Love Me I'm Your Princess: A Sweet Romantic Comedy (Love Me Romcom Series Book 3)

by Laura Burton

  Love Me I’m Your Princess

  Laura Burton

  Copyright

  The characters and storylines are fictitious, and any resemblance to real-life people and events are purely coincidental. The author retains all of the rights to this work which may not be copied and distributed online or elsewhere without the written permission of the owner of the rights.

  All rights reserved by Laura Burton 2021.

  First Edition

  Published by: Burton & Burchell Ltd

  Please contact the rights holder for translation and audio rights to this book at laura@burtonburchell.co.uk

  This book is written in U.S. English

  Edited by: Tochi Biko

  Cover Design: Haley James PA

  Created with Vellum

  Dedication

  In memory of Ethel Culbert.

  A dear friend who exemplified love and charity, with the biggest heart and most beautiful soul. I will never forget her wonderful laugh.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  “I’m sorry we can’t be there for your birthday, Principessa.”

  I pull the phone away to sigh at the nickname. My parents gave it to me at birth and my mother still refuses to give it up.

  It means princess in Italian, and when I was little it was kind of cute.

  Now that I’m twenty-nine, I had hoped I might have graduated to a more sophisticated name. But my dad literally still says, “You’ll always be our little Principessa.” So, I’m stuck with it. I shake my head and hold the phone up to my ear again. “It’s no problem. But I’m giving you a heads up that I’m having all the gelato I want, so no judgments––okay?”

  “Good, good. You’re too skinny. Get Alejandro to make you the biggest ice cream sundae on the menu,” my mom replies.

  Alejandro is at least a decade older than me, but he looks so good, no one would know it. I’m talking perfectly defined muscles, and rich, silky, brown hair falling in waves over his ears. My mom keeps trying to set us up, but there’s no chemistry between us - not at all - even though he’s irresistible to every other woman alive. I’m pretty sure my parents hired him to work in the gelato shop because he’s a total chick magnet––and that’s good for business.

  Having an ice cream parlor in Rome is not as romantic as it sounds. The competition is fierce, for one thing. There’s one on every corner. So, Alejandro’s dimples and dazzling smile are just what we need to stand out from the rest.

  Secondly, the name of the parlor, Juliet, is the name of my grandmother, who passed away and left the business to my mom. She moved to America during college and settled down with my Dad in Chicago, but it didn’t even take her a weekend to think about moving back. So, we all moved to her childhood city, Rome.

  I could have stayed in Chicago, but at the time, I had just graduated from college and being an only child, I wanted to set up my life near my parents.

  Besides, I had that fairytale idea all women secretly have - of living in Italy and meeting some sexy bachelor on a gondola ride in Venice.

  But alas, that’s yet to happen. I’ve got my own place, just a stone’s throw from work, and for the last seven years, I’ve been living up the single life by working at Juliet’s during the week, visiting with my parents on the weekends, and watching TV until I fall asleep. It’s no fairy tale, but hey, it’s a life.

  Anyway, my dad’s mother is sick, so my parents went back to Chicago. I stayed behind to manage Juliet’s and make sure Alejandro actually turns up to work. He is devilishly handsome, emphasis on the word devilish. Because sometimes he just doesn’t come in.

  He calls himself a free spirit, going wherever his soul wills him to go. I call it being unreliable.

  That’s why things between Alejandro and I will always remain platonic. The qualities I want in a man are honesty, compassion and selflessness. He’s also got to love his family. Dark hair and dimples are not necessary but a nice bonus.

  I slowly pull myself out of my thoughts and tune back into my mom’s unrelenting stream of words. “We’ll be here for a couple of months. Nanna will be okay, but once she’s out of the hospital, we need to set her up in a nursing home. So, your dad and I are going to take some tours.”

  I nod along and hum as my mom reels off the names of several senior homes.

  “Do you think you can do that internet thing and run a background check on these places?”

  I snort at the question. What she’s really asking me to do is check reviews and search news articles. It’s hardly classified as a background check. But my mom is as savvy with technology as I am with a paint brush. And for the record, that’s not great. One year, my dad bought me an adult version of paint-by-numbers. It was supposed to be a gorgeous picture of the Trevi Fountain. But my hand shakes terribly, and my patience wears thin during these projects, so it came out looking like a collection of blobs. Of course, my dad, bless his heart of gold, suggested I was simply inspired by Monet. No matter how much you squint and back away from my paintings though, they still look like someone just dropped big dollops of paint on the canvas.

  “I’ll do some digging and email you my findings.” Besides, I can think of no better way to spend my birthday, I add silently with another sigh. But just as the thought crosses my mind, my stomach knots itself.

  Family means everything to me, and I shouldn’t be so selfish.

  I’ve spent my whole life trying to please my parents. I mean, I owe them. They didn’t have to adopt me. And without my dad’s big hugs and my mom’s homemade spaghetti bolognese, I’d never know what that warm fuzzy feeling called ‘love’ is.

  But sometimes, I just wish––for once––I could do something selfish and impulsive. Like climb Mount Everest, or hike the Great Wall of China… Or ignore my responsibilities and watch TV in bed with a box of Belgium chocolates.

  The doorbell rings. “I gotta go. Ti voglio bene, mamma.”

  She tells me she loves me too and then I end the call. The doorbell rings again and this time the impatient person on the other side bangs on it as well.

  I hate being rushed, so I slow my pace and carefully pull my red hair back into a ponytail. If it’s just an average salesperson, they’ll get tired of waiting and move on to the next door.

  But then a loud thump-thump-thump tells me it’s either the most obnoxious salesperson, ever, or somebody really wants to talk.

  I yank the door open, letting in a stream of golden sunlight. I squint into it and raise a hand up to shield my eyes.

  “Can I help––whoa.” I step back, blinking several times as my eyes land on… me? At least, a woman who looks exactly like me.

  She’s my height, which is odd, because I’m taller than a lot of people in Rome. She has narrow hips and the same heart-shape face as me. I look at the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and the red hair pulled back into a neat bun.

  I pat myself, wondering if
I’m having an out-of-body experience. But the woman isn’t wearing jeans and a shirt, like me. Instead, she stands in an olive pencil skirt and a silk ivory blouse. Her eyes look me up and down, taking me in, and I can’t help but wonder why she does not look nearly as surprised as I am.

  “Hello,” she says, and I’m hit by a feeling of déjà vu at the sound of her warm voice. I shake my head to break out of my daze.

  “Hi,” I manage to say back, my brain spinning.

  I always knew I was adopted. I mean, even if my parents never truly talked about it, looking at how different I am to them makes it pretty obvious. My mom has olive skin, black hair and dark brown eyes. My dad has Italian and Spanish roots, with the same complexion and eye color as my mom. Meanwhile, I parade around as their daughter, with flaming red hair, green eyes and Irish white skin.

  But I never knew I had a sister. “Happy birthday,” she says, lifting two little cupcakes, each with the number twenty-nine on them. “I got one for me too.”

  Twin sister? I think and she nods, reading my mind.

  Wow. We’ve been together for three seconds and we’re already doing the twin thing.

  I try to say something but the only thing that comes out is a little squeak.

  I have a twin sister. She’s standing right on the doorstep of my little apartment in Rome, wishing me happy birthday.

  This can’t be real.

  “You’re not dreaming,” my twin says, reading my mind again. “I’m Primrose Courtier, the second. But of course, you may call me Prim. And in case you haven’t noticed… I’m your twin.”

  She hands me a cupcake and I take it. Then my hands begin to shake, as if she’s just passed me a grenade. “I’m––I’m––” I stammer, trying to get over the shock. Prim laughs and it’s so soft and gentle, I find myself smiling.

  “Violet Rossi,” she finishes for me. “I know all about you.”

  I lean forward and look from left to right down the busy street. People drive by in their little cars and the occasional moped zooms past. But there’s no camera crew hiding in the shadows. I lean back and look at Prim again.

  “I don’t want to sound rude,” she begins, picking at the cupcake with her neatly trimmed nails. “But I was taught never to eat on the street and this cupcake looks quite delicious. I went to this quaint patisserie down the road, and the gentleman at the shop assured me it will be the best chocolate fondant cake I will ever eat.”

  I launch into action, side-stepping and motioning for her to come in. Prim smiles gratefully and walks past. A waft of coconut washes over me. I close the door and watch Prim, who is now looking around the hall and peering into the living room.

  “Your home is lovely,” she says, turning back to look at me. I lead her into the kitchen, it’s my favorite room in the apartment. Tall windows let in plenty of sunshine, making everything look golden.

  We take a seat at the wooden table and Prim wastes no time before she peels away the cake wrapper and dives into her cake.

  I do the same. The warm gooey chocolate in the center of the cake melts on my tongue and for a few minutes, the two of us are lost in chocolate heaven.

  I recognize this cupcake. The patisserie she mentioned must be Donatello’s, just across the street from Juliet’s. Donatello used to give me one of his chocolate fondant cakes from time to time. I heard it had just been taken over by his son, Pierre, but haven’t met him yet.

  “I must say, that charming gentleman was quite correct. I do believe I shall never taste a cake as scrumptious as this one!”

  I cock my head to the side and look at my twin for a moment. She talks in the same way as the ladies in Downton Abbey.

  I wonder where she’s come from. Maybe––plot twist––she’s me from an alternate reality? I scan the kitchen, half-expecting to see a portal and more versions of myself congregating around the room. I frown at the absence of anything out of the ordinary. Which leads me back to the theory that I’m dreaming. But if that’s the case, then a hunky man will be here to wrap me up in his arms and swing me away on a tree vine.

  Mm. I close my eyes for a moment, picturing a man with sexy abs in a loincloth. When I snap out of my daydream, Prim is staring at me.

  “Sorry,” I blurt. “I have so many questions.” Like, why are you here? Where have you come from? What do you want? But none of those questions feel appropriate to throw at her right now. Prim pulls out an embroidered handkerchief and dabs the corners of her mouth, while I stare at her with my chocolatey mouth hanging open. Next to this woman, I’m like a Neanderthal seeing an evolved human for the first time. Prim returns her handkerchief to her purse and looks up at me again with a happy sigh, resting her delicate hands on the table.

  “I know you have questions,” she says softly. “And I promise to answer them all as best as I can. But first, I must speak with you about a matter that is rather... Delicate. And I dare say it’s an urgent one, too.”

  I sit upright––realizing I had been hunching over the table––and give a serious nod. “I’m all ears,” I say. But then the image of my whole body covered in ears brings a bubble of laughter up to my chest. I force my mouth into a straight line and suppress the urge to chuckle at my own wit. But Prim’s face turns into a delighted smile. “That would be a funny sight.”

  Okay. I already love this girl. I throw my head back and let the laugh rip through me and out into the world. Usually, my parents reply with a sarcastic remark or simply give me a look of disapproval at my cheesy sense of humor. But Prim’s ice-blue eyes twinkle at me as she beams.

  “It is so marvelous to meet you, after all this time.”

  I recover myself and clear my throat. “How long have you known about me?” I ask. I want to ask her about my parents. Our parents. Is she adopted too? How did she find me?

  Prim’s face turns serious, and I resist the urge to bombard her with my questions. Then she leans forward and takes my hands in hers. Her firm grip clutches my heart. “Violet. I’m so sorry. What I have to tell you, will not be easy to hear.”

  I nod, barely breathing now. I daren’t blink, in case she vanishes if I do.

  “Our parents are Edward Courtier and Primrose Courtier… King and Queen of Andonna.”

  I pull back and exhale slowly as the words land on me like a hurricane. “You’re a princess…” she says. “A real one.”

  Chapter 2

  It takes about five minutes of silent blinking for me to realize I haven’t said anything while Prim waits patiently, her long lashes fluttering like wings of a butterfly.

  After the shock wears off and the unearthly squeal in my head dissipates, I stare at my twin, trying to build the courage to ask the burning question; why was I adopted?

  The question is far too heavy to just throw out there, but all the others pale in importance. If this isn’t a prank––and my birth parents are King and Queen of some country I’ve never even heard of ––why am I not there right now? How could they keep only one of us and cast me aside like a dirty rag?

  Prim’s eyes darken as she nods along, as if hearing every thought that enters my mind.

  The silence becomes all-consuming and all of the questions and confusion bubbles in my chest until I open my mouth and words come spilling out like vomit.

  “How did you find me? Why did you find me? Does anyone know you’re here? What do you want?”

  Prim’s cheeks dimple as she looks at her perfectly manicured fingernails for a moment.

  Then she sighs, lifting her gaze to meet mine again. “I had to meet you. On reflection, it might have been more appropriate to call first…”

  “Well yeah… a heads up would have been nice,” I blurt, scratching my arm. “But then… If I didn’t see you in person, I might not have believed you.”

  “Right. It’s a lot to take in… I know,” Prim says, her voice lowering. Jitters take over my body as I watch her sitting across from me, so proper and refined. I push back from the table and the chair legs scrape across the
wooden floorboards. Then I rise to a stand. “Yes, you’re right about that,” I say, marching across the kitchen and opening a cabinet. “I need a drink. Want a cup of coffee?” As if a shot of caffeine is the best choice when I’m already trembling.

  “I’m rather partial to herbal tea, actually,” Prim says.

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Right, of course you are.” I rummage around the cabinet looking through the contents. “I think I have some chamomile in here somewhere.”

  We’re both stalling the conversation. She knows it too. But it seems that Prim isn’t going to tell me what I want to know. So, I take my time filling the kettle and open another cabinet. What kind of cup do you give a princess? I wonder as I scan through the rows of novelty mugs I have collected over the years.

  The kettle whistles on the stove top and I grab two mugs at random.

  “What is this?” Prim asks with a laugh as I hand her a mug. The picture is faded from too many rounds in the dishwasher. She squints and cocks her head to the side to make out the shape of an animal and read the writing. “‘Not my prob-llama.’ That’s wonderfully funny.”

  I return to my seat, cradling the steaming mug in my hands, and I cannot help but smile at her beaming grin. “You like puns?”

  Prim takes a sip of her tea and her nose wrinkles. I can’t tell if the tea is too strong or if she’s covering up a laugh. “I have an appreciation for the English language. It’s fun to play with words,” she says.

  I take a sip of my tea with a smile. “I guess we have more in common than I thought.”