King Size: A Royal Bad Boy Romance

by Lexi Whitlow

  My mother turns to me, her expression something between horrified and thoroughly intrigued. I have no idea what it means, but I think she’s getting swept up in Grace’s unabashedly direct, Eastern manners. The girl isn’t asking for pity. She’s just stating how things are in her world. Her world is different from our world. Maybe it’s a bigger world. Maybe it’s more interesting. I don’t know. I do know that Grace Bradly isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met before.

  “I need to sleep,” Grace says, folding her napkin, placing it beside her cleaned plate. “I’m still on East Coast time, and it’s three in the morning. I need a shower and some dreams.”

  Her eyes flicker over to me before she gets up. But maybe I’m imagining that.

  She excuses herself, leaving me and mom to ourselves. I finish my whiskey, pour another, and consider what’s ahead.

  Tomorrow she’ll meet Emma. She’ll also meet Tyler and Amanda. How things go tomorrow will determine how things go forward. I may like the look of her ass in her fancy jeans, and Mom may like her straightforward demeanor, but if Emma and Amanda don’t like her, then she’s going home. I don’t care how pretty the turn of her jawline is.

  And it is right damn pretty.

  * * *

  Grace. What kind of name is that? She must have been named after someone. A grandmother, maybe. Sounds like it’s out of the last century. But it’s an apt name. It suits her. It suits the way she moves, with confidence and fluidity, standing straight. It suits the way she speaks; unapologetic, candid, and above all that, thoughtful and intelligent. It suits the cut of her body; rolling, languid lines lifting to angled arches at her jaw and nape.

  I wonder what the scent at the nape of her neck is? I caught a fleeting whiff of her in the truck, driving in, but she was far too distant from me to get a real sense of her. There’s a scent that women carry about them. It concentrates at the nape, and also in the warm, soft flesh, inside the inner thigh. You can taste it behind the knees, but breathing it in is the best way to own it.

  I want to know Grace’s scent. This is the thought seeping, slowly crawling like molten lava through my brain as I drift off to sleep.

  My mind slips into dark paneled rooms lit by flickering, candlelit shadows, and the feel of her pale soft skin under my hands, trembling beneath my kisses. My sleeping mind reveals her to me, her curves, her soft, liquid places. Her dark mysteries invite me in and as she returns my kisses, breathy and hot, I punch in deep and hard, coming quickly.

  I wake with a start.

  I roll back, cleaning the mess off myself, thinking of my sleeping visions.

  Oh fuck. Grace. She felt so good, looked so good.

  I get up and throw my boxers in the hamper, slipping a new pair on. I slide back in bed, and my mind turns back to Grace once again. Like a broken record, stuck on repeat. Unbidden. Instinctive.

  How long has it been? Beverly died when Emma was 18 months old. Emma will be five in just a few weeks. I know we didn’t sleep together again after we found out Bev was pregnant. So… it’s been a long time. Years. Too damn long.

  But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. And dreaming about Grace in my bed, under me, fucking me back with whimpers and moans as I fuck her, isn’t going to change things. It’s only going to complicate things, and I need to keep things simple.

  I need to push this girl out of my head.

  When I wake in the morning my eyes open onto the steely gaze of my daughter, staring down upon me. She likes to do this; climb into bed and then sit there, watching me sleep until something stirs me.

  “You were snoring,” Emma says, grinning. “Not loud. But snoring.”

  I roll back, stretching. “I do that,” I admit to her. “You do it too. Everyone does.”

  “I don’t snore.”

  I prop up on an elbow, facing her, smiling, still sleepy. “You do. I used to spend hours watching you sleep, making sure you were breathing. You snore. You snore like a baby troll.”

  “I do not, either,” Emma insists, poking my chest with a tiny finger. Then she changes the subject. “She’s here. I saw her. She’s still asleep. She snores too.”

  I nod. “She got in late,” I say. “We’ll let her sleep a bit more.”

  Emma nods, then her expression darkens. “What if she’s mean and she doesn’t like me?”

  How could that ever happen? Who in the world could not love my beautiful baby girl? I reach forward pushing the dirty blond trails of hair back from her forehead, tucking them behind her ear.

  “If she’s mean and she doesn’t love you like I do, then she goes back where she came from,” I say. “But sweetie, I met her last night, and I don’t think she’s mean. She’s nice.”

  Emma brightens. “Good. I think I’ll like her then.”

  She’s been through so much. She’s been cut on and poked and prodded. She’s been given drugs that made her ill. She catches every cold that passes through town, and sometimes those colds turn into croup or pneumonia. She’s been left by four nannies who couldn’t manage to put her needs before their own, and she was left by a mother who didn’t really want her. When Emma came into the world with all her problems, it was more than Bev could handle.

  Beverly’s decline started with drinking herself to sleep, then drinking to make it through the day. She hid most of it from me, but there were signs I should have paid attention to. The truth is, I didn’t want to see them, so I looked right past them. In retrospect, I’m not sure I could have made her stop—but I didn’t even try. I still blame myself.

  Maybe if I’d tried harder, Emma would still have a mother.

  “I love you baby,” I say. “Let’s see how it goes. Okay?”

  Emma nods. She trusts me. She’s my flesh and blood. She’s my everything.

  * * *

  I’m in the kitchen cleaning up from breakfast when Grace wakes up. I expect her to come in here for some food, but instead, I hear Emma greeting her and then Grace introducing herself.

  I spend some time in the kitchen and then I walk over to the living room with a cup of coffee for Grace and the offer of some toast and bacon. But she’s already playing with Emma. She does take the coffee but claims she’ll have breakfast at a later time.

  You can tell a lot about a person by how they behave around small children and large animals. I’m done for, watching Grace sit cross-legged on the floor with Emma, handing her dresses for her Barbies, sorting them by style and colors, talking to her in complete sentences, asking real questions and conversing. Grace has Emma wrapped around her finger, or maybe it’s the other way around.

  A lot of people don’t know how to talk to kids. They put on a high-pitched voice and do the baby-talk thing. No one wants to be patronized. Even four-year-olds (going on five) want to be engaged with.

  Emma’s in her own world right now, but she’s let Grace into it. They’re making up a story together about the day when the princess rode her horse up into the mountains during a snowstorm, and had to be rescued by a cowboy on a SkiDoo.

  That’s my girl.

  “Emma likes her,” my mom whispers in my ear, leaning down over my shoulder. I’m kicked back in my dad’s library (it’ll always be my dad’s) with a book and my feet up, watching Emma and Grace together in the living room through the open double doors. “And I like her too.”

  I nod.

  Beth was a good nannie, but Emma didn’t take to her right away, not like this. They’ve been in there all morning, playing, scheming, laughing. Not once has Grace looked bored or annoyed. I’m not even sure she’s glanced in my direction. She sure doesn’t seem to be concerned that she’s being observed. If she’s even aware of it, she’s cool. We’ll see how cool she is when her next test begins. That one—I have a feeling—is going to check her confidence, maybe show a chink in her highly polished armor. We’ll see.

  “Amanda called a few minutes ago. They’re on their way,” Mom says.

  Right on time.

  I spoke to Manuel, my head g
room, this morning asking him to get my Palomino, Jack, and Stoney—Emma’s little roan gelding—tacked-up and ready to take out for a short trail ride. I also asked him to bring Mirabel, our gentlest, most cooperative mare from the stock, and get her warmed up, along with the others. I’m hoping that Grace is as easy with the horses as she is with Emma. Time will tell. I hate to admit it, but the girl is growing on me.

  That said, no matter how good she is with Emma, how much my mother likes her, how much I admire her myriad qualifications, if she doesn’t take to the horses, then that pretty much ends the deal. Emma’s been riding since she was three. She rides almost every day. When she comes home from pre-school, she wants to go straight to the stables. She’s as natural around horses as a barn cat, and I don’t want that to change.

  Chapter 3

  Grace

  When I woke up this morning and looked out my window, the view beyond the small glass frames simply took my breath away. Mountains; huge, hulking black stone things, taller than anything I have ever seen, lay before me blanketed in a fresh layer of pristine snowfall. They spread out and pile up like a painting. They loom above the valley floor, over the house, towering so tall they seem to cut the blue sky in half. They feel so close, and yet I suspect the foot of their slopes are miles away.

  This landscape is wide open, beautiful, and frighteningly austere. It’s a universe away from the landscape I know; a cultivated, paved, altered mess of commerce. This place, by contrast, feels almost virgin and unsullied by human intervention. It inspires me to poetry and photography. I can write from this vantage. I bet this place can inspire me.

  I met Emma before breakfast—she pulled me into the living room to play before I could even get coffee. After we played, her father and grandmother make no bones about the fact that I might be her nanny, with the clear implication that I might not. I think that being put on the spot like this would bother me under any other circumstances, but the novelty of this place, of these rather odd people, is enough to make up for any doubts they may have about me. I know myself well enough to know I can be a great companion and caretaker. Emma’s a lovely little girl, and smart.

  Despite the fact that she’s still recovering from her heart condition—something that, had I not know she even had one, I wouldn’t have guessed—Emma is strong and energetic. Her eyes are bright and curious. She revels in telling me all about her horse Stoney, and how much she loves him and loves riding him.

  Then she shocks me when she says, “Daddy said when I’m ten, I can ride by myself. ‘Til then, I have to go with him, or some other responsible adult.”

  It occurs to me that I’m the responsible adult in this equation. They expect me to ride competently enough to escort Emma. That’s a tall order.

  After lunch Camden walks into the living room, his boot heels tapping on the wide, hardwood floors. I look up, as does Emma, seeing him looming over us, his expression bemused, his eyes smiling.

  “Emma, let’s take Miss Grace on a ride, see if she can keep up with you.”

  Emma’s face brightens, charged with a beaming smile.

  “I’ll go change!” she says, jumping to her feet, running toward the stairs, dashing up.

  Camden looks down at me, a Cheshire Cat smile creeping in to his lovely features.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he says, offering his hand to pull me up from the floor. I take it without thinking, then feeling the strength in it, in him as he lifts me with almost no effort, my knees tremble. He’s so tall.

  Why does he have to be so tall, and so gorgeous?

  “A couple of friends are coming over, bringing their son, Emma’s friend Jacob. We’re all gonna go riding up the Mollman Pass Trail, up into the hills. It’s an easy ride.”

  I nod. “Sounds like fun,” I say, trying to exude confidence.

  The truth is I’m terrified. I poked my head out the door after breakfast, and the cold cut me through to the bone. My coat isn’t made for trail riding in Montana, and my shoes sure aren’t made for either horseback riding or walking in the snow.

  I should have planned this better.

  Then, as if reading my mind, Camden says, “Amanda, Jacob’s mom, is bringing some boots and cold weather gear for you. You’re about the same size, so it should do in a pinch. We won’t stay out long, an hour or two. It’s just to see what you think about all this.”

  His demeanor is so steady, so solidly confident, that it almost reassures me. I may not have planned well, but he has, and with conspiratorial efficiency. The advertisement said ‘must like horses.’ It didn’t say anything about riding them in the snow. For the first time since I got here I’m feeling unsettled. That tension only increases when Emma reappears, all decked out in heavy winter riding gear, right down to fur-lined cowboy boots, and an English-style helmet.

  My anxiety continues to increase, right up until the moment Camden calls me, telling me to grab my coat.

  He steps outside in his shirtsleeves, impervious to the cold. I follow paces behind, bracing for the chill I know is coming. When I round the corner off the porch, I’m halted by a vision so striking that all concerns for the weather, the snow underfoot, or even anxiety about riding, completely dissipates.

  Horses; three beautiful creatures standing attentively, are loosely tied at a hitching post, with ears flicking, eyes soft. The biggest of them—and he is tremendous—drops his head and blows hot steam from his nostrils as Camden approaches him, reaching his hand forward, firmly stroking the animal’s nose, then his jaw and finally his shoulder, ending with a sturdy slap on the dense long muscles of the creature’s elegant neck.

  He repeats the loving, respectful gesture down the line, pausing at a stately mare the color of early spring honey. She blinks at Camden, leaning in to his gentle strokes.

  “This is Mirabel,” Camden says proudly. “She’s the sweetest, gentlest lady in the stable, and patient. She’s in training to be a therapy horse. Say hello.”

  She’s beautiful.

  I reach up tentatively, speaking her name. “Hi Mirabel,” I coo softly, amazed at how velvety and warm her nose is, how hard her muscles feel.

  She nuzzles me, shoving her face hard into my hand, demanding a firmer touch.

  “She’s a pussycat,” Camden says, a grin brimming over his face. “She wants to be petted and told how pretty she is.”

  This is the first time I’ve seen Camden smile unreservedly, and it’s something to behold. He could light up a stadium with that beaming grin. He could melt my heart with it.

  He introduces me to Jack, his horse, who is quite a bit more animated than Mirabel. Jack has a charging energy and impatience about him that diminishes only when Camden approaches, touching, soothing him, speaking low into his flesh.

  I meet Stoney too. He’s small, but not a pony. He’s appears somewhat on the stunted side.

  “He’s not too much horse for Emma,” Camden assures me, still grinning, preening over the little horse. “I think he’s the only horse on this ranch I paid for. The rest are bred here. I saw him at auction a year ago and knew he’d be perfect for Em. He’s got a good disposition, good build. He’s short. But he’s strong, fully grown and well-trained. Plus, he loves Emma.”

  The animals are all magnificent, and they put me at my ease. I doubt I’ll impress anyone today, but at least now I’m not afraid. To the contrary, I’m looking forward to this ride. It’s a first.

  Hopefully not a last.

  Just a few moments later we’re joined by more majestic horses and their riders. Jacob, who is five-years-old and adorable, shakes my hand and winks at me before bolting into the house to find Emma. Camden introduces me to his best friend Tyler, who’s the ranch foreman, and his wife Amanda, who hugs me, takes my hand, and pulls me toward the warm house.

  “You’ll catch your death out here in those summer clothes. Let’s get you dressed proper.”

  She’s got a backpack slung over her shoulder which she shoves into my hands as soon as we’re inside and the fron
t door is closed. She gives me a grin, like she’s known me forever.

  “I’ll get you through this, darlin’. Just take my advice and follow my lead.”

  Okay.

  Amanda is a firecracker. She’s a few years older than me, about my same height, only a little heavier, but close enough so her clothes fit with just a bit of room to spare. She never stops talking as I change, pulling on long underwear, a turtleneck, then a heavy wool sweater with dense patterned weave.

  “So, do you want this job?” Amanda asks pointedly. “It’s okay. There’s no wrong answer, but just tell me.”

  I nod vigorously, smoothing my hair, reaching for the boots she brought. “Of course, I do!” I say. “I wouldn’t have come all this way if I didn’t.”

  “Okay then. Good,” she says, going on. “Three rules. It’s basic. Be good to Emma…”

  “Well, duh.” I can’t help saying, smiling at her.

  “Don’t flirt with or hit on Cam….”

  I nod. Understood. Okay.

  “And no matter what, don’t ever bring up Emma’s mom. If the subject comes up, get out of Cam’s way as quick as you can.”

  What? Why?

  “And don’t ask me why. I can’t tell you.”

  She takes a breath before going on. “Now, as for today. Don’t slouch. Keep your head up and shoulders square. Sit in the middle of the saddle, and don’t raise your voice at the horse. Their hearing is better than yours. You can scare ‘em by shouting.”

  Makes sense. I nod again, repeating, “Sit up straight, head up, shoulders square. I got it.”

  She smiles at me. “And tomorrow, you’re gonna be walking a little funny.”

  What does that mean?

  It doesn’t take long before I understand her meaning perfectly. Our adventure begins innocently enough, with me settled on Mirabel, walking beside Camden and Jack, with Camden controlling Mirabel by a separate lead while I hold the reins. Twenty minutes into the ride, Jacob decides to put his pony into a trot. Emma follows fast, and the next thing I know I’m hanging on for dear life on top a horse in a full-on run up a winding mountain trail in the snow.