by Jenna Sutton
“Do you want to play a game?” she asks.
My eyebrows draw together. “A game?”
She points toward the stack of board games. I can’t remember the last time I played anything other than poker, but it’s not like I have anything better to do.
I shrug. “Sure. Why not?”
After getting Tessa settled at the round table in the corner, I stop in front of the selection of board games. They look new—like no one has ever played them.
“What do you want to play?” I ask her.
“I should probably warn you...”
I glance toward her. “Warn me?”
Her lips lift into a teasing smile. “I’m really competitive, and I always win.”
“Always?” I repeat doubtfully.
“Always.”
“You play a lot of board games?”
She nods. “Every Tuesday is family game night.”
“Sounds fun.”
From what I’ve witnessed, Tessa’s family is close-knit. Her parents and sister have been regular visitors over the past week. My parents and Marco have visited too. Apparently, they wore hats and snuck in the back to prevent anyone from seeing them.
I bring my attention back to the games. There’s no Monopoly, Risk, or Clue.
“I don’t recognize any of these.”
“What are our options?”
I slide the top box off the stack. “Run, Fight, or Die,” I read aloud.
“Oh, I like that one. The goal is trying to survive the zombie apocalypse. You move from location to location, trying to amass food and weapons.”
I shake my head, wondering why the entire world is enthralled with zombies. They’re scientifically impossible.
“No zombies.” I shove the box back on top of the stack and grab the one below. “What’s Pandemic?”
“I like that one too,” Tessa says. “It’s more collaborative than competitive because you and the other players are trying to save the world from four viruses that have broken out. The goal is to find the cures.”
I shake my head and return Pandemic back to the stack. “During the most recent Ebola outbreak, I attended meetings with the World Health Organization to prepare Alsania for a pandemic. That’s not a game I want to play.”
“Since you’ve done the real thing, you have a better chance of winning the game,” she points out.
I pick up a square box, hoping it has a more enjoyable premise than the end of mankind as we know it. “Have you played Hive?”
“Yes. It’s like a simpler version of chess. The objective is to surround your opponent’s queen bee without jeopardizing your own.”
As I flip the box over, I say, “You have an unfair advantage since you’ve played these games before.”
Tessa’s husky laugh makes me want to smile. “Are you a bad loser, Leo?”
Other than my family, no one ever calls me by my given name. Suddenly, all I can think about is Tessa whispering Leo into my ear ... calling out Leo when I make her come.
I shake my head, stunned and appalled by the direction of my thoughts. Inside my thin pajama pants, my cock begins to thicken.
What the hell?
Am I really getting hard over Tessa—a woman who was on the verge of death just days ago? She doesn’t look sick now, but still...
It’s true I haven’t been with anyone in a long time—more than a year. Regardless, my response is more than a little extreme. Maybe it’s a side effect of the pain meds? I’ll have to ask Mena about them when I get back to my room.
Playing a game with Tessa suddenly sounds like a bad idea. I return Hive to the bookcase.
“What about Scrabble?” She snickers. “I won’t have an unfair advantage since you can spell.”
“I changed my mind. I don’t want to play. I’m going back to my room.”
As I start toward the hallway, Tessa calls out, “Wait!”
I ignore her plea, but then she says something I can’t ignore. “Leo, I need...”
Stopping in my tracks, I look over my shoulder. “What?”
“I...” She rises from the chair, a grimace of pain flickering over her face. “I need to tell you...”
“What?” I ask impatiently.
“Thank you.” Her hand clenches around the IV pole. “Thank you for saving my life. You have my undying gratitude.”
Gratitude. That’s the last thing I want from her. I want something else entirely.
But even a prince can’t get what he wants all the time.
CHAPTER FIVE
Leo
For the first time ever, my approval rate is above fifty percent. Since I got out of the hospital nine weeks ago, the poll numbers have held steady at sixty percent—an increase of forty percent prior to the surgery.
That’s huge. Huge.
The official announcement from the House of Trioni that I’d been a living liver donor for an unknown recipient created a fucking frenzy. Every reputable and disreputable media outlet in the world covered the story, and interest still hasn’t died down.
People desperately want to know who got a piece of my royal liver, and I’m shocked no one has discovered Tessa’s identity. It’s only a matter of time though.
You can’t keep something like that a secret forever. Someone, somewhere, will let the proverbial cat out of the bag. It may be an accident, or it may be someone trying to cash in, but Tessa’s name will eventually get out there.
My father taps the report laying on the table next to his breakfast plate. “Six out of ten Alsanians have a favorable opinion of you, Leo. That’s a step in the right direction.”
My father is starting to show his age. His hair is silver now, and deep grooves bracket his mouth and eyes.
My mother, the much-loved Queen Eleanor, returns her teacup to its saucer. At fifty-five, she’s ten years younger than my father. Her light brown hair has faded to ash blond, but other than that she hasn’t aged much since I was a teenager.
“Just think how popular he’d be if he had died and donated all his organs,” she says, just a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
I choke on my coffee as laughter bursts from my throat. My mother must’ve read my mind. I’ll probably be like Van Gogh—appreciated only after I’m no longer breathing.
“I can’t believe you said that, Elle!” my father admonishes, his voice sharp. “Leo’s death is nothing to joke about.”
Her shrug clearly conveys her lack of concern over the king’s displeasure. She knows he adores her, even when her tongue slices like a knife.
My parents and I eat breakfast together every morning unless one of us is traveling. Marco rarely joins us because he’s usually recovering from the three Ps: partying, pussy, and privilege.
From June through September, my parents shutter the royal palace in the city and move to Helios, our estate in the country. It’s a centuries-old tradition started by my great-great-grandfather and namesake. (I’ll be King Leo II.)
When Helios was built in the early 1800s, it was hours away from the city center, via carriage. It’s a little less than an hour by car.
I definitely prefer Helios over the palace, where people congregate outside the fence and snap selfies. I would live in the country year-round if I could. Maybe when I take over the throne, I’ll make Helios my home instead of the palace.
As my father flips a couple of pages in the report, his eyes narrow behind his silver-framed glasses. I recognize the look—an idea just sparked in his head, and he’s plotting something.
In Alsania, the king is in charge of the military, which means my father has been strategizing and planning for nearly forty years. He ascended to the throne in his early twenties, after his father died in a plane crash.
He taps his finger on the report. “It says here that your willingness to be a living donor made you seem human.”
“I am human,” I point out through clenched teeth.
A robot wouldn’t wake up with a painfully hard erection after dreaming about Tessa
Lulach. Robots don’t dream, and they don’t have penises ... though one day, I’m sure some enterprising company will manufacture a model that does. The demand would be unbelievable.
“More human,” my father amends his previous statement.
He flips the report shut and picks up his coffee mug. My mother bought it for him. Made of ceramic, it’s stark white except for the black block letters on the side: A KING IS NOT COMPLETE WITHOUT HIS QUEEN.
I happen to agree with that statement. My father would’ve been a good ruler without my mother by his side. But he’s a great one with her there.
I’m starting to feel the pressure to find my queen. I’m expected to marry, sooner rather than later. Even if I preferred to live out my life as a bachelor, which I don’t, my feelings on the subject wouldn’t matter. The people of Alsania want a king and a queen.
I suspect that’s one of the reasons my father decided to postpone his abdication—that and my image problem. Unfortunately, I think it’s going to be hard to find a woman who makes me and the kingdom happy. Even my mother, who was the daughter of a grand duke, struggled to win over the people of Alsania.
Women have been paraded in front of me like prize steers at a livestock show since I was a teenager. Women with royal blood, suitable to wear the crown. Never before has an heir to the throne married a commoner.
I was interested in a couple of those suitable women—interested enough to fuck them anyway. But before I could get serious about anyone, Queen Eleanor sat me down for a little mother-son chat.
I’ve never forgotten what she said: You need to feel more than a spark for the woman you marry. And she needs to feel more than a spark for you. It needs to be a full-on wildfire—one that’s impossible to put out. The pressures of being king and queen will snuff out a spark, Leo, but a wildfire will continue to burn.
My mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body, according to my father, but it’s obvious to everyone that my parents feel more than a spark for each other.
“Have you spoken to Miss Lulach since you returned to Helios?” my father asks.
Wondering why he brought up Tessa, I narrow my eyes. He’s never asked about her before. His lack of interest in her well-being has always bothered me, although I’m not sure why.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to her a few times.”
The truth is, I’ve talked to Tessa every day since I left the hospital. The first time I called her, I said, This is Leo, and she replied, Leo who?
I was offended, edging toward pissed off, until I heard her giggle. Then she said, I’m just teasing you, Leo. Of course I know who you are.
No one ever teases Prince Leo of Alsania. No one except Tessa.
“How is she?” my mother asks.
“She’s well. Back at work.”
My conversations with Tessa never last long. I call for two reasons: I want to see how she’s doing, and I want to hear her say Leo. It’s my guilty pleasure—imagining her pink tongue pressing against the back of her teeth when she starts my name and her pouty lips making an O on the last syllable.
I always call her at night, just before bed. After she answers my questions and tells me about the fresh flowers delivered to her shop that day, I get off the phone. Then I get off by fantasizing about all the ways I could make her scream my name.
I’m a little obsessed with Tessa, and I don’t know why. It’s not like she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. She’s not the smartest, wealthiest, or most powerful either.
But Tessa gets to me in a way that no other woman ever has. I spend way too much time thinking about her, wondering what she’s doing, wondering if maybe she’s thinking about me too.
“Perhaps you and Miss Lulach should do a media tour,” my father suggests. “Nothing demanding, just a few interviews.”
“For what purpose?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“If you tell people about your experience, it will encourage more living donation.”
“That’s true,” I agree. “But the real goal would be improving my numbers.”
Before my father can reply, my mother chimes in: “I think a media tour with Miss Lulach is an excellent idea.”
I glance at her with raised eyebrows. She isn’t as calculating or manipulative as my father, and her comment surprises me.
“You do?”
My mother nods. “It’s a win-win. You get a popularity boost, and people who need transplants will benefit from a bigger pool of donors.”
“It’s not a win-win for her,” I counter. “Can you imagine how much her life would be disrupted once the media found out she was the recipient of my liver?”
My father waves his right hand nonchalantly, and the sapphire signet ring on his finger catches the early-morning sunlight. “It would blow over soon enough.”
“Perhaps we should invite Miss Lulach to Helios for afternoon tea and broach the subject then,” my mother says.
I don’t want my parents to gang up on Tessa and steamroll her into doing something that makes her uncomfortable, and I know that’s exactly what will happen if she comes to tea. I also know that neither my father nor my mother is going to let go of the media tour idea.
Shaking my head, quite vigorously, I say, “No. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to Miss Lulach.”
CHAPTER SIX
Tessa
For most florists, business is slow throughout the month of July. The Enchanted Florist is no different.
Without any big holidays like Valentine’s Day or Mother’s Day, demand for bouquets is minimal. Wedding activity slows down too.
Of course, we continue to get orders for apology arrangements and funeral wreaths. Stupidity and death create year-round demand, but no one will be ordering flowers for my funeral any time soon, thanks to Leo and his liver.
I slide my hand under the bleached canvas apron. Through the thin cotton of my navy blue peplum top, I can feel the ridges of my T-shaped scar. It’s a constant reminder how lucky I was ... how lucky I am.
I’m almost my old self—the Tessa I was before my liver started to fail. I still tire easily, but by the time business picks up in mid-August, I’ll be back to one hundred percent.
Every year, I take advantage of the July slowdown to give my shop a mini-makeover. Usually, it’s something small, like updating the artwork on the exposed brick walls or relocating a few displays. Last year, my project was a little bigger: switching out the dingy vinyl floor tiles and tinting the concrete underneath.
The slow month also allows me to recharge my creativity by playing around with different types of flowers—sizes, shapes, and colors. Right now, I’m standing at my scarred oak worktable in the middle of the shop, arranging a summer bouquet that combines sunflowers and blue delphiniums. If it turns out well, I’ll post pictures on the shop’s social media accounts.
Cassie comes out of the back room, where we keep our supplies and unboxed inventory. She’s hefting a galvanized metal bucket overflowing with bright pink peonies. Too bad they’re not white; then I could have used them in my bouquet.
Her side-swept bangs are blocking her eyes. She shakes her head like a wet dog, and her long chestnut ponytail flies over her shoulder. The wispy strands impeding her vision don’t budge though, and with a huge puff of air, she blows them away.
My parents brought Cassie into our family when I was five and she was two. I was excited to have a sister, but so scared that she would take all the love from my mom and dad. I was too young to understand that they had plenty for both of us.
“Where should I put these?” she asks, lifting the bucket.
I consider her question. “Maybe in the hot air balloon?”
Near the front of the shop, a miniature replica of a vintage hot air balloon hangs from the ceiling. I discovered it at an estate sale a couple of years ago.
The previous owner had carefully packed the silver-and-gold-striped envelope so it was in near perfect condition. The wicker basket was a little damaged, but still nice
enough to display flowers.
With an agreeable nod, Cassie lugs the bucket toward the hot air balloon. I’m grateful for her assistance because I’m not supposed to carry anything heavier than five pounds for another three months.
This isn’t the first time my sister has helped me. She always pitches in when I have a special event or a big holiday. (My whole family works on Valentine’s Day, taking orders, arranging bouquets of red roses, and delivering them.)
Even if I weren’t still recovering from transplant surgery, Cassie would probably still be hanging around the shop. She teaches primary school, and she gets bored when twenty little kids aren’t demanding her attention.
I tuck another bloom into my bouquet before making my way to Cassie. A few peonies remain in the bucket next to her feet. As I bend over to grab them, my sister says, “Don’t you dare.”
“Shut up, Cassiopeia,” I reply, purposely using the nickname she hates. I can’t let her forget I’m the big sister here. “It’s not going to kill me to pick up a few flowers.” To prove my point, I pluck the peonies from the bucket. “See ... still alive.”
I hear the little chime that signals the opening of the front door and look over my shoulder. I briefly see a man’s silhouette before he steps into the shop. As the door swings shut, my mind catches up with my eyes. Shock forces a gasp out of me.
Leo is in my flower shop, within touching distance. And oh, God, I really want to touch.
He takes a few steps until he’s right in front of me. Wearing a beige linen suit over a blue-and-white-striped dress shirt accented with a vibrant orange tie, he’s bigger and taller than I remember. Handsomer too.
Tessa, you idiot. Handsomer is not a word.
Leo squats in front of me, and when he rises, he’s holding a handful of peonies. I hadn’t realized I dropped them.
“Hello, Tessa.”
I have to swallow hard before I can speak. “Hello, Leo.”
He takes my hand in his own and places the peonies in my palm. With his fingers over mine, he gently closes my fist around the green stems. Tingles skip up and down my arm.
A loud clang startles me, and I jerk my head toward the noise. “Oops,” Cassie mutters before righting the galvanized metal bucket she knocked over.