’re on the same page.”

  “You’re sure?” He looks at me with amazement.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I told my parents a couple of months ago that I wasn’t going through with it. No offense, but you’re not my ideal husband.” I pause. “And I suspect I’m not your ideal wife, either.”

  He clears his throat. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take this. Wow. Thank you.”

  I squint. “You thought I’d be upset by this news?” I almost follow up by shrieking, are you insane, but decide it’s far more polite if I don’t.

  He shrugs sheepishly. “Yeah or that you’d insist out of duty and enlist our parents to win me over because you want to be queen so you can save the whales or some shit.”

  My decorum sails out the window. “You are fucking crazy. No way. I want this less than you do. Trust me.”

  He sags into the chair smiles. “Dunno about that, love. It would be a total scandal if we married at this point, given what I’ve done.”

  “Hunh? Why? Are you going to prison?”

  “You have such little faith in me.”

  I stare at him with a no shit expression.

  “Turns out, I’m already married.”

  A half-laugh, half-snort escapes my mouth. “What?”

  “Did you happen to see the story about me and the lady a while back?”

  “Which lady?”

  “The one in Las Vegas.”

  “Uh, how could I miss that?”

  “Well, apparently I married her on that trip. That night was a little hazy.”

  “How messy. I’m sure you can get it annulled, though.” I wince, then follow up quickly with, “But don’t dissolve your marriage on my behalf.”

  “You know me, Isabella. I love women. This woman, though, there’s something about her.”

  Her ass? Her willingness to be used as a human coke mirror?

  “Oh, really?” I mutter.

  “No,” he says earnestly, sitting forward. “I fell in love with her. Deeply in love. We’ve been together ever since. Haven’t been apart for more than a few hours. In fact, she’s here on Paradise Beach with me. We rented a little beach cottage and are spending a romantic weekend together. After I clear all this up with you, of course.”

  I think my face is frozen in permanent shock. “Oh. Well. How…wonderful for you and…”

  “Gidget. Her name’s Gidget.”

  I nod slowly. “I’m happy for you. Truly.”

  “So, you see, not only can I not marry you, but I don’t want to. Gidget will someday be queen. And she’ll be great at it, you’ll see.”

  Better Gidget than me. I bite my cheek, trying not to laugh while I wonder if this is some joke. Still, it’s a fine and honorable exit for me, regardless of whether this is real or one of Jacques’ drug-fueled fantasies. This is the time to seize the moment, and my mental gears start operating at full speed.

  I can announce the end of my faux relationship with Jacques and renounce my title. It’s a media two-fer, and within a few weeks and several other celebrity scandals, I’ll be forgotten.

  Hopefully.

  “Now we jus
t need to figure out how to tell our parents and the world.” I grin at him, and he returns the expression.

  “Thank you, Isabella. I’m glad you’re being cool about this. I was thinking. Why don’t we do a joint statement from here on Paradise Beach? Let’s bypass the parents altogether and present a united front. We’ll say that we’re parting as friends and are consciously uncoupling or some shit.”

  I grin at him and snap my fingers. “You know, I like you more in the past five minutes than I have in the past fifteen years. Let’s write a statement and plan a news conference. Hang on, let me get my tablet so I can take notes.”

  Over the next two hours, Jacques and I hammer out a news release, going over each point of our “breakup.” Never mind we weren’t ever a couple. In the eyes of the world we were together in some rarified, gilded royal universe.

  We don’t say that he’s already married, or that I’m in love with Tate. There’s no need to drag the two of them into this, we agree.

  “Gidget’s a shy little thing,” he says.

  I clear my throat, wondering if we’re talking about the same woman who allegedly worked at Larry Flynt’s Hustler Club. Decorum prevents me from asking too many questions, and I nod and smile.

  “Of course,” I murmur.

  I make a call to Natalia, asking if there’s a spare room in the resort that we can use for a news conference, because once we send the statement into the world, the media will swarm Paradise Beach.

  She doesn’t ask details about what I’m doing, and I don’t offer. When she says there’s a conference room on the first floor available at ten tomorrow morning, I take it.

  “I’ll pay anything,” I say. “This is quite important. And I’ll cover any additional costs. I have an important announcement to make.”

  “Fine by me. We’ll set up for, what, fifty chairs?”

  I press my lips together and think. If Jacques and I alert the media now, how many will get here by tomorrow morning? “Better make it a hundred,” I say.

  “Good deal. We’ll have staff directing people to that entrance near the room. It’s on the south side of the resort, away from the beach.”

  “Perfect. The last thing I want is to disrupt your business. I’ll make up for any shortfalls, send guests drinks, whatever you need.”