Royal Mess

by Jenna Sutton

  A choked laugh drifts from Leo. “I’d say he looks more like Dijon mustard.”

  “Speaking of Dijon mustard ... Dr. Barchon stopped by to tell me that my bloodwork is completely normal. My liver is just fine.”

  “That’s a relief.” Leo leans his head against mine. “I have another idea for the title of your book.”

  About a year ago, one of the world’s biggest publishers approached me about writing an autobiography. The editorial team wanted a love story—how Leo and I met and fell for each other—but I wasn’t interested in sharing such an intimate part of my life.

  After several conversations with the editorial team, I agreed to write about my experience as a transplant recipient. Unfortunately, I quickly realized my talent with flowers did not extend to words.

  I hired a ghostwriter, and with her help, I turned in the first draft of my untitled autobiography last month. Leo shows up in the book as my donor and nothing more.

  “Don’t you want to hear my idea for the title?” he prods.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Are you ready?” he asks, drawing out the suspense.

  “Yes. Tell me.”

  “Queen of Parts. It’s a play on words. Get it?”

  “I get it. Like Queen of Hearts.”

  “Exactly! Since you’re a queen and an organ recipient, I thought Queen of Parts would be perfect. What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s definitely an improvement over Liver and Let Live.”

  NOTE FROM JENNA

  Though the story of Prince Leo of Alsania and flower shop owner Tessa Lulach is fictional, the need for organ donors is very real.

  Nearly 120,000 people are on the organ transplant waiting list, and that’s just in the United States. Every day, 20 people die while waiting for a transplant, and every 10 minutes, another person is added to the list.

  I came up with the idea for Royal Match after I met an incredible woman named Tammy. She donated 67 percent of her liver to a complete stranger after hearing about his need for a transplant on Facebook.

  I became an advocate for organ and tissue donation in high school when one of my best friends ended up on the transplant list. The day I got my driver’s license, I checked the box to be an organ donor and made sure my family was aware of my wishes.

  I knew I could donate blood, bone marrow, and kidneys. But I didn’t realize liver transplants could come from living donors until I met Tammy and heard her story.

  Only one out of five organ donations come from living donors. The remainder comes from deceased donors.

  Most living donors know the people they’re helping. You’ve probably heard stories of a mother donating a kidney to her daughter or a sister donating bone marrow to her brother.

  But you don’t often hear about someone extending that kind of generosity to a stranger. That’s why Tammy’s story really resonated with me. I wanted to help spread the word about living donation and decided to write a book about it.

  Like the fictional country of Alsania, the U.S. has an opt-in organ donation law. In other words, you must go out of your way to register as a donor. Other countries are opt-out, meaning organ donation is presumed.

  Here in the U.S., a whopping 95 percent of people support donation, but only 54 percent are registered as organ donors. If you’re not sure of your status, just check your driver’s license or ID card. It’ll let you know either way, usually with a tiny red heart and the word DONOR beside it.

  You can register to be an organ donor in two ways: 1) online at organdonor.gov or 2) in-person at your local motor vehicle department.

  By signing up to be an organ donor, you have the power to be someone’s miracle. One person can donate up to eight life-saving organs, and that doesn’t even include all the ways your tissue can make a difference.

  If you haven’t registered to be a deceased organ donor or considered ways to be a living donor, think about this: Souls go to heaven. Organs do not.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cassie

  I stare down at the black square envelope in my right hand, my forefinger tracing the crisp edge of the expensive paper. My full name is inked on the front in metallic gold calligraphy: Miss Cassandra Lulach.

  Catching my sister’s green eyes, I hold up the envelope. “What’s this?”

  “Your invitation to the masquerade ball this Saturday,” Tessa answers.

  I slowly shake my head. “I already told you—I can’t go.”

  I know Tessa is disappointed I won’t be there, but I’ve attended every other event she’s hosted since her marriage to King Leo II of Alsania. Although the wedding took place five months ago, it’s still hard for me to believe my older sister is the queen of Alsania.

  I don’t have a drop of royal blood in my veins, nor does she. We’re commoners. But now that I think about it, I can’t say that with certainty because Tessa and I are both adopted. We know nothing about our respective birth parents, and I suppose anything is possible, even a connection to royalty.

  I haven’t always believed that anything is possible. But seeing your sister almost die from liver failure only to be saved by the most unlikely donor has a way of changing your mind. If not for Leo’s willingness to give a hunk of his liver to a woman he’d never met, Tessa would be dead, and I’d be struggling to survive without her.

  I watch my sister as she leans forward from her place on the sofa and grabs a lemon bar from the tray of goodies sitting on the cocktail table. The pastry chef probably made them with the Meyer lemon trees Tessa cultivates in the greenhouse at Helios, the country estate where the royal family spends the summer months and weekends throughout the year.

  That’s where we are right now, on the second floor of the massive home, hanging out in the informal living room. Bigger than my entire apartment in Circo, the capital city of Alsania, the room is filled with comfortable sofas and spacious chairs upholstered in a variety of materials, from expensive leather to sumptuous velvet.

  Beside me, Tessa bites into the lemon square with a soft moan. I wish she’d gobble up every sweet on the tray. Although she’s gained back most of the weight she lost during her illness, she’s still too thin, even for her petite frame. She looks dainty, like a redheaded fairy in a Disney movie.

  I, on the other hand ... well, no one would describe me as a redheaded fairy. My hair is the color of Dutch-process cocoa and hangs halfway down my back when it’s not restrained in a ponytail or braids.

  I’m not dainty like my older sister either. I’m a little above average in height and proportioned like a pinup girl who likes brownies a lot more than broccoli: big boobs, round hips, and a booty requiring skirts and pants that stretch.

  Have you ever thought that the person who invented spandex deserves to be honored—maybe a special holiday or a Nobel Peace Prize? I feel a lot more peaceful when my clothes aren’t squeezing my waist or creeping up my butt crack.

  “I know you said you can’t go to the ball, but I wanted you to have an invitation.” Tessa shrugs, sending her loose coppery curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Just in case you change your mind.”

  She sounds hopeful, and I wonder if she hopes that I’ll change my mind about attending the ball or hopes that I’ll change my mind about going to Italy with Zac. I wouldn’t say she dislikes my boyfriend, but I wouldn’t say she likes him either. She hasn’t said anything, but I know my sister. Tolerates is probably the best word to describe her feelings toward the man I’ve been dating for a little over two months.

  As for me, I’m still trying to figure out my feelings for Zac. Definitely not love. Not yet, anyway.

  “Open it,” Tessa orders, gesturing to the invitation I’m still holding.

  Rolling my blue eyes at her bossiness, I follow her directive by sliding my thumbnail under the sealed flap of the envelope and removing the invitation. Made of glittery gold paper, it’s fastened by a black satin ribbon tied in a bow like a masquerade mask.

  I tug on one end of the ribbon and o
pen the invitation. A hand-drawn illustration of the House of Trioni coat of arms is at the top. The wording is hand-lettered as well, an elaborately sinuous calligraphy that’s both sexy and whimsical.

  “What do you think?” Tessa asks.

  “I’m impressed.”

  Her smile is so white and wide it’s almost blinding. She must’ve forgotten it’s not that hard to impress me. Just ask my second graders; I jump up and down when they recite their multiplication tables correctly.

  “You know,” my sister says slowly, “you could always postpone your trip and bring Zac to the ball with you.”

  “I can’t postpone it, Tessa.” I give her a sardonic glance. “I don’t have a private jet at my disposal like you do. Have you forgotten what it’s like for us commoners, Your Majesty? We fly commercial. My ticket is non-refundable. The hotel room is prepaid too, which means no refund for it either.”

  Our flight leaves tomorrow afternoon, and even if it weren’t too late to cancel without paying a fee, I still wouldn’t do it. This trip to Italy is special, for several reasons. I’ve always dreamed of visiting, but never had the opportunity. More important, it’ll be the first trip Zac and I take as a couple.

  Zac canceled our first two weekend trips because of work commitments. I wasn’t too upset though, mostly because I wasn’t ready to have sex with him. The truth is, I’m still not sure if I’m ready. But I know physical intimacy is the next step in our relationship, and I want to keep moving forward.

  I’m twenty-six, almost twenty-seven, and I want to find the guy. I don’t know if it’s Zac, but I’m hopeful. According to my best friend, Karina, he owns all the vowels: attractive, employed, intelligent, outgoing, and uncomplicated. She may be a little obsessed with Wheel of Fortune, but she’s right about Zac Diedi—he’s perfect for me. I just wish he lit up my insides like...

  I grit my teeth at the thought of Prince Marco of Alsania, Leo’s younger brother and the second in line for the crown—the so-called spare. I promised myself that I wasn’t going to think about him anymore.

  A playboy prince is not what I want or need in my life. Zac is.

  Right? Right.

  Tessa pops the last piece of lemon square into her mouth and swipes a white napkin across her lips before tossing it onto the cocktail table. Rising from the sofa, she says, “I want to show you my mask for the ball. Be right back.”

  As she leaves the room, I give in to temptation and snatch a chocolate tartlet from the sterling silver tray. A swirl of whipped cream tops it, flaked with dark chocolate shavings. I take a bite, letting the rich taste of the chocolate ping my taste buds. If I were at home, I’d pair it with a nice Zinfandel.

  Just as I take another nibble of the chocolate tartlet, I hear footsteps behind me. I look over my shoulder and choke a little when I see Marco standing inside the room.

  Swallowing with difficulty, I lurch to my feet and turn toward him. The first thing I notice is his thick hair; he must’ve just showered because it’s visibly damp, waving over his forehead and curling under his ears.

  The strands are so dark and shiny they remind me of the beetles we keep in the terrarium in my classroom. I know that’s a weird comparison, but I’m an amateur entomologist, and my kiddos love it when I talk about bugs.

  Marco’s mouth curves in the sexiest smile known to man. It must be his honey-colored skin that makes his teeth look so white.

  “What a lovely surprise.” His timbre is richer than the tartlet I just ate, and when he says “Cassie” in his dark chocolate voice, I reflexively lick my lips.

  “Hi, Marco,” I reply.

  To my surprise, I don’t sound nearly as breathless as I feel. Maybe I’m finally getting used to his effect on me. I shouldn’t be embarrassed by my reaction to him. Every woman gets a little breathless when Prince Marco of Alsania is around. I’ve witnessed the phenomenon firsthand.

  He moves closer, dodging the armchair adjacent to the sofa, and stops in front of me. He’s several inches taller than I am, at least six two, and a lot bigger. His broad shoulders and thick biceps stretch his plain black T-shirt, and the thin cotton clings to his chest and hints at his toned stomach. The soft-looking material stops just below the waistband of his dark-washed jeans.

  He’s so close I can smell him—a heady mixture of citrus and spice. It takes all my willpower not to lean in and shove my nose in the hollow of his throat.

  His eyes trail over my face, the deep brown of his irises almost indistinguishable from his pupils. His attention lingers on my lips before flicking to the sweets tray and back to me again.

  Touching his thumb to the corner of my mouth, he says, “Think you have some chocolate right here...”

  He swipes his thumb over my bottom lip, his skin warm and slightly rough. I have to lock my knees to keep them from trembling.

  I know exactly what he’s going to do next, but that doesn’t stop my stomach from doing a slippery somersault when he licks the chocolate off his thumb. I jerk my eyes from the erotic sight of his tongue, and our gazes lock.

  “You taste so good,” he whispers, his words almost inaudible.

  My lips part in surprise. I taste so good?

  “What?” I ask.

  “Tastes good.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a smile. “What’d you think I said?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter, feeling stupid.

  Marco flirts with everyone, and when I say everyone, I mean everyone. Over time, I’ve learned his flirting never means anything. If he’s breathing, he’s flirting. He probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. And that’s why I know I can’t read anything into how he behaves with me. Of course, that doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about him.

  Taking a step back, I put some space between us and rub my hand across my lips. I don’t know if I’m trying to remove the remaining smear of chocolate or the lingering feel of Marco’s touch.

  The sound of footsteps draws my attention. A moment later, Tessa walks into the living area, gingerly holding two masks though the eyeholes. When she sees Marco, a big smile takes over her mouth.

  “Hey!” she chirps.

  “Hello, fiamma.”

  A few months after Leo and Tessa announced their engagement, Vogue Italia did a story on my sister. The magazine referred to her as Prince Leo’s fiamma. The Alsanian media latched onto the word, which translates to flame in English, and played up the idea that her flame thawed Leo’s icy heart. Shortly thereafter, Marco started calling his sister-in-law fiamma, probably to annoy his older brother.

  “How was your trip?” Tessa asks him.

  The smile slips from his face. “Heartbreaking.”

  Just then, I remember that he’d flown to Germany for a three-day summit on child trafficking. He loves children—something we have in common.

  Tessa makes a sympathetic sound, and when she gets close enough, Marco snakes his arm around her waist and tugs her to his side for a python-like hug. He adores Tessa, and the feeling is mutual.

  “Careful!” she cries out.

  “What?” He jerks his arms away from Tessa. “What’s wrong? What’d I do?”

  She holds up the masks. “I don’t want you to mess up the masks.”

  “That’s it?” He runs his hand though his hair, tousling it. “You scared me. I thought I squeezed you too hard ... maybe hurt your liver.”

  Tessa laughs. “No. Liver’s all good.”

  Thank God.

  “May I?” he asks, inclining his head toward the masks.

  Holding one of them out to him, she says, “This is Leo’s.”

  Marco shifts slightly so I can see the mask too. Made of white satin, it’ll cover Leo’s eyes, but nothing more. Silver crystals surround the eyeholes, and jagged slivers of silver glass border the top of the mask, representing icicles, I presume.

  “This is mine,” Tessa adds, holding up the other mask in front of her face.

  The entire mask sparkles with miniature red crystals, and a mix of red, orange, and go
ld crystals shaped like flames shoot from the top of the mask.

  “Fire and ice.” Marco laughs softly. “That couldn’t be more perfect.”

  Tessa beams a smile at him. “Leo came up with the idea, and he designed them.” She reclaims the masks, almost snatching them from our hands. “Have you picked your mask yet, Marco?”

  He nods. “It’s a jester’s mask.” He brings his hands to his head, palms out and fingers spread. “It has the things on top ... the droopy things with bells on the ends.”

  “A jester is the perfect mask for you. You’re very entertaining.”

  “And distracting,” I add without thinking.

  Marco’s head swivels toward me. “You find me distracting, Cassie?”

  I laugh to conceal my discomfort, wondering how to answer. To my relief, he abandons the topic with his next question: “What type of mask will you be wearing?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not going to the masquerade ball.”

  “And why is that?”

  For some reason I don’t want to tell him about my trip. And since it’s none of his business, I say nothing.

  Unfortunately, my sister speaks up: “Cassie’s going to Italy with Zac for a few days.”

  Marco’s eyes narrow on my face. Whatever he sees there makes his jaw clench and his mouth compress into a straight line.

  “I’m sure you’ll enjoy yourself.” He hesitates for a heartbeat before adding, “Zac is a lucky man.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Marco

  The masquerade ball is an indisputable success. Through the slits in my mask, I see the party has spilled out of the ballroom onto the huge balcony and trickled down the wide stairs that lead to the garden behind Helios.

  Everyone is here ... everyone except the person I want to see the most: Cassie. But she’s in Italy with her dickhead boyfriend.

  Oh, how I hate Zac Diedi. Hate him with all the passion I can’t give to Cassie.