I’m pretty sure it was all that stuff Princess Florence said that did me in. I could have kept my attraction at bay, but she put the entire thing out front and center. The sex thing, I mean. Her comments cranked up the heat about two thousand degrees, and now I’ll have to work extra hard to be indifferent to His Highness. But the very fact that I’m even attracted to him should send off warning bells. I don’t know that I’ve ever had the hots for a good guy, and the fact that my ovaries are warming up to release extra eggs should tell me that he’s definitely bad news. Well-dressed, devilishly handsome bad news.
Nobody will be up now, right? I can sneak down to the family’s kitchen and find a snack unseen and unheard. It’s so late, and they’re all probably out cold on some magical sleeping potion only given to royalty so as to ensure they get their beauty sleep.
I briefly consider changing out of my fleece Sponge Bob pajama bottoms, but then decide to go for it. I pull on my coziest light green hoodie and some flipflops and creep out the door.
Flipflops? Really, Tessa? The world’s noisiest shoe for sneaking around a castle in the dead of night? I shuffle my feet as I make my way down the long hall. Arthur pointed out the family kitchen to me on the tour earlier, and I made a special point of noting its location in proximity to my room. I take the lift down to the main level, then turn left, and it’s the third door on the right.
The halls are lit by rope lighting along bottoms of the wall. I suppose this is meant to save energy. It’s really rather dim, though. And a little bit scary. I periodically come across mounted weapons or suits of armor, and each time I can’t help but imagine someone is inside the suit ready to slice me in two. I find myself holding my breath while I inch my way along, sliding my feet. Oh, yes, I am the height of sophistication.
I am almost at the kitchen when a door opens, and I am almost knocked over by a very beautifully sculpted, naked, wet torso that disappears into some low slung sweat pants. The torso belongs to Arthur, of course. We both make ‘ooff’ sounds, and he catches me by my arms as I start to tip backward toward the floor. My hands land on his abs, and they are momentarily in heaven. I want to knead those abs between my fingers, sweat and all. Only they’re too hard to knead. Nothing doughy about this man.
Well, hello, Prince. Nice to see you.
“Ms. Sharpe. What are you doing up?”
I freeze up, suddenly realizing that sneaking around in the middle of the night could be interpreted in a variety of ways. One of which is that I’m doing covert research for my blog. Or perhaps I’m planning to steal some priceless piece of art. Another is that I’m looking for him. God, I hope he’s assuming I’m a thief. “Couldn’t sleep. I’m in search of something salty.”
He raises one eyebrow and his lips twitch with amusement. “Are you now?”
Yup. Just heard it myself. “Crisps, perhaps. Or maybe some cheese and crackers. What are you doing up so late?”
“I couldn’t sleep, either. Thought a late-night workout would do the trick.”
“So I see.” My eyes roam his shirtless body without my permission, and when I force them back up to his face, he’s wearing that cocky grin again. Dammit, eyes! Did you really have to do that? We are trying to appear professional here in our Sponge Bob pajama bottoms and flipflops.
“I’ll show you to the kitchen.” He turns and waits for me to join him. He walks so closely to me that I can feel the heat off his body. That must have been some workout. He could totally increase the entire family’s popularity among women aged six through ninety-eight if he’d post videos of himself exercising. I won’t tell him that, though. He doesn’t need any more ego-stroking.
He flicks on the lights and heads for the pantry. “How spicy do you like it?” he asks, then grins back at me. “The crisps, I mean.”
“Not at all spicy. Plain. Just very plain.” Nice work, Tessa. That was definitely a non-sexy answer.
“Plain’s good, too.” He waggles his eyebrows at me before he disappears into the expansive pantry.
I take a seat on a stool at the massive island and practice my Lamaze breathing again as quietly as I can, hoping it will somehow help me get my head on straight. Who knew I would be so easily distracted by a set of sculpted pecs? Oh, and a super muscly back. And the gorgeous face of a Viking god.
He returns a second later with a bag of Lay’s.
“Classics. Nice.” I fidget with the hem of my hoodie, feeling like a complete idiot dressed in my jammies in front of the crown friggin’ prince. I should have at least thrown on some jeans. He tears open the bag and slides it across the island to me. “Something salty for the future mother of my children?”
I choke out a laugh, my entire body heating up with a mix of giddy school girl excitement and utter embarrassment. “She was rather taken with the idea of us as a couple, wasn’t she?”
“Ah, yes. My apologies for all that. I didn’t anticipate her reaction.” He grabs a couple of tumblers out of the cupboard and opens the fridge. “Milk?”
“No, thanks. I’m more of a water girl.”
“You sure? You should make sure you’re getting enough calcium.” He pulls out a jug of milk and sets it on the counter. “You know, for the baby.”
“If you’re going to be such a nag, I don’t think I do want to have your child.” Stop flirting! You hate him! And you’re wearing a T-shirt that says ‘Life’s Better in Bikini Bottom.’
“Oh, so you’re considering it, then?” He hands me a water and pours himself a tall glass of milk.
“Of course. Think of the book deal I could fetch as the mother of your children.” I pluck a chip out of the bag and take a bite. Oh, please stop looking at me like that, shirtless Viking god. You are turning my body to jelly and my brain to goo.
“Aah, so it would be strictly a business deal.” He has a sip of milk, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Yes.”
Arthur leans back against the counter and crosses one leg over the other. He’s giving me the best view of him possible. If he were to sit beside me, I wouldn’t have such a good vantage point of all his royal sexiness. And he bloody well knows it. Bastard.
Gorgeous, gorgeous bastard.
He nods thoughtfully. “That actually makes a lot more sense than the whole ‘falling in love’ thing that seems so popular these days.”
“Probably. I read a study in which they discovered that people who have arranged marriages end up happier than those who marry for love.” Oh, yes, Tessa, wow him with your knowledge of sociological studies. This is how you got to be so popular in high school. “Apparently, they have a worse go of it for the first few years, but then they settle in better for the long term, whereas people who marry for love have unrealistic expectations going in and end up letting each other down more often than not.”
Am I still talking about this? Really? “Makes sense when you think about it.” Yes, I am.
Arthur tilts his head. “I’d say it makes rather a lot of sense. Most women tend to have completely unrealistic expectations of the men they love.”
“Most women? Men are the ones who expect that their wives won’t ever grow old, or to end up with stretch marks and a squishing tummy from having their children, or be too tired from looking after those children all day to have sex.”
“No, you’re wrong there. I think most blokes expect all that to happen. The real problem is that women marry a man they think they can change, only to then to leave them because they’ve changed.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “Or… maybe they leave them because they don’t get their lazy butts off the couch to help out with the kids or the cleaning.”
“Nope. That’s not it.”
“Oh, it’s not?” Good God, this man is arrogant.
“They might say that, but it’s really because most men screw up the whole romance thing. They start out with a pace they can’t keep up, and once they’ve secured the relationship, they let it fall off.” He puts down his glass of milk and holds the counte
r’s edge with both hands. Oh, great. Now the muscles in his entire upper body are flexing.
Oh, my, what am I mad about again? What was he just saying? The romance thing. Right. “That part I agree with. Men do get lazy.”
“And women only get weary? Come on. They get lazy, too. Everybody’s selling something, Ms. Sharpe. It’s only once you’ve bought in, you’ll find out what you really paid for.”
“So, an arranged marriage it is, then?”
He smiles down at me. “That would be the smart choice.”
“You should tell your grandmother you want her to set you up. I’m pretty sure she’d be all over that.”
“Yes, she would. Although, she was so taken with you, I’d be afraid she’d pick you.”
“Better not then.” I shudder and laugh, hoping it sounds authentic, because there is no way I want him to know how much that stung.
But I’m actually glad he said it. It will stop me from fantasizing about something I can never have. And definitely do NOT want. “I should get some sleep. I’m tired, and we have an early start tomorrow.”
I stand and walk out of the room before he can say anything. He doesn’t chase me, or apologize, or say he didn’t mean it. But why should he? We are enemies using each other for what we need. Nothing more.
I’m so bothered that I take three wrong turns trying to find my room. I suppose I should be glad that I didn’t let him see that he nicked my ego a bit. At least there’s that. But how pathetic of me to allow him that power in the first place. By the time my head hits the pillow, I resolve to be extra perky tomorrow, so he’ll realize he can’t affect me in the slightest. I also promise to never give this man an inch again. No matter what he’s not wearing.
Eleven
How Do You Like Your Eggs?
Arthur
I’m back at the scene of the crime—Prince Arthur in the kitchen with his big mouth. The victim: any chance I had to woo Ms. Sharpe last night. What the hell was I thinking with the whole ‘I’m afraid my grandmother would choose you’ bit? Obviously, that would hurt her feelings. And I really can’t afford to do that when the entire point of having her here is to get her to like me.
I know women, and this one’ll be as cold as ice this morning. She’ll be ultra-professional, now. All business, no more flirting, which is such a shame, because it was rather fun. It also means I’ll have to go about this the hard way—and in my opinion, doing things the hard way is merely proof of a lack of intelligence.
I cook up some scrambled eggs and fried tomatoes—Gordon Ramsay taught me the secret to the perfect morning-after breakfast, and it’s really the only thing I can make. So, I’m cooking while I wait for Ms. Sharpe to arrive and feeling oddly nervous, which is not like me at all.
“Good morning.” She enters the room dressed in her running clothes. Schwing! Good morning, Excalibur. She’s all sweaty and her cheeks are red, and she’s smiling. Huh. Wasn’t expecting that.
“Good morning, Ms. Sharpe. How did you sleep?”
“Fast.” There’s a bounce in her step as she makes her way to the fridge and helps herself to a bottle of water.
“Fast?” I laugh. “I like that.” I glance over at her from in front of the stove, waiting for her to comment on the fact that I’m cooking. Usually, this comes as quite a surprise to any overnight guests, but she says nothing. “Hungry?”
“Famished.”
I grin over at her like a complete moron. “I was hoping you’d say that. I took the liberty of making you my specialty.”
“Eggs?” She raises one eyebrow, looking completely nonplussed.
“Not just any eggs. These are Gord Ramsay’s perfect scrambled eggs.”
“I stand corrected. Special, fancy eggs.” Her tone is light and warm. Not a hint of ice queen that I was expecting.
“But don’t worry. I checked, and they aren’t sourced from endangered hens or anything. Unlike the sheets.”
“So, you read last night’s post?”
“Of, course. You were spot on about the Beauty and the Beast thing. I was going to take you to the stables next to wow you with the horses.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because you aren’t likely to be impressed with what works on the average woman.”
“I don’t think you know what the average woman wants. Your problem is that you’ve been surrounded by people who show up ready to be impressed, which is not only highly unusual, but has given you an unrealistic view of the world. Regular people have to prove their worth through their actions and words. Not just because of their title.”
Well, fuck me. She’s right. Why is that such a turn-on?
She takes out a mug and pours herself a coffee. “Top up?” she asks, gesturing to my mug with the pot.
“Please.” I hold out the mug and take the opportunity to stare at her face while she pours. How did I not notice that she had the most brilliant green eyes yesterday? Very nice.
When she turns to replace the carafe in the coffee maker, I find myself inexplicably disappointed. I dish up for both of us and take the plates over to the table. I wait until she has seated herself before I sit down.
“Sorry, I’m a bit of a mess this morning. I wanted to get in my run before we start the day.” She picks up her fork and knife, then turns the plate a quarter-turn to how I laid it down. I stare as she starts with the tomato.
“Oh, wait. Would you like a photo of the plate for your blog?” I ask.
She tilts her head to the side. “Your ability to make a pan of eggs won’t be of interest to my readers. They’re more interested in serious political and philosophical topics concerning the nation.”
“No, of course.” Well, that certainly backfired.
She slices into the tomato, and I can’t help but be mesmerized as the tomato disappears between her teeth.
“Mm, very tasty. Thank you, Your Highness.”
“Call me Arthur. And you’re more than welcome.” I have a bite. Delicious. Just the right amount of heavy cream in the eggs to make them as rich as Oprah. “Vincent will be by in about fifteen minutes to go over our itinerary. Unless it’s changed, I need to start the day with paperwork. When the King is away, I manage all of the correspondence, which takes about two hours. We have a few meetings here at the palace, then a charity luncheon, then I’m to inspect the newest graduates of the naval academy over at the base, followed by a dinner with the Moroccan ambassador. You’re welcome to observe any or all of today’s events.”
“Sounds busy.”
I shrug. “Typical Wednesday.”
“I see.” She has a sip of her coffee, then stares out the window at the meadow below. “Your Highness, I know something must be going on for you to need my help. Why don’t you tell me so we can make this much easier on ourselves?”
“I thought I did explain it.”
“You started to answer me yesterday in the limo, but then you changed the subject.”
“That’s not how I remember it. As I recall, we arrived at the palace and the conversation naturally ended.”
“The Prime Minister is going to call a referendum, isn’t he?”
I hope this won’t come back to bite me in the arse. “I can’t say for sure, but one thing is clear. You have keen journalistic instincts.”
“Don’t patronize me. It won’t get you anywhere.” She’s fixing me with a glare that could peel paint off a truck.
I give her an overtly playful grin. “Not only smart, she’s also tougher than she looks.”
Tessa fights a laugh, and I’m glad she seems to know that I’m making fun of myself and all my attempts at seducing her opinion. Then, her smile disappears, and it’s straight back to business. “When?”
“When what?”
“When is he calling for the referendum?”
“No idea.” I shrug. “Could be today, or maybe never.”
“So, that’s why me and why now. You’re desperate.” She gives me a smug smile.
“Yes, wel
l, try not to enjoy this too much. It is my life we’re talking about here.” I take another bite of eggs.
We finish breakfast in silence, while the weight of what’s happening sits heavily on my shoulders. There’s a shift in mood in the room, and I can tell by the way she glances at me every once in a while, that she might even feel a tiny bit sorry for me. As much as I hate being pitied, I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.
Finally, she speaks, but when she does, it’s not what I want to hear. “Isn’t there a part of you that realizes the time of kings and queens needs to come to an end?” Her voice is gentle, but her words irritate me all the same.
“Not really. I know things during my father’s reign have been… less than stellar, but it doesn’t mean that our family doesn’t have an important place in the fabric of our country.”
“That’s debatable. But things change, even when we don’t want them to. Surely you must know that.”
I sigh. “Surely you must know I’m not going to go down without a fight.”
“I’m not going to be on your side of the battle. I’ve been waving the banner for the other army for a long time now.”
“Which is precisely why I wanted to show you what we do. I was hoping that maybe you’d understand. And if you did, you might decide to show people what they won’t be able to get back if they decide to vote us out.”
She shakes her head. “I have to be honest, I’m not likely to change my mind.”
“I thought you were all for change?” I give her a little grin, hoping to make her smile again.
It worked. She’s smiling and rolling her eyes at the same time. “Walked into that one, didn’t I?”
“Don’t feel bad. I’m considered extremely tricky.”
That earns me a laugh, and you have no idea how wonderful that sounds to me at this moment.
“I’m asking for one chance, Tessa. One last chance for someone intelligent and honest to thoughtfully and carefully examine what we do—for not only the nation, but the world as well. Then decide if what we give is worth more than what we take.”
The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1 Page 8