His Royal Highness

by Grey, R. S.

  My parents seem to find this very impressive.

  “You never told us,” my mom says.

  I grind my molars and look away. “I have. In the past.”

  “Oh.”

  An usher comes around, informing guests that it’s time to find their seats. Our tickets were gifted from Avery. Derek had to buy his. I wonder where he’s sitting then he pulls out four tickets from his pocket.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I got us a box so we can all sit together.”

  My parents have no issue with this change. After all, Avery’s tickets were good, but they were nothing compared to the ones from Derek. Now we’re sitting like royalty up in a private box. An attendant asks us if we’d like anything else to drink and I practically beg for another glass of champagne.

  I sit at the very end of the front row of chairs, closest to the stage, forcing Derek to insulate me from my parents. It’s for the best. Now I can actually pay attention to the show.

  It’s fantastic. My parents’ summary of it earlier didn’t do it justice. The writing is pithy, the pacing perfect, and I find myself barely aware of my surroundings while the production takes place. Avery captivates us all, cast in the glow of those stage lights as if she were born to be on Broadway. I’m so unbelievably proud of her, I could burst. When she bows at the end, I leap up and whistle with my fingers. Classy, I know.

  We wait for her after the show, near the exit where the actors have been filtering out for the last fifteen minutes. She sees us and squeals, throwing her arms around me first and then hugging our parents. When she introduces herself to Derek, she hugs him too.

  “So you’re the man who’s stolen my little sister’s heart.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Whitney

  It’s almost like I don’t recognize myself at dinner. Or rather, Derek doesn’t recognize me. I can tell because he keeps glancing over, trying to catch my eye. He wants a private word—an explanation for why I’ve barely said anything all evening—but there’s no way to manage that without announcing it to the table.

  Instead, I shoot him reassuring Totally fine! smiles and resist the urge to order another drink. Flashbacks of Halloween remind me that tonight, two glasses of champagne is my limit.

  My mom wasn’t kidding about the restaurant being fancy. It’s filled with fine white linens, crystal wine glasses, and multiple courses. Only the best for Avery.

  There’s a congratulatory vase of pink peonies on the table, delivered before our arrival. It’s so large, I’m blocked from seeing my mom’s face across from me. I decide I don’t mind this setup actually.

  “You guys didn’t need to do all this,” Avery says, shaking her head, smiling nonetheless.

  She’s wearing a loose red dress that showcases her tan skin and bright blonde hair. It hangs off her svelte frame, and our waiter can barely take his eyes off her matching red lips.

  She’s vivacious and captivating, and I find myself jealous of her presence in a room. As if all she has to do is exist and that alone should warrant praise.

  That thought festers over our second course of roasted carrot and onion soup.

  I remind myself that I’m only jealous of Avery because of our past, because I’ve been conditioned to think she’s more important. I know it’s not true. I can usually convince myself of that. Tonight, however, it’s proving harder.

  Even now, she carries the conversation for the table, asking Derek questions about his work.

  I sit with a tight ball of tension in my stomach.

  A waiter swoops in to start clearing the second course and my father leans toward him, as if he’s going to speak to him one on one, then proceeds to announce his next words to half the restaurant.

  “My daughter just starred in a Broadway musical,” he boasts. “We’re here to celebrate. Avery, come on, tell him about the musical.”

  Why do parents think random strangers care about the achievements of their children? Hey, yeah, can you get the busboy over here too? I want to let him know my kid got an A on his spelling test.

  The waiter’s eyebrows shoot up with interest all the same.

  I reach for my water and try to channel Jesus, but when I take a sip, I’m sad to report it hasn’t been transformed into wine.

  “Dad,” Avery chides when the waiter finally walks away after getting an autograph. He tried for her number too, but she laughed off his request like he was joking. He was definitely not joking. “Okay, come on, guys. New subject. Whitney, how is everything down in Georgia? Are you still working in the dorm?”

  I should say yes, my life is exactly the same as the last time you asked me about it. I still dress up like a princess and take photos with children during the day, and at night, I babysit a bunch of college freshmen.

  I can’t get those words out though. Instead, I say, “No, actually. When I return, I’ll be accepting a new position.”

  Everyone perks up, intrigued. Derek most of all.

  “So you aren’t going to be playing that princess girl anymore?” my dad asks, like I’ve been spending the last decade of my life slumming it.

  “No. This will be a major promotion. Long overdue.”

  Derek sits perfectly quiet, neither confirming nor refuting my claims.

  My heart threatens to burst from my chest.

  What am I saying?

  Is this even the truth? It’s what Cal has wanted for years, but I’ve been too chicken to actually make the move, to accept a new role and shake things up. My position as Princess Elena is what I’ve known. I’m good at it. In other words, it’s safe.

  In that instant, a new future unfurls before me. One that doesn’t involve me staying stuck in my rut. One that feels terrifying yet exhilarating. For once, I don’t run from it.

  Yes. Okay. I’m going to do this. I’m going to take Cal up on his offer.

  I’m smiling now, high on the thrill of making a major life decision and going for it.

  I’m going to accept a new position. I could cry. I might be crying already. Derek’s hand wraps around mine and squeezes.

  I glance up, thrilled, and then realize the conversation at the table has moved on without me. My mom is asking Avery when she can get them tickets to another show. They want to go to as many as they can, and maybe if their schedule allows, they’ll even—

  I can’t take it.

  I stand up, chair screeching. I’m now taller than that ridiculous vase of peonies.

  “Are you guys freaking kidding me right now?” I’m breathing heavy, like marathon-finish-line heavy.

  My dad looks around, embarrassed. My mom tries to get to me sit back down.

  “Whitney, just—”

  “No. I won’t sit. I just announced that I’m getting a major promotion and you two didn’t even ask me about it. It’s a really big deal. You should care.”

  “We do care,” my mom says hurriedly.

  “No you don’t. You’ve already moved on to talking about Avery’s musical again. I mean, you could have at least asked me about it. Just one question.”

  I hold up a finger to emphasize my point.

  “We care,” my mom assures me. “Sit down and we can talk about your promotion.”

  My weight shifts from foot to foot as I realize I’m definitely not sitting back down, not now that I’ve actually stood up for once in my life. “No. You don’t get it. This isn’t about the promotion, really. It’s just…” I glance back and forth between them, their eyes wide in horror, or maybe just sheer disbelief that I have a voice. “Sometimes you both act like I don’t even exist. No, not sometimes. All the time.” Words continue coming, like I’ve tapped a deep reserve of oil and now there’s no way to stem the flow. “Your whole world revolves around Avery and I’m sick of you guys treating me like I don’t matter as much as her.” I cringe, hearing the accusation. “I don’t think you do it on purpose, it’s just—” I turn to Avery. “I’ve always been jealous of you.”

  Her red lips part. Her eyes mirror
my pain.

  “Yeah, pretty much my whole life. And I know there was no reason to be jealous of you back when you were really sick, except even then you had all the attention.” I screw up my features, shaking my head. “It’s not that I want to be sick. That’s not it. It’s just…you were always the special one, even when you didn’t want to be, and that’s fine. Really. I don’t—it’s whatever. That’s not why I’m saying this.”

  I rub my forehead hard, trying to unscramble the thousands of thoughts clambering to be set free all at once.

  “I don’t blame you for taking care of Avery like you did. She needed it. But I existed too. I’m your daughter too, and there were a lot of times when I was growing up that I just felt…forgotten.” I take a deep breath, having realized what a colossal mistake I’ve just made. A quick perusal of the restaurant confirms that every single person has stopped what they’re doing to look over and listen to me give this speech. “Oh-kay. I’m going to excuse myself now. Avery, you were really good in that musical, and I love you. And sorry for ruining your big night.”

  Then I scoot my chair back further and walk right out the front door of the restaurant, but not before some guy sassily shouts through his cupped hands, “Yes, honey! Preach!”

  A gust of cold air hits me upon my arrival on the sidewalk. My bout of honesty-vomit didn’t give me the chance to properly plan for an exit. I left my wrap inside. I can’t go back and get it. I’d rather lose an arm to frostbite than face my parents right now.

  Then a warm jacket covers my shoulders and I glance up to find Derek has joined me.

  “Ready to go?” His calm tone contradicts the scene we both just left behind. He ushers me to the street and hails a cab. “The Plaza,” he tells the driver before tugging me against him.

  We ride in perfect silence. It’s a gift, I realize. He’s giving me what I need most: a moment to recover. Once we’re there, we stroll through the lobby and up to his room as if we’re a couple returning from a blissful day out in the city. He has a suite with enough floor space to do a series of back handsprings, but I focus on the turned-down bed and the bottle of champagne chilling beside it.

  “Can I open this?” I ask, already reaching for it.

  “Yeah, and I’m still hungry,” he says, hanging up his jacket in the closet. “Are you?”

  “Starving. What was in the carrot soup, anyway?”

  “Carrots,” he says before placing a room service order for a cheeseburger, fries, spaghetti, and a vanilla—I correct him—chocolate milkshake.

  “Food will be here in forty-five minutes.”

  I give up working on the champagne. Residual adrenaline is making my hands shake. The bottle clinks back into the bucket of ice and I walk to the window. Central Park sits at my fingertips, seemingly endless. How does Manhattan do it? Trick you into forgetting you’re on a tiny speck of an island, one person among millions?

  Derek comes to stand beside me, glass of champagne in hand. I didn’t even hear the cork pop. He offers it to me and I accept, holding it at my side, unwilling to move. I can’t come to grips with the fact that I just exploded like that in the middle of a restaurant. I want to trade lives with that lady down there in the park, walking her dog. I bet she’s never caused a scene like I just did.

  “For the record, I think what you did was incredibly brave.”

  My laugh is laden with sarcasm. “Thank you, but it was mostly gibberish. I doubt I even made sense.”

  “Sure you did.”

  My forehead hits the glass. My eyes pinch closed.

  “It was twenty years in the making,” I confess.

  “I could tell.”

  “Did I sound crazy?”

  He rubs the back of my arm gently with his knuckle, just above my elbow.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Think they hate me now?”

  “Of course not.”

  I’m not sure how long we stay like that. On the street, a siren grows loud, louder, loudest then disappears. My eyes stay closed. He steps closer, enveloping me. The last of my adrenaline and worry evaporate as I settle against him. To love is to settle, to feel calmed by a lover’s embrace. It’s why people often define home as a person, not a place.

  Derek is my home now.

  I release a soft laugh. “And the musical? Did you like it?”

  He chuckles. “It was good…I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Honestly, I was kind of distracted. Worried about you.”

  I lean back and look up at him.

  His brow is wrinkled and his eyes are a deep sad brown. He’s frowning down at me, as if everything I’ve carried tonight has been his burden as well.

  In an instant, I press up on my toes and kiss him.

  God, this man.

  I could just…

  I kiss him again, and this time he doesn’t let me go so easily. He seeks out my lips again just as I’m pulling away, and there’s an underlying yearning in the way he wraps me up in his arms, in the bite of his grip on my lower back. I’m reminded of where we are, of the twinkling cityscape at our back and the empty bed at our side. I’m reminded that he flew all the way to New York to be with me tonight and I don’t want to waste another second.

  The restaurant is forgotten. The city is gone. All of the millions of people below us vanish the moment I kiss him again, harder this time, begging for more. His hands trail up and down my bare arms, teasingly slow. My body comes alive for him, like he’s turning the dial up on the desire that’s lived dormant inside for the last few weeks. He’s unsure of where my head is at—that’s why he’s going slow—but after his tongue sweeps across mine and my stomach clenches tight, I step back to show him I’m ready for more.

  My untouched glass of champagne gets placed on the side table. My hands reach for his and I walk us backward toward the bed. He stands at the edge as I climb up and face him. He steals another kiss, a peck. Then he leans back with hooded eyes and keeps his hands to himself as he watches me reach down and finger the hem of my dress. I tug it up an inch on my thigh and then another, bunching the material in my hands to expose more and more skin. I watch him, feeding off of the burning need building in his gaze as my dress reveals my upper thighs and then the very edge of my lace panties. He reaches out to touch me, his palm skimming up the inside of my leg, starting at my knee. My body quakes and a smirk paints his face in devilish light as he continues upward. When he reaches the top of my parted legs, the knuckle of his pointer finger skims the middle of my panties and I hold perfectly still, letting him take his time exploring while I dutifully hold my dress up for him. Back and forth, he brushes. Almost innocently. Almost. My stomach dips and I’m burning up on the inside, barely able to contain myself as he does it yet again, pushing the material against my most sensitive skin.

  With a heady breath, I release my dress and reach out for his shirt so I can start unbuttoning it. When the top two buttons are undone, I drop a kiss to his chest, and his low rumble in response encourages me to continue. Down I go, letting my hands roam under the fabric.

  His olive skin is one of my favorite things about him. He has the look of someone who’s perpetually returning from a week on the Italian coast. A warm, romantic tan.

  He stands patiently in front of me, letting me touch him as he fingers the straps of my dress. They’re thin and easy to push down my shoulders. Once they hang limp on my arms, he runs the back of his pointer finger up along a pulse line on my neck then back down along my collarbone.

  I shiver.

  A smile lifts at the edge of his mouth and he continues his gentle exploration.

  I finish with his shirt, pushing it off his broad shoulders. Once it’s on the floor, he steps forward to find the zipper on the back of my dress. An eye for an eye, I think.

  He tugs and the only sounds in the room are our breaths and that zipper, peeling down my back.

  My dress sags now that there’s nothing holding it up. My strapless bra is visible only for as
long as it takes him to unclasp it, and then it’s falling too, off the bed, onto his shirt. In that instant, his hands slide up my ribs and cover my chest. I look down and watch him touch me. I feel beautiful with the way he’s reacting. It’s like someone’s been holding him back, keeping him away, and now that he’s finally touching me, he can’t get enough.

  I try to reach for his belt, but just then, he bends down to take with his mouth what he’s already felt with his hands. My head falls back and a soft moan escapes as I feel his tongue lap over my breasts.

  “Forty-five minutes isn’t that long,” I warn him as his hands tug the front of my dress down a little more. An inch. Two. I’m naked from the ribs up. His eyes eat me alive.

  In response to my worry, he hauls me up and tosses me back onto the bed. I bounce a little.

  His brown eyes are feral.

  I scurry away from him, playfully.

  He grabs my ankles and hauls me back toward the edge of the mattress.

  His weight covers me and his hands are in my hair, holding my face angled up to him so when he kisses me, it’s unencumbered magic.

  His groans match my own and his lips trail from my mouth to my chin, to the sensitive skin just underneath. He kisses me lower, spreading heat. I writhe and arch up with every new territory he conquers.

  His hands are tugging my dress lower. My panties are silky smooth against his suit pants, but that’s not fair. I want access. I demand access.

  Unfortunately, Derek doesn’t agree.

  “You’re mine,” he whispers against my ear as his hand slides down the front of my panties. Lower. Parting.

  My head tilts back and my mouth clamps shut. I don’t think the nice, imagined family staying next door needs to hear the dirty thoughts racing through my brain right now. Derek knows I’m having a hard time containing myself, though. His wicked smirk tells me so just before he slides a finger inside me. Pumps slowly. Adds another. His mouth finds my breast again and I groan his name, raking my nails down his back as he brings me close to an orgasm right before pulling back.

  He isn’t intimidated by my distress.