My thoughts swirl, the room tips. I bring another shot of cognac to my lips and swallow. "Don't be dramatic, Grandmum. I've just gone on a little trip. Even working royals are entitled to a holiday every now and then. Maybe you'd benefit from a little escapade yourself. Just you and George. Y'know, the old lad who maintains the west wing gardens. He gives you the googly eyes every time you trample through the geraniums when you're on the phone with the Foreign Affairs Minister.
As expected, she growls and I imagine her cold, pale fingers going white as they strangle the bejewelled receiver of her office telephone. I know she'd rather be strangling me.
A working royal’s primary duty is to assist the Queen in the fulfillment of her functions as monarch. The royal family must at all times be the picture of unity, stability and philanthropy, and most importantly, we must be the moral beacon for our people. But after the mistakes I’ve made and with all the secrets I’m carrying, I’m not suited for that role. Pretending that I am is nothing but hypocrisy, boldface deception.
“You're entitled to a holiday, hmm?" she grits out. "Your entitlement is one of your many grand flaws, chap. Here I am with one foot through death's door. Meanwhile my heir is on holiday. No wonder the Brits won't stop laughing at us."
By now, I'm gulping straight from the bottle. “Now Grandmum, remember what your life coach told you about comparing yourself to the Brits. Your self-worth should not be measured as a function of Queen E.’s popularity.”
Oh, I know how to push her buttons. She does not like to be reminded of those sessions with her life coach.
An explosion of anger erupts on the other line. "At this point, you're best to worry about your relationship with the Brits because after this little stunt you've pulled, you might find yourself writing to 'Queen E.’ in search of asylum."
Ouch! Fighting words…
My voice sags under the weight of my defeat. “I needed space, Grandmum. A little time to myself. With all the things that have happened over the past few years...”
There's a heavy pause. It stretches on and on and I know that the Queen is softening on the other side of the Atlantic. She may be iron-fisted with Ridgeland's enemies and unwavering in her support of our allies but when it comes to her family, the most powerful woman in Ridgeland has a weak spot. I don't care if it makes me a bastard, I'm going to exploit it.
She sighs. “Where on Earth are you, boy?”
“I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry. I just…I need a little more time.”
"Life doesn’t care if you’re ready, Xavier. This is bigger than your whims and your moods. An entire nation relies upon this family. Upon you. Their trust is a privilege we've been granted. One that's been passed down through the ages. This royalty business is not for the faint of heart. You don't take this responsibility seriously."
Her frustration. Her disappointment. It gets to me.
"Grandmum—"
She cuts me off with a long bout of coughing. “My health isn't improving, chap. You have to be ready...” Her words sound ominious, too heavy.
I joke to lighten the mood. "Well, my father is next in line to the Throne but if the worse should happen—god forbid—and I'm still not ready, there's always Lady Victoria..."
Lady Victoria is my eight-year-old sister, the daughter that my father spawned with Youthful Bride Number Three, the royal brat my step-mother faults with ruining her dance choreographer body.
I nearly hear the Queen's eyes roll from all the way over here. "No offense but the child still shits her knickers. She's got a long way to go. At this point, she’s better suited to sitting on a potty than sitting on a throne."
"Are you discriminating against nappy-wearing monarchs, Grandmum?"
She snorts irreverently. "Oh, I might need some nappies of my own if you don't get your bottom back here and rid me of that Ethel woman. She's annoying as hell." I laugh and she coughs again. It’s a sound that rattles me to my bones. “I need to go rest," she says suddenly sounding very weary. "I have a few engagements this evening that we weren’t able to postpone.”
We say our goodbyes and Grandmum hangs up.
I’m left feeling the suffocating press of my birthright, the crown, the throne. I won’t be able to run from it forever.
My grandmother is right. Being a royal is a privilege, an honor. An opportunity to shape the future of a nation. And someday soon, I’m going to need to man up to that responsibility.
But as for today, my priorities include imbibing this bottle of cognac in its entirety.
A few hours later, as I’m snuggled against the toilet with nausea roiling my belly and my cheek propped up on the seat, the only thought pulsing in my throbbing brain is, Ethel’s arse was here…Ethel’s wrinkly, nappy-wearing arse was here. Ugh.
This royalty business is not for the faint of heart.
5
Sadie
I’m exhausted after a long day at the cupcake shop and all I want to do is crawl under my blankets with a box of donuts and watch cat videos on the internet until I pass out in a Boston cream coma.
But my entire wardrobe has been sitting on the floor in the corner of my bedroom for days (weeks...?) now. I’ve been too busy with work to see about laundry and cleaning and all that other domestic stuff but it’s starting to backfire.
Rule of thumb—when you find yourself rollerblading to work in the heat of summer wearing a pair of pleather booty shorts paired with a long-sleeved flannel men’s pajama top whose legal owner you cannot accurately identify, then you might want to set aside some time to throw a load or two in the washing machine.
In any case, this mountain of dirty laundry can’t be put off any longer.
I dump up all the clothes into my laundry basket and pop on my headphones, the scratchy sound of a Steven Tyler ballad keeping me company. I toss a few course manuals on top of the load, too. I may not be in school this semester but I won’t allow myself to fall behind. Being able to afford tuition is out of my control at this point, but making sure I keep up is not. Excuses won’t stand in my way.
Propping the laundry basket on my hip, I lock my front door and trudge down the shaky staircase to the laundromat on the ground floor.
As I step onto the gravelly sidewalk, my heart catches. My eyes lock on the tall muscular form exiting the fried chicken restaurant next to the laundromat. Man, he looks good. Thick, dark hair. Long, lean muscles. Even in a worn-out T-shirt, faded jeans and god-awful double-strap open-toe dad-sandals, Xavier has this air of confidence, importance about him. His presence is overwhelmingly commanding. I can't look away.
I’m tempted to run, to duck back into my apartment but I won’t. I promised myself I’d stop acting weird around him. He’s just a guy. Guys don’t intimidate me.
Usually.
All I know is, now, I’m wishing I’d brushed my hair sometime in the past 48 hours or that I was wearing something other than my psychedelic tie-dye T-shirt and the pair of marijuana-print boxers Cobi left behind after his mom got mad at him for ordering them online. Jesus, I have redefined hot mess.
At least the swelling around my eye has gone down and my hair color is starting to grow on me. So, I can be grateful for that.
Xavier steps out of the doorway and right there on the sidewalk, he rips open the brown paper bag in his hand. He grins to himself as he brings the food to his nose for a sniff.
The ravenous look in his eyes as he lifts the lid and peeks into his bucket is really freaking cute. I want to make a gif out of it and watch it on replay all night long.
He reaches in and grabs a juicy piece of meat and now, he's nearly salivating to tear into the crispy drumstick.
I cringe. Poor thing.
I should probably mind my business, just head into the laundry place and wash my dirty clothes as planned but I experience this momentary pang of humanity—a nudge of conscience—where I forget that he's a charming jerk and that being anywhere near him turns me into a ditzy, embarrassing, klutzy shadow of myself. I sta
nd rooted in place.
My heart thumps as he gets closer. “I wouldn’t eat that if I were you." I pull my headphones from my ears and shove them into my pocket.
Xavier’s hand freezes midair, fingers clenched around the fried chicken leg. His head snaps up, a lock of his perfectly messy hair falls over his brow and those dark, intense eyes immediately find mine. “Why not?” he challenges, his tone sort of defensive. And now I feel bad for interrupting his meal. He practically has drool hanging from the corner of his lip.
But my stomach roils with revulsion as the unpleasant memory floats back into my head. “Let’s just say that the last time I ate from that place, the bugs didn't start crawling out until I was almost at the bottom of my bucket of chicken tenders…I wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone.”
I don’t wait for his reaction. I just turn in the direction of the performers busking outside the laundromat and when I yank open the door, that over-scented laundry detergent smell rushes out to greet me.
I hear Xavier retching loudly from somewhere behind me. He rushes into the stuffy, humid building after me and his box of fast food goes sailing into the trashcan next to the coin machine. “Thanks for the heads up.” I peek over at him and he looks a little green in the cheeks.
I bite back a laugh as I set my laundry basket on the table opposite an empty washer. “Sorry," I say, my choked giggles muffled by the whirr of a washing machine that's already in use. "You looked like you really wanted to eat that.”
He mutters to himself as he goes over to the vending machine in the corner. "Well, chicken tenders are ruined for me. For life. That's for sure."
Though I should be focused on sorting my clothes into piles, I find myself staring at the expanse of his shoulders as he scans his drink options at the vending machine.
I’ve always been a sucker for broad shoulders, wide backs. So strong and masculine. I pride myself on being a tough girl, on not needing anyone but me. Still, there’s a little part of me that romanticizes the idea of a big, strong man who can protect me. A man who can wrap his towering, muscular body around me and make me feel precious, cared for. I guess it's sort of an innate craving, buried layers beneath my hard exterior. Xavier has a way of stirring that silly fantasy to life the way no man ever really has.
This feeling is all kinds of confusing. It's just the way he carries himself, like he has the power to command a damn army, like he expects the world to bend to his will.
I want to be at the mercy of all that masculinity.
Would you look at that? I just discovered a new fetish. I learn something new about myself everyday.
I watch as he pops some change into the machine and two bottles of water roll out. Then, he moves on to the snacks. “Biscuits or crisps, darling?” he calls over his shoulder.
I blink, confused. “Biscuits or crisps?” My gaze moves to the assortment of junk food displayed behind the glass and I laugh. “You mean cookies or chips?”
He turns fully to face me, looking pretty damn annoyed. “Look—I am a starving man. A man who’d had his heart set on having a bloody good box of chicken and chips with a whole lot of catsup and gravy. You’ve robbed me of that pleasure by telling me about the damn bugs. Don’t make my life any harder, Sadie…Biscuits or crisps?”
I laugh because he's sort of adorable now that he's pissed. “Neither.” I dig into my basket and start piling my laundry onto the table. Being around him makes my stomach way too tense to eat.
“You sure? Don’t be shy now.”
“I’m sure,” I tell him as I toss a pair of stained socks onto the white pile. "Sadie Nichols is many things. Shy isn't one of them." That is such an understatement.
“So what’s the problem?” His gaze moves over me, settling on the wide swell of my hips. My stomach flutters at the blatant scrutiny. “Don’t tell me you’re doing keto. Every woman I know is doing keto.”
I lift a brow. “Keto? Is that the diet where you’re supposed to deprive yourself of carbs for a whole thirty days and be expected to not go on a countrywide hangry spree, riding around on a mobility scooter and flinging stale bread and burnt taco shells at unassuming strangers? I wouldn’t be able to handle that. I require frequent consumption of donuts for my sanity. Nope. No keto for me.”
“Oh, thank you for the vivid imagery,” he says with lifted brows. “Never trust a person who willingly gives up carbs.” He flashes another one of those smug half-smiles which does nothing to dull the prominent throb at my apex.
An easy laugh floats past my lips as I try to play it cool. "Agreed."
Xavier strolls across the scuffed linoleum floor, over to my table and slides a bottle of water to me. And it’s completely pathetic that my stomach clenches a little bit at the gesture. But when a girl is used to guys being complete assholes, the smallest acts of chivalry take on undue significance.
He hops up onto the table, perching beside my heap of tighty whities. The loud cracking snap of him uncapping his water bottle fills the room. With his head tipped back slightly, his eyes move over my dirty underwear as he swallows a gulp of water. A cloud of self-consciousness moves over me.
Awkward.
We’re alone in a laundromat. And he's staring at my dirty underwear collection. My body is way too buzzed up to handle this. Because who hasn't fantasized about getting tossed up onto a washing machine and fucked hard during the spin cycle? Or being bent over a dryer, its warmth seeping into your skin as you get pounded from behind?
...Just me? Never mind, then.
Xavier's attention is riveted to what I'm doing. “So you’re separating them by color. Hmmm…That’s an interesting concept." He looks genuinely intrigued, like he thinks I just discovered a new law of physics or something.
I furrow my brows at him. Men can be so clueless. “Well, yeah…I don’t want the colors to bleed into each other.” I pick up a white T-shirt and hold it up to him. “I wouldn’t want this getting a pink tint to it by washing it with this.” I hold up a pair of electric pink leggings in the other hand. “So, I separate them by color. I didn’t come up with the idea.”
Just then, a stern-looking middle-aged guy enters the building. Black button-down. Black pants. Black shoes. He looks pretty good for an old guy. He and I exchange a polite nod in greeting as he heads for the washer that just completed its spin cycle.
Xavier doesn't seem to notice the man because he's completely mystified by what I’m doing. He hums thoughtfully. "I never considered that. Bleeding colors. Is that something that happens often?"
That's when it dawns on me. Seriously? I lean a shoulder against an empty laundry machine. “Wait—have you never done the laundry before?”
He smiles impishly and gives his head a little embarrassed shake. “No.” He shoves a potato chip into his mouth.
An involuntary snort pops out of the man loading his clothes into a dryer. Xavier glares at him for a fraction.
Dread settles in my stomach. There are only three types of men who don't do their own laundry...
“Well, you either have a very committed long-term girlfriend or you’ve been paying your maid very well. Or, worst of all…” (Cobi's face tumbles across my mind) "...you still live with your mother."
He tosses his head back and mirth flows free from his throat. "Well, my mother hit the hills before I even knew how to wipe my arse. I haven't seen the bitch since I was an infant. So no, I don't live with my mother. "
That bit of information scalds me. I know from personal experience how much that hurts, how the forced laughter and the dry humor are only masks to cover up the pain. "My mother left when I was a baby, too." I don’t laugh when I say it.
Immediately, Xavier's expression grows somber. "Sadie...I'm so sorry, sweetie." He reaches out and his fingers curl around my bare forearm. I can tell the gesture is meant to be comforting but the tingling contact makes me jolt. Damn—this guy really gets to me.
But I don't want this conversation to get heavy. I don't want to be confronted by de
mons I'm in no mood to face. I deflect the conversation. "So...girlfriend or maid?"
His expression snaps back to playful. His eyes bore into mine. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. “No girlfriend,” he tells me, his accented words rough and deep and rich. Smirking, he gobbles down a few more chips.
No girlfriend. My overeager body likes that news a little too much for my own good.
“So, you have a maid?” I say knowingly.
He just sort of glances away. “Yes, the maid takes care of the laundry.” He almost looks ashamed.
"Hmmm…” I turn my attention back to the pile of laundry in need for sorting.
"What?" he asks, the word tinged with defensiveness and a hint of laughter.
"Nothing," I say and I just keep sorting the blacks from the reds, struggling to maintain a non-judgmental expression.
He’s not gonna just let this go, though. “What?" he insists. He scoots his butt across the table, coming so close that his leg grazes my hip. The tiny hairs on my thighs stand at attention.
My breath catches and my eyes flit to his. The look on his face is perfectly demanding and a confession tumbles from my mouth. "I sort of just knew you were a rich boy. From the moment I met you, I knew it...that's all." I round the table to put some much-needed space between us.
"What does that mean?" He’s trying to look offended with his eyebrow quirked high and his nostrils flared.
"You're pampered." I return. I know I’m provoking him.
The man in the corner grunts ironically. Dude is totally eavesdropping on our convo with no shame. So rude.
Xavier and I exchange a look, then we scoot a couple inches away from the nosy guy. Xavier’s eyes drop to the floor. “That isn’t a totally unfair statement, I suppose.” The words sound hesitant and laced with the slightest amount of shame.
I don’t mean to scoff but I do anyway. “Rich dad, huh? Lemme guess...he's in real estate? Or is it the stock market? You look stock-market-rich.” I titter at his uneasiness.
“It goes much deeper than that,” he says on a humorless laugh.
Rich Boy: A Royal Landlord Romance (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 5) Page 6