Royal Ruin: A Flings With Kings Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

  Had I just growled?

  The kiss got messy. It got hot. My body felt impatient, strung tight.

  There was a rap at the door. I froze, my stomach dropping ten stories.

  “Madam!” It was my secretary, Haines. “I am sorry to interrupt, but they are ready for you downstairs.”

  Emily fell back, and I opened my eyes, keeping my hands on her face. She was flushed. She blinked rapidly, struggling to catch her breath.

  The look in her eyes—the aroused disbelief, the soft interest—made my heart skip a beat.

  I’d quite clearly kissed her senseless.

  And judging by how tight my trousers had gotten all of the sudden, I quite clearly wanted to do it again. Bloody hell.

  “I’ll be right there,” Emily called back. Her eyes never left mine. She swallowed, the sinews of her throat working against my fingertips.

  This had been a mistake. I didn’t want to hurt her. But weren’t we both setting ourselves up for hurt by kissing like this? Like it meant something? We could never be together. Not for real. Emily knew that, and so did I. I needed a dedicated consort, someone without a past, someone who’d sacrifice her life as she knew it to be with me. But Emily loved her job. She’d fought like hell to keep her business afloat. She’d never give it up.

  But more than that, I had to be with somebody who didn’t make me lose my fucking head like this. When I was emotional, I made mistakes.

  The King of England could not afford to make mistakes.

  I straightened. “This never happened. Okay?”

  Her eyes widened at the same moment her brows snapped together. “Stop it.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Playing the perfect prince. Kit, you can be full of shit with other people. But don’t be full of shit with me. That hurts.”

  There it was again, that fucking ache in my chest. I burned with self-loathing, even as I leapt to defend myself.

  “I’m trying not to hurt you by being the prince. Don’t you see? It’s better that way. I can put some distance between us.”

  Emily shook her head. “Being someone you’re not is never better. I’m not saying what just happened wasn’t wrong. It was. Is. But c’mon, Kit. We’re adults. I can handle the truth, and so can you. So be honest with me. Please.”

  Her voice rose on that last word. Something cracked inside me. The mortar that held the walls around my heart together.

  “All right.” I stepped back into her, the breath coming hot and fast through my nose. “I’ll be honest with you. That kiss wrecked me. Fucking wrecked me, Em. I need to stay in control, but I can’t seem to do that when I’m with you. Look at us! It’s been two bloody days, and already we’re—already this is happening.” I motioned between our bodies. “Maybe I don’t want to be honest with you, because then I’d have to be honest with myself.”

  Emily’s eyes searched mine, open and scared and aroused. “About what?”

  About how much I miss my parents. About how lonely I am.

  About how much I want you.

  Another knock on the door. “Madam! Again, my apologies, but we really must get this show on the road.”

  Emily stepped back. “Let’s continue this conversation later, all right?”

  It wasn’t all right. I didn’t want to talk about this. Emily wasn’t about to let me freeze her out, though. Maybe I didn’t want to freeze her out.

  In my rational mind, I knew I needed to keep my guard up. But I was so fucking exhausted of it all. The bullshit auto-replies. The pretending. The perfect prince rubbish.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Good.” She moved toward the door.

  “Hey, Em?”

  She turned to look at me. “Yeah?”

  “That kiss wasn’t fake. It was real. For me, anyway. I want you to know that.”

  She drew a breath. Then she looked up at the ceiling, shaking her head as she blinked back tears. “Kit, please.”

  Please don’t go there. I knew what she was asking. It was the right thing. The smart thing.

  But hadn’t she just asked me to be honest?

  “I’m sorry. Just thought you should know,” I said.

  Her eyes met mine one last time. After a beat, she opened the door and stepped into the hall.

  I let out a long, low breath and glanced in the mirror. I was flushed. Shell shocked. My eyes flicked to my trousers. Jesus, this had to be the most inconvenient hard-on of all time.

  I had to get a grip. Now.

  For a lot of reasons, I had to get a fucking grip already.

  But my heart would not stop pounding.

  Fuck.

  * * *

  Three changes of clothes, a dozen awkward poses, and a dozen more cups of coffee later, and the photo session finally ended.

  Through the whole bloody thing, I kept waiting for my body to come down from the high of kissing Emily. The feeling eventually went away. But it left in its wake this weird jitteriness, like I’d had one too many cups of coffee.

  This thing between Emily and I—hadn’t we both just admitted it was real? It seemed like a step in the right—or maybe totally wrong—direction.

  Either way, where the fuck did it leave us? Emily could trust me, but I still didn’t trust myself around her. I wanted to. I wanted to be honest with her. But was that a step toward recklessness? Was making that decision in and of itself reckless?

  My grandmother was ninety-one years old. While she was healthy, she’d grown increasingly fragile. God forbid she passed soon, and I was in too deep with Em to fulfill my duty as a man and a grandson and an heir. A far fetched scenario, yes. But it could still happen. And I needed to have my head screwed on straight if it did.

  I turned to look at Emily. We were settled on a sofa in my living room, prepping for the interview portion of the day. Emily had been a trooper, chatting up the photographer, complying with his every request without complaint. Her smile for the camera had been brilliant. But I could see in her eyes that she was confused. Riled up.

  Just like me.

  She yawned.

  “We’re almost done,” I murmured.

  “I know.” She looked at her hands in her lap. “We didn’t have any lawnmower moments today. I’d say that was a success.”

  “You absolutely killed it.” I gently elbowed her. “What was your favorite pose? I think I liked the one where we had to hug and twirl simultaneously in the garden. You think anyone will pick up on how horrifically awkward it was?”

  Emily grinned. She still didn’t look at me. Why did I want her to look at me so badly? “They’ll say that look of terror on your face when you almost fell was just some pre-wedding jitters. Totally normal.”

  “Almost as normal as that photo of us standing arm in arm next to the portrait of my dead great-aunt. I imagine that’s the most romantic shot of the bunch.”

  “A framer for sure,” she said. Her eyes flicked to meet mine. My heart thumped. I saw something there—something vulnerable. She looked torn, like she was waging some internal war. “Listen, Kit—”

  Of course our interviewer picked that moment to enter the room, and we both stood to greet her. Her name was Hazel Radcliffe. She popped up on BBC news every so often, usually with fluff pieces like this one.

  She immediately dove into the interview with a series of softball questions that were mind boggling in their vapidity. This stuff didn’t usually bother me all that much. But it did today.

  “I imagine I’m not the only one who will be surprised by how quickly your relationship progressed,” Hazel said, her unblinking eyes wide with excitement. “What was it that brought you two together? What do you like to do for fun?”

  I pasted on a smile, ready to spout some rubbish about sunsets and shared athletic pursuits. But Emily caught my gaze, her eyes flashing with mischief.

  “We like to do the usual things,” she said, turning back to Hazel. “Long walks on the beach, movies—we only watch romantic comedies, though. They’re Christop
her’s favorite.”

  “Oh, I love romantic comedies!” Hazel said. “Christopher, do you have a particular romcom you like to watch?”

  I glanced at Emily. She was biting back a laugh. “Um…”

  “He really loves The Princess Bride,” Emily answered for me. “And The Beautician and the Beast gets him choked up, every time.”

  Now I was fighting a laugh, too. It probably wasn’t the best idea to laugh during an interview; I’d never done it, at least not for real. But then again, why wouldn’t Em and I laugh? It made sense we’d be giddy with excitement.

  “Every time,” I added.

  Emily glanced at me. “But I think we have the most fun when we’re dancing.”

  “Dancing?” Hazel asked.

  “Oh, yes, dancing,” Emily said. “Christopher can really cut a rug, let me tell you.”

  Hazel turned her unblinking gaze on me. “Is that true?”

  “No!” I laughed. “I’m absolute rubbish at it. It’s a miracle they even let me do it. I’m a hazard to anyone within a fifty foot vicinity. But Emily is a good dancer, truly.” Her eyes met mine. “Her whole face lights up when she’s on the dance floor. And she’s always smiling this massive smile—I adore seeing her so happy, even if she does make me look even worse out there.”

  Emily blinked, a look of uncertainty flashing across her face. Had I gone too far? Pressed another button?

  Or had she seen that I’d meant every word I said? That I’d been honest, just like she’d asked?

  She looked away, smoothing the uncertainty from her features.

  Hazel, however, was lapping it up. “How sweet! Emily, is Christopher always so romantic?”

  Emily grinned, although it didn’t touch her eyes. “Only when he’s in trouble.”

  Hazel threw her head back and cackled. Literally cackled, a gasping, forced sound that was as hilarious as it was disturbing. Emily’s eyes darted to mine, widening. Her shoulders shook. She was trying not to laugh again, which of course made me want to laugh, too.

  I was sort of enjoying myself, actually. I almost felt relaxed.

  Almost.

  Christ, why was I so tightly wound all the time?

  “So,” Hazel said when she’d dabbed her eyes and finished cackling. “Tell us about your work, Emily. I understand you own a business?”

  “I do,” Emily said, her whole being—face, body, mood—perking up at the mention of her work. “I own an interior design firm that I built from the ground up. I started it in my parents’ garage when I was twenty-two years old.”

  “Impressive that you took the initiative when you were so young,” Hazel said.

  “Everything about Emily’s work is impressive,” I said.

  Emily’s eyes lit up as they met mine. “Thank you.”

  “I mean it,” I said.

  She looked at me for a long moment. “I know.” Then she turned back to Hazel. “It hasn’t always been easy. I’ve made a lot of mistakes I wish I could take back. And the hours can be pretty long when you’re your own boss. But it’s worth it, and I have so much fun with my team. How lucky are we that we get to geek out over design all day? It’s been a dream come true.”

  Hazel nodded. “I imagine it’s going to be difficult to give that up when you marry Prince Christopher.”

  My heart contracted. Emily managed to keep a smile pasted on her face, but she blinked, hard, her smile tightening.

  “It will be, yes,” she replied smoothly. “But I’m sure I’ll have just as much fun in my new role. Christopher and his family do important work, and I look forward to helping them with that.”

  Hazel pivoted to wedding preparations next, thank God. I leaned back and watched as Emily charmed Hazel with her self-deprecating sense of humor, her intelligence, her passion. She managed to be silly and serious and earnest, all at once. Her easy confidence was so sexy.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  It was nice, letting someone else take the spotlight for once. Having someone beside me to make this interview go by a little faster, and feel a little less painful.

  I wish I could have her with me for every interview.

  Watching Emily, I weirdly enough found myself thinking about all the women I’d dated in the past—the women who were perfect princess material. I’m sure they’d be just lovely in an interview like this. But that was just it. They’d be lovely and nothing else. They wouldn’t be confident like Emily, or funny, or fun. Emily had so much personality. So much to say. Experience to talk about.

  The realization hit me like a fucking freight train.

  That’s why those perfect princesses never stuck. Maybe what I’d secretly feared all along was really true—that the kind of girl who would stick wouldn’t want to, because she had better things to do than be a princess. Because, like Emily, she lived her own life, had her own passions. Had her own dreams to chase down.

  My heart sank. Was I ever going to find someone? My someone? Growing up, I’d always been grossed out by my parents’ kissing. Their casual, constant touching. Now that I was older, I appreciated it. That stuff had been a sign of a happy marriage.

  The kind of marriage I wanted for myself. But if the kind of girl I could marry wasn’t the kind of girl I’d want to marry…then what?

  I turned and saw Emily looking at me. She smiled. An it’s going to be all right smile. Like she knew exactly what was going through my head.

  Maybe she was being honest. Maybe she really did think it would all work out. But I didn’t.

  I still couldn’t shake the memory of her kiss.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Emily

  Kit had a previously scheduled trip to Scotland with the Queen and Prince Carlton, so I was on my own for the next couple days.

  I buried myself in work. With that first payment sitting pretty in EP Design’s bank account, I paid off all our credit cards (big relief) and began to work on the Pearce project (big opportunity). For the first time in what felt like forever, I was actually excited to sit down at my computer. Even invoices seemed fun after the special hell that the past two years had been for us. Aly and I were so giddy we spent an entire day giggling over brass samples. Brass samples.

  We truly were back in business.

  Work had always taken my mind off things. Probably why I’d thrown myself into it head first after Kit left for Scotland. But despite being super busy, I still found myself thinking about him. All. The. Time. The feel of his mouth on mine. The pain I’d seen in his eyes when I’d asked him to be honest with me. What had he been about to say? I’d been something of an open book so far. But Kit played his cards close to the vest.

  I got why. Was it wrong to ask him to show me his hand? We’d been friends once, although those mornings in section felt like a zillion years ago. I still cared about him as a friend. I needed to nip these feelings in the bud, I knew, but—

  “You kissed him, didn’t you?”

  My head snapped up. I met Aly’s eyes over our laptop screens.

  “You’re about to play dumb,” she continued. “Don’t. Tell me everything. Where. When. The amount of tongue involved.”

  I don’t know why Aly’s sixth sense for my love life still surprised me after all these years. But it did.

  I brought my coffee cup to my lips—like everything this family owned, it was stamped with their crest—and took a long, scalding gulp. We were in Kit’s living room at Primrose. Aly and I had set up shop on a large Queen Anne table in the corner. It was my favorite room in the whole palace. The light it got in the mornings was great, and the view of the sunken garden couldn’t be beat.

  My heart started to pound as I remembered the kiss. That’s what it was now. Not just a kiss, or one kiss, or that kiss. The kiss.

  “It was good, Aly. So fucking good. And it wasn’t us just acting on sexual attraction. There was definitely some of that, don’t get me wrong. But I guess I hadn’t realized how great we got along back in college until we started getting alo
ng again now. If that makes sense. It’s like…the connection, it’s there, it was automatic. I feel safe with him. Which is stupid, because he could crush me. Physically and emotionally. But he’s kind, and he likes bourbon, and he smells really good…”

  Aly tilted her head, studying my face. “You like him.”

  The words were like a sock to the gut.

  Shit. I did. I liked Kit.

  I’d known it deep down. But I hadn’t wanted to admit it. It’d been less than two weeks. I was damaged goods. He was off limits. This was a dangerous game we were playing. It did not have a happy ending. It couldn’t.

  “What are you gonna do?” Aly asked.

  I blinked back the moisture that had suddenly appeared in my eyes. I looked away. Took another sip of coffee.

  “I don’t know.” I met Aly’s gaze. “But he’s a good guy, Aly. Better than Luke, that’s for sure.”

  “That’s not saying much. Literally every guy is better than Luke.”

  I picked my phone up off the table. “Speaking of. He sent me another text.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Stop it. He’s a dick to the bitter end, isn’t he?”

  “Yup.” I scrolled through my texts, holding up the phone when I found it. “Look, here it is. ‘I’m sorry to keep bothering you, but I am so worried about you. Call when you get a chance. Hope all is well’. I mean, what the hell? We haven’t spoken without a mediator in years.”

  Aly shook her head. “So weird. What do you think he wants?”

  I shrugged. Knowing Luke, he either wanted to put me back in my place—i.e., under his thumb—or he wanted his fifteen minutes of fame. He was just shameless enough to hit me up for a favor now that I wasn’t destitute and alone.

  “Who knows.” I put down my phone. “Fuck him.”

  “Fuck him for life.” Aly’s eyes narrowed. “Are you okay, though? Hearing from him like this?”

  I thought about it for a second.

  “I am.” I meant it. A month ago? Maybe not. I’d hated Luke throughout our divorce. But I was still in love with him for some of it, too. We’d been together for nine years. You didn’t just go from loving a person one day to not loving them the next, even when you found out they’d cheated on you. There were times after I’d left him when all I wanted was a text, a call. Something to let me know I wasn’t alone in my misery.