I pop a painkiller into my mouth out of habit more than anything, knowing that the reason I haven’t needed any was because I was with Ivy.
When Beckett and I make it to the pier for the yacht party, I can already see some paparazzi sneaking around the marina. I don’t know why they bother hiding. It’s obvious they were called here on purpose. This is a photo op. It’s all arranged.
Our bodyguards whisk Beckett and me toward the massive yacht. When we get near the boat, I hear excited shouts behind me.
A limousine pulls up, and Margot emerges. Her hair is gleaming in the sun, and her thin sundress leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses, but she still manages to smile and wave at the cameras. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Does she actually enjoy this? The cameras, the attention, the lack of privacy?
Beckett lets out a sigh behind me. “Damn…”
I glance at my brother, and he clamps his mouth shut, turning his eyes away from my supposed girlfriend. I look back at her as she struts down the pier.
The way the paparazzi clamor for her makes me want to retch. When I see her wave for the cameras, I understand why Ivy was so hesitant to be seen with me. She knows that anything she does could be blown completely out of proportion.
I know that already. That’s the reality I’ve been living, too. I’m the prodigal son who learned to walk again, returning to spread my message of hope to the masses. I’m the miracle boy, healed from his cliff dive. The man who would never walk again, walking.
If I act like anything less than a hero, I get torn apart by the media.
But I’m used to it. Ivy’s not. She still lives her life in the semi-unknown. She’s adjacent to fame, but she’s doesn’t feel the direct heat of the spotlight.
A small part of me wants to respect that. I want to shield Ivy from it all, and let her keep that pure, innocent spirit that she has. Would she have jumped off that cliff if she was worried about cameramen hiding in the bushes?
Maybe not.
Behind Margot, Ivy emerges from the limo. No one snaps a photo of her. No one even seems to notice her.
But I do.
Ripped jeans. White t-shirt. Baseball cap. Sexy, angry scowl. She looks exactly how I feel.
My heart thumps, and all the blood rushes between my legs. The two sisters walk up toward us. Margot hands her purse to her sister before slipping her hand in mine. She reaches her head up to kiss my cheek, and I glance over her shoulder at Ivy.
The dark-haired girl glowers. Her eyes shoot flames at me, and I grin.
Is she jealous that I’m holding Margot’s hand, or is she just scared that I’ll say something about our kiss?
“You look great,” I say to Margot, leading her up the gangway to the yacht’s exterior deck. I can hear the paparazzi shuffling behind us, rushing to get into boats that will follow us out onto Farcliff Lake. Beckett hovers, saying an awkward hello to my date.
Ivy follows. I can feel her movements behind me without even having to turn around. There’s an invisible connection between us, and it takes all my self-control to play the part of a doting boyfriend for a woman I care nothing about.
A few more celebrities and socialites have been invited, and they’re all waiting for us on board. Staff buzz around to everyone, refilling cocktails and passing around appetizers that no one eats.
How my brother Theo thinks this will elevate Argyle’s reputation, I have no idea. But it does allow me to spend the afternoon in close proximity to Ivy, so I’m not complaining.
Ivy slinks behind us, forgotten by everyone except me. I can sense her presence everywhere. When I inhale the scent of seaweed and boat fuel, I can just detect the faint notes of cinnamon and sweetness hovering underneath. Glancing over my shoulder, I see her slip inside the interior of the luxury yacht.
Margot drags me to the bow of the boat, where large sunbeds have been set up. Beckett plants himself on one of them, slipping his dark sunglasses over his eyes. He’s never too far away from Margot. Margot shimmies out of her sundress, revealing a barely-there black bikini.
Beckett lets out a soft groan.
Margot glances at me, adjusting the tiny bikini over her ample breasts. She smiles coyly, and then lays down on one of the sunbeds. I follow her, taking my shirt off and glancing at the upper decks of the yacht.
It feels almost wrong to be here with Margot. I know I’m supposed to. I’m the broken Prince who’s fixed again. I’m Humpty Dumpty, all patched up and better again, and Margot is the belle that’s supposed to be by my side.
An itching sensation starts to grow in my body, starting between my shoulder blades and spreading out through my body. I pat my pockets, feeling for the small pill case that I took on board. When I pop a painkiller in my mouth, Margot glances at me. I can’t see her eyes through her sunglasses, but something about her look makes me pause.
She gulps, and then turns her head to face forward again.
Resisting the urge to scream, I lean back on the large sunbed beside Margot. I’ve done everything I was supposed to. I left Argyle to get fixed. I didn’t complain when my brother stole the woman I loved. I agreed to come to Farcliff when all I wanted to do was go back to Argyle for the first time in five years.
I agreed to be seen with Margot, for the good of the Kingdom.
But now?
Now, all I want to do is break all the rules. I can almost feel Ivy’s gaze through the tinted windows—or am I imagining it?
Margot moves closer to me on the sunbed. A speedboat passes us, full of photographers. Margot leans into me. She arches her back and puts her hand on my chest, angling her face so that the cameras get a good picture. I’m sure her ass will be on full display.
“You’re really playing this up, aren’t you? You and me?” I look down at the actress, putting my arm around her.
She shrugs. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”
I have to hand it to her, the woman is a professional. Margot leans into me as another speedboat passes by. She angles her body just so, and I can already tell the photos will be all over the internet.
She knows what she’s doing.
A part of me respects her for it—Margot doesn’t want anything from me. She’s not asking to be my girlfriend. She knows exactly what to do to get the media excited, and she does it. After the first night, when we kissed and I left her in her room, she hasn’t tried to kiss me in private again.
It’s a job to her.
Another part of me hates it. Here is this beautiful, presumably smart woman, parading herself in a skimpy bikini for the sake of a few photos.
With a sigh, I shift away from her and stand up. Margot glances up at me, eyebrows arched. She nods to the cameras, as if to ask where the hell I’m going when there’s work to do. I don’t have the energy to say anything to her.
This whole experience is exhausting. The yacht, the celebrities, the photographers—it’s all bullshit. It’s all fake. It’s some concocted PR publicity stunt with the sole purpose of making my brother, the King, look good to the people of Farcliff.
Never mind the fact that I don’t want to be in the public eye. Never mind the fact that I have to spend time with Cara every day, pretending to be polite. Never mind the fact that Margot’s preening and posing disgusts me.
I’m craving something real. Something genuine.
Someone genuine.
So, I let my feet take me to the yacht’s inner decks.
The yacht’s main salon has a bar on the bow side, with rich teak wood polished to perfection. Uniformed bartenders wait behind the bar, their bowties straight and smiles painted on. I glance over to the long couches and tables, but I don’t find what I’m looking for.
Poison.
It’s an apt nickname. It feels like she’s injected something into my veins. It makes me feel numb and alive, and it makes me want more, more, more. Her scent swirls around me all the time, and when I close my eyes, I imagine what it would be like to taste
her.
Really taste her.
If she’s poison, then I’m a willing victim.
13
Margot
I try not to let the disappointment sink in too deep when Prince Luca gets up to leave. He doesn’t say a word to me as he walks away, and sourness coats the back of my throat.
Is my ego so bloated that I can’t handle a single guy who isn’t interested in me?
Shaking my head, I let out a sigh. Our relationship isn’t even real. It’s as fake as my nails, and the only reason I’m playing along is because it’s my job, and I’m a professional. With the exposure that my relationship with the Prince will bring, I know the phone calls will start rolling in for the next big role of my career. I’ll be turning thirty in less than a year, and for a man, it might not matter. For a woman in the spotlight?
My crow’s feet are the subject of much discussion.
Anxious thoughts needle at me, and I do my best to blink them away. I think of the white, sealed envelope that I’ve hidden at the back of my closet.
I told Ivy that the results were negative, but the truth is that I’m too chicken to open it up.
Sighing, I lean back in the sun bed as the itching starts at the base of my spine. I know this feeling. Swirling thoughts. Tingling sensation. Churning stomach.
The first panic attack I ever had was three years ago, when I was twenty-seven years old. I was in Hollywood, starting the first day on set for the biggest role of my career. Right before I stepped in front of the cameras, I forgot all my lines from one second to the next. My vision started to tunnel. I couldn’t breathe, and my chest ached like I’ve never experienced before.
Have you ever heard of a film and TV actress who was scared of being filmed?
Yeah, me neither.
Now, I go to therapy every week and I take a cocktail of anti-anxiety medication. It helps, mostly.
But ever since that white envelope arrived in the mail, things have gone downhill. My medication isn’t as effective. My therapist knows I’m holding back.
Every time I knock something over, or fall, or feel my hand trembling, I take it as a sign.
I have what Mama had.
You might think it’s just the anxiety talking. Of course, if you have an anxiety disorder, having a fifty percent chance of developing a degenerative brain disease does nothing to help. But what if I told you that mood changes and things like anxiety and depression are a symptom of Huntington’s, too? It’s a feedback loop that just gets louder, and louder, and louder.
So loud, in fact, that I can’t enjoy the first rays of sunshine of the year, or the fact that I’m on a luxury yacht with literal royalty.
I haven’t even told Ivy about the anxiety, or the sealed white envelope—why would I? She’s always been the good one. The healthy one. The perfect one. She wouldn’t understand what it’s like to be under the kind of pressure I’m under.
Plus, whenever she’s disappointed with me, the way her eyes pierce through me is worse than any panic attack I’ve ever had.
Being famous feels like being locked in a tower, staring at the world below me. It’s luxurious, and well-stocked, and I can have anything I need, but I can never go down to the ground. I can’t walk among the people of Farcliff without being mobbed, I can’t go to the grocery store or go for a haircut without pictures of it ending up online.
I know, I know. I sound like an entitled, ungrateful brat. I’m thankful for everything that I have, and I’m happy that I can provide for Ivy and my father. It’s just sometimes, I wish I was a normal person with a normal life.
I wish I didn’t have to take medication to feel normal. I wish I didn’t have to refuse Ivy every time she offered me a treat she baked for me, just for the sake of staying skinny.
Instead, I’m locked up in a high tower, torturing myself.
“Deep in thought?” Prince Beckett asks from the sun lounger next to mine.
I force a smile. “Something like that.”
The itching at the base of my spine gets stronger, and my fingers start to fidget. I adjust and re-adjust my bikini, trying to ignore the thoughts that are starting to circle in my mind.
“Thanks for those antihistamines,” the young Prince says with a shy smile.
I frown, and then remember. “Oh, at the welcome dinner! Of course.” I nod. “My allergies are bad year-round. I know how painful it can be when you can’t stop sneezing.”
The Prince sits up and moves to the chair next to mine. He waves his hand toward a waiter, who brings over a couple of drinks. I accept one with a smile. Alcohol isn’t my favorite substance, but it’ll do for now.
The drink sloshes as my hand trembles, and I bite down on my bottom lip to stop my mind from spiraling out of control.
“So, what’s causing you so much grief?” he asks, taking the tiny umbrella out of his drink and sliding it behind his ear.
I smile, surprised that a Prince would do something so…normal.
Shrugging, I take a sip of the cocktail. “Just work stuff.”
And the fact that my life is slowly spiraling out of control, and all I can do is watch.
“Is it about my brother not giving you the time of day?”
I glance at Prince Beckett’s face, trying to see any sign of mockery. Was it that obvious that I was offended? Am I that pathetic?
He looks earnest, though, so I smile. “He’s not my type anyway.”
Prince Beckett’s eyebrows jump up. “No?”
I shake my head.
“So, what is your type?” The Prince pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, and I can see a sparkle in his dark eyes. His eyebrow arches. “Perhaps a guy who’s six foot four with abs of steel, a roguish smile, and chocolate-brown eyes?”
He gestures to his body, and I laugh.
“I like ones who wear drink umbrellas in their hair.”
“That’s oddly specific.” He grins, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you always tell people exactly what they want to hear?”
“Part of the job.” I wink.
“Isn’t your job to be yourself? As far as I can tell, everyone loves you.”
I let out a sigh. “My job is to give the public a part of me, every single day.”
“Sounds like my job, too.”
I smile at the Prince, and a quiver passes through my chest. Clearing my throat, I turn away from him. I take a sip of my drink, wishing it were stronger. When I put it down on the small side table beside my lounge chair, tension eases between my eyes. Now, I don’t have to worry about trembling and spilling it.
I’m a mess. I don’t deserve Prince Luca’s attention—or Prince Beckett’s, for that matter.
So, when the Prince turns to me and smiles, I keep my head facing forward. I close my eyes and lay back on the lounge chair, pretending to enjoy the rays of sunshine that warm my skin. I pretend that I can’t sense his movements, and I can’t smell the faint scent of his cologne.
I close myself off from him, just as I’ve closed myself off from every man who ever made advances at me.
It’s the reason that I agree to enter into these ridiculous publicity stunts like dating Prince Luca. It’s the reason I don’t mind being dragged through the tabloids every time I breathe.
If they knew the truth about me, it would be much, much worse.
14
Luca
Walking up the steps to the second floor of the yacht, I do a lap of the luxurious cabins and living rooms, but I still can’t find Ivy. This floor has a dining room at the front end of the boat, complete with another bar, and then a hallway leading back to the bedroom cabins.
The yacht is huge, and well-equipped, and frustratingly easy to hide in.
It’s not until I get to the top deck that I see Ivy, tucked under a small awning. She’s crouched down with her nose tucked into a book, her hat and sunglasses covering most of her face. Unlike her sister, she hasn’t stripped down. The small parts of her skin that are exposed are already starting to turn pink
in the sun.
How this girl and the bronzed, blonde model below could be related, I have no idea.
“Hiding from me, are you?” I sink down onto the floor beside her, stretching my legs out.
“Isn’t that exactly what I told you I’d do?” Ivy swings her eyes over to me. “Tell me something, Your Highness—are you allergic to shirts?” Her eyes sweep down my body, her cheeks turning pink before she turns back to her book.
I grin. “You didn’t seem to mind before.”
“I was focused on trying to stop the blood gushing out of your head.”
“That explains the kitchen,” I grin. “What about the other times?”
Ivy’s lips twitch. “The other times, I was wondering what it would be like to lick melted chocolate off your abs.” She turns her head to look at me. “Is that what you want to hear?”
“That can be arranged. Do you prefer milk or dark?”
Ivy’s cheeks turn red, and she shakes her head. “You’re not supposed to be talking to me.”
“Says who?”
“Says me—and my sister, and my sister’s entourage.”
“Well, the only person I care about out of that lineup is you, and I don’t believe that you don’t want to talk to me.”
I lean my back against the railing behind us, glancing up at the blue sky. Ivy sucks her lower lip between her teeth, and I grin. I’ve only known her a day, and I already know that that small movement is a sign that she’s off-balance.
“What are you reading?”
She closes the book, and I catch a glimpse of the title—something about baking. Maybe some homework the royal pastry chef gave her.
“Is there a reason you’re here?” Ivy demands. “Shouldn’t you be making out with my sister right about now?” She angles her body away from me, staring out at the lake. The tree-lined shore shrinks away from us, and the only sound is the wind whipping around us, the cry of a few seagulls, and the yacht’s motor. Faint music trickles up toward us from the decks below.
Royally Unexpected 2: An Accidental Pregnancy Collection (Surprise Baby Stories) Page 8