He grins over at me. I know my cheeks are pink because they certainly are hot right now.
“Thank you to the author of that question. Very flattering. Six mornings a week, I train with my head bodyguard, Ollie. He’s a former commando, and we do some boot camp-style stuff as well as mixed martial arts. He also makes me run. A lot. I could use something to help improve my pace, though. I’m looking to increase it by, oh, about twenty-percent or so over my next twelve runs. You wouldn’t happen to know of a product that would help with that, would you, Ms. Sharpe?”
I laugh, hoping it sounds even a little bit sincere. “You’re referring to the Shock Jogger, of course. Hilarious, Your Highness.” I smile over at him. “You’re welcome to borrow mine anytime. I’ll even help you set the pace.”
“You’re ever too generous. Now, your turn. What workout do you do to keep yourself in such incredible shape?”
“Running, preferably not with a cattle prod tied around my ribs. I also do yoga.”
“Yoga.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Keeps a person bendy, I hear.”
“Yes, you should try it.” I can feel a cold sweat under my arms. “Okay, we’re burning through these questions now. Number two is a two-parter and has fifty-five hundred votes. ‘How did you decide to get a pig, when most royal families have dogs? Also, how is Dexter and can we see some videos of him with the Prince?’”
“It’s a funny story, actually. A few years ago, I was dating a certain supermodel who fell in love with Paris Hilton’s teacup pig. Unfortunately, the term teacup is wildly inaccurate when it comes to pigs, unless you’re referring to the cups in that ride at Disneyland. She lost interest in both of us as soon as he couldn’t fit in her purse, but it all worked out in the end. He’s quite happy living here, and he makes a very good companion. Do we have time for me to bring him in here?”
“Sure.” Why the hell not? It’s not like I have any dignity left at this point anyway. Might as well bring in the barnyard animals.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “I’ll just ask his handler to bring him in.”
Oh, but wait a minute! Upper hand, here I come! “You pay a handler to look after your pig? That seems like a very poor use of taxpayer money.”
“Yes, it would be if the money came from the taxpayers.”
The door opens and Dexter squeals, running directly to Arthur. Arthur reaches down with both hands and scratches behind his pink ears. “Troy, we’re doing an interview right now. Would you like to come on and say something to the people out there? I think they’d be interested to know about the work you do.”
I watch Troy walk across the room and my stomach drops. The first time I met him, in the library, I was so distracted that I didn’t actually look at him. He very clearly has some form of intellectual disability.
Troy walks over and stands beside Arthur, peering into the camera and waving. “Hello, out there.”
I smile at Troy. “Troy, can you share with the people what you do here?”
He looks at me like I’m half-baked. “Right now, I’m talking into the camera. That’s what Prince Arthur asked me to do.”
Arthur reaches up his hand and rests it on Troy’s arm. “She didn’t mean right now. She’s asking about your job here with Dex.”
“Oh. You should have said then,” Troy says to me. “I take care of Dexter while the Prince is busy working all day. Otherwise, he’ll get bored and get into a lot of trouble. He’s a rascal when he’s bored. Or hungry. He once chewed up a set of candlesticks, the bottoms off a set of very old curtains, and the leg off a nice couch all in one afternoon. But that was before I started here. Now, he’s a happy pig. We go for long walks every day. And we watch some TV together. He loves the nature channel, but sometimes he’ll sit through a bit of a football match if I’m lucky.”
“Sounds like a terrific job.”
“It is. Except when I have to give Dexter a bath. He doesn’t like that very much, I’ll tell you.” Troy laughs as he says it, and I find myself laughing with him.
Troy takes a big breath and looks down at me. “I know you don’t like the Royal Family, but I want to say they’re nice people. The Prince here is real good to work for. My old boss at the warehouse used to yell at me when I’d make a mistake, and I make a lot of them. But Prince Arthur is always kind, even if I do somethin’ wrong.”
I feel a lump in my throat and tears pricking my eyes at the thought of someone yelling at this man. Pull it together, Softy. I clear my throat. “Thank you, Troy.”
Arthur winks at him. “Thanks, mate. We should finish the interview now.”
“Yes, you should. Mr. Vincent is standing just outside the door there pointing at his watch. Do you see him?”
Arthur tries not to laugh. “I did not. Thank you for letting me know.”
“No problem, sir,” he says as he walks away. “Wouldn’t want you to get in trouble. That’s no fun. Come on, Dexter, buddy.”
Dexter trots off after Troy, and I have, once again, been proven wrong. Bugger. But nice, too, I suppose.
“Your turn. Do you have any pets, Ms. Sharpe?”
“A betta fish. Chester.”
“Is it betta fish that fight to the death if you put two together?”
“Yes.” Where is he going with this?
“A rather competitive choice in a pet, don’t you think? Chester–does not work or play well with others.” He grins at me. “Some say we choose a pet that is most like our own personalities.”
“And you have a pig who is very naughty when he’s bored or hungry. What does that say about you?”
Arthur laughs. “Touché, Madame.”
“This brings us to our last question.” I close my eyes for a brief second. “With over six thousand upvotes, ‘Which type of underwear does His Highness, Prince Arthur wear?’”
“Clean ones. You?”
“Also, clean.” Am I dripping with sweat? I feel like I’m dripping.
Arthur wags a finger at me. “No copying off your deskmate, now, Ms. Sharpe.”
Smug bastard.
“You’ll have to give another answer.”
“Girly ones.”
He raises one eyebrow. “Oh, my favourite kind.”
“To wear?” I purse my lips.
“Ha! I walked into that, didn’t I?” He’s speaking directly into the camera now. “I only like to see the girly ones, not wear them.”
“Okay! Well, that’s it for our first live interview!” I’m using that voice my mum used when the twins started asking about how babies are made. “Now that we’ve gotten the silly questions over with, perhaps people can put forth some more serious political questions. Please. Let’s not waste this opportunity to have access to the Royal Family by only finding out about pets and underwear.” I turn to Arthur. “Thank you, Your Highness, for being quite a sport today.”
“It was my pleasure. I rather like the fun questions. As far as I’m concerned, keep ’em coming! Oh, and I have finally gotten into the twenty-first century. You’ll find me on Twitter and Instagram as The Real Prince Arthur, so check it out because I’ll be sharing all kinds of fun pictures and secrets from now on.”
Twitter? Instagram? I sit, unable to move for a second, but then I finally remember to press the remote button to shut off the camera. I slump down in my chair, letting out a big sigh. “Well, that was humiliating on so many levels.”
“Why? I thought you came off as quite clever. You’re quick on your feet, you know. You could do television if you had the mind to.” He takes off his mic. “You’re certainly pretty enough. Very smooth voice.”
“Thanks.” I blush and my heart patters. “I’m sorry about implying that Troy’s wage was paid by taxes.”
Arthur shrugs. “No problem. It would be natural for you to assume as much. I’m on the board of a group that finds work for people whom some would consider unemployable. Everyone deserves the dignity provided by a good job, don’t you think?”
“Yes, of
course.”
“Even people like me?” he asks.
“That’s different. Troy is earning his wage.”
“And I’m not?”
“Not the wage you’re getting.”
He folds his arms. “And exactly how much am I getting?”
“Well, since your family has been so tight-lipped about that, I can only guess. Probably a few hundred thousand a year.”
“Interesting guess. I don’t get paid, actually. Instead of a wage, I am allowed to live here, and I receive a clothing allowance. The majority of my expenses are covered by a blend of our family’s investments and real estate holdings. Only twenty percent of our annual income comes from tax dollars, which goes directly to pay for staff who work to promote tourism. This amounts to just over a million per year, but over the past twenty years, our family has generated over seventy million in tourism dollars. A more than beneficial investment for the people, don’t you think?”
“Why isn’t this made public?”
“Ahem.” Vincent stands at the door. “You are overdue to meet with the ambassador to Belgium, Your Highness.”
Arthur gives me a quick bow. “Thank you, Tessa. That was a hoot.” He winks and walks out the door.
I stare shamelessly at his arse and lick my lips while he walks away. When the door closes behind him, I check my armpits and see that, yes, they are indeed drenched through. Then I reach down my blouse and adjust my bra so that the underwire is no longer digging into my left boob.
“Aah.” Much better. I notice my cell phone blinking on the table across the room. I get up and swipe the screen.
Text from Nikki: FEED IS STILL LIVE! SHUT OFF CAMERA!
Seriously?
Seventeen
Just Two People Talking
Tessa
Sunday morning again, and I’m exactly where I was last week at this time—in recovery mode even though I haven’t had a Saturday night bender. I’ve just made the mistake of reading the latest comments on my first ‘ask me anything’ interview. Unfortunately, my armpit sniffing and mining for boobs act has captured more attention than the interview itself, which has proved counter-productive for my whole ‘take Tessa seriously’ campaign.
I have about thirty offers from creepy men willing to ‘help me adjust my breasts,’ a little move which has made Arthur stifle a laugh every time he’s seen me since Thursday. He also stops me before we head into any meetings or ribbon cutting ceremonies and asks, “Do you need to do a last-minute knocker-check? Now’s your chance.”
Grrrr. Princes, am I right?
A tap at the door interrupts my work. Assuming it’s Mavis to collect my breakfast tray, I call to her to come in. Only it’s not Mavis. It’s Arthur. And I’m in bed still with my bedhead and morning breath, which I’m pretty sure he can smell from over there. I yank the duvet up to my neck. “Oh, I thought you were Mavis.”
“Nope. Just me.” He’s dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, and oh, my Lord, does he wear this look well. “I was wondering if you’d like to go for a walk.”
A walk? With his royal sexiness? Sounds dangerous. “I thought you were at church.”
“I rarely make it to church. I usually have important business to attend to. Well, that’s my excuse anyway.” He grins. “I like to sleep in sometimes.”
“So, kind of like a regular person.” I smile.
“Kind of, only on a much higher thread count.” His dimples pop as he smiles at his own joke. “So, are you coming or not, Sharpe?”
“Give me about twenty minutes to eat and get dressed.”
“Sure.”
As soon as he leaves, I hop out of bed and glance in the mirror. I definitely require more than twenty minutes’ worth of grooming to look halfway decent, but since he already saw me like this, anything will be an improvement.
By the time Arthur knocks on my door, I’m dressed in a light knit pale pink sweater with a white infinity scarf, and skinny jeans that are tucked into tall brown suede boots. My hair is back in a low pony and topped with a brown cap to hide the fact that it needs some attention. I swipe my lips with some gloss as I hurry to the door. This is not a date. This is not a date.
When I open the door, he’s leaning against the door jamb, which means that we’re so close I can smell his aftershave. Let me tell you, that is some manly, sexy aftershave. I don’t know which brand it is, but it should be called ‘Spontaneous Orgasm.’
“All ready?”
I nod, because my mouth doesn’t seem to work when he’s standing this close to me.
“Let’s go.”
We make our way out the back of the castle, then down a long gravel path that leads around the perimeter of the grounds. The sun shines, warming the skin on my face, and I feel more relaxed than I have since I got here. Arthur seems somehow calmer, as well.
“I hope you don’t mind if I pay you a compliment,” he says.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Setting boundaries again?” He raises one eyebrow and gives me a half-smile.
“Maintaining them.” I laugh. “Boundaries are very important.”
“As is getting the upper hand.”
“That, too.”
“I’ll risk it, then, and hope that I don’t cross your boundary or risk losing the upper hand.”
“Ha! You’re mistaken. I took the upper hand in the limo on the first day, and I don’t intend to give it back.”
“Well, you’re entitled to be wrong.” He bumps my shoulder with his, and I do it right back.
Then he stops and turns to me, and I do the same. His eyes search mine for a moment, and his expression is so intense that I’m reminded of why I was avoiding being alone with him.
“I wanted to say that, over the past two weeks, I’ve been very impressed with how you’ve conducted yourself. You’ve been living among a rather odd group of strangers, whilst under a lot of scrutiny, and you’ve really managed it all with an unusual amount of grace.”
“Oh, well, thank you.” I stammer on the words, trying to quash the swell of pride in my chest at his words. An unusual amount of grace. No one has ever described me that way in my entire life. “What about the on-air boob adjustment?”
“Especially that.” He keeps walking, and I’m glad to not be face-to-face with him anymore. Because if we stayed like that too long, I’m pretty sure that my expression would give me away.
“You’re not what I was expecting, Tessa Sharpe.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes.
“I assumed you’d be an absolute harpy, but you’ve turned out to be rather lovely. In every sense of the word.”
Rather lovely. Nikki is going to die when she hears that one. I look up at him with an impish expression. “You’re just trying to butter me up.”
“Of course, I am. Doesn’t mean it isn’t the truth, though,” he says. “Did I cross your line just then?”
“I’ll allow it.” I put on my best regal voice.
Laughing, Arthur gives a little bow. “Oh, thank you, Madame.”
“Think nothing of it.”
We reach the end of the path, and Arthur takes a key out of his pocket and unlocks the wrought iron gate. It occurs to me where we are going. I’d seen footage once on a documentary about Queen Cecily. We’re going to her gravesite.
He opens the gate and steps aside for me to walk through. “You’re probably wondering where we’re going.”
“I think I know.” As we press on, we find ourselves in a clearing surrounded by tall trees with the gaps filled in by thick shrubs that are just about to leaf out. In the distance, there is a pond with a small wooden bridge leading to his mother’s final resting place.
“This is where I go on Sunday mornings.”
“The more pressing business you need to attend to.”
“You take in every word I say, don’t you?” He gives a slight chuckle. “This is one of very few places where I can be truly alone with my thoughts without having to carefully gauge my next reaction
.”
“Is that what it’s like to be you? A long string of careful reactions?”
“Not always, but a lot of the time. But isn’t it like that for everyone? There are societal expectations for all people in each situation.”
“I suppose that’s true, but I think there are more rules for you than for most people.” We cross the arched bridge, and when we reach the top, a large, ornate gravestone comes into view. It is surrounded by hundreds, if not thousands of white lilies that have bloomed now that spring has arrived.
“More people watching and waiting for me to make mistakes, anyway.”
“Like me.”
“And many others. Each one with a different reason to hate me, or in the very least, want to see me mess up.”
“Or see you succeed. You’ve got plenty of those, too.”
“True.”
We stop and sit on a bench a few feet back from the queen’s grave. Silence overtakes us. The stone reads: Cecily Rose, Beloved Mother, Wife, Daughter, Sister, and Queen. A lump forms in my throat. Arthur was five when she died. Arabella was only three months old. I sniff, then realize that my vision has become blurred by unexpected tears for someone I never knew.
“Are you all right?” His voice is gentle. “Oh, I forgot I’m not supposed to ask you anything personal.”
“It’s okay.” My voice is unsteady, and I feel silly being the one getting emotional. “What if we say that while we’re here, in this place, we can alter our agreement. Just for a few minutes.”
“Go off the record, you mean?” he asks.
“Yes. Let’s just be two people talking. Not a prince or a critic. Just for now. Right up until we walk through that gate.”
He smiles, and this time it’s different. It’s not the smooth womanizer I see. It’s just Arthur, a son who lost his mother when he was only a small boy. “I’d like that very much, Tessa.”
“Me, too.” And it’s true. I would. I look back at his mother’s gravestone. “I was just thinking of all that she missed out on. I’m sure she would have given anything to see you and your sister grow up.”
The Royal Treatment: A Crown Jewels Romantic Comedy, Book 1 Page 12