Once Upon a Rainbow, Volume One

by Mickie B. Ashling

  “Can you think of anything off the top of your head, Mama?”

  “It’ll involve bedroom antics.”

  I waggled my eyebrows. “I’m always up for that.”

  “Not in that way,” Mama scolded.

  “What then?”

  “Something to do with your bedding,” Mama said thoughtfully. “I’ll have to do some research before I can give you an answer. Maybe I should call one of my sisters.”

  “God, no! They’ll turn this into a monumental project, and I can’t deal with the hovering. I just want a little sign that I’m picking the right guy.”

  “I understand,” Mama said. “No bells or whistles when he walks through the door, but something profoundly meaningful you’ll be able to glean on the spot.”

  “Now you’re getting it,” I encouraged. “Remember, Mama. Less is more.”

  “Get cracking on those questions, Bash,” my father commanded. “I have more faith in that than your mother’s magic. God only knows what’ll happen now that I’m letting her off the leash.”

  “One more word and I’m turning you into a toad.”

  “I would challenge you to give it your best shot, my dear, but I’m afraid it’ll actually work this time. I have no desire to spend the rest of my life croaking on a lily pad.”

  Mama’s laughter filled the throne room. The noticeable change in her demeanor was astonishing, and I had to wonder if the person I’d been living with my entire life was a fraud, and this animated version was the real Alexandra. Like a prisoner who’d finally been set free, my mother was blooming in front of my eyes. I had no idea that stifling her magical powers could be such a downer. Maybe she wasn’t actually a prude but wound so tightly by my father’s iron rule she’d been withering on the vine. Note to self. Don’t be that kind of husband.

  And with that in mind, I made my way out the door and through the labyrinth of corridors leading to my bedroom. At my desk, I opened up my laptop and typed in a query. How to find the perfect match.

  A million answers popped up, and I squinted at the screen filled with good advice. Most of them catered toward heteronormative relationships, but there were a few that might pertain to me. Gritting my teeth, I began the tedious process of formatting the infamous questionnaire.

  Chapter Two

  ERROL

  The invitation to the masquerade ball in honor of Crown Prince Sebastian’s twenty-fifth birthday lay among a pile of papers scattered haphazardly on the step near my front door. I’d never gotten around to repairing my mailbox someone had knocked over the month before, but since most of my bills were delivered online, the need to find suitable housing for junk mail seemed superfluous. However, the unsightly mess bothered me more than I cared to admit, and I vowed to set matters straight over the weekend.

  Living alone made it a lot easier to ignore certain things that could potentially start an argument. I wasn’t a slob by any means; in fact, the complete opposite was true. My ex had often accused me of having OCD tendencies—when I gave him shit for his own messiness—and this uncharacteristic disinterest in a simple home repair was my lame attempt at proving him wrong. Not that it mattered anymore. We’d broken up six months ago, and I’d stopped missing him about an hour after he left.

  I tossed most of the sale flyers in the trash bin beside my garage door, but I clung to the large navy blue envelope with the Crown’s signet embossed on the red wax seal. After hanging up my jacket, I grabbed a beer out of the fridge and gravitated toward the recliner in front of the TV. I turned it on for background noise, more interested in the invite than the news. Toeing off my Chucks, I sank down on the well-worn leather chair and ripped open the envelope.

  My legal name—Errol Leith Maitland—was penned in fancy calligraphy at the top of a questionnaire tucked inside the formal invitation. Whoever had thought to include me was making this as personal as possible, a nice touch, even if the entire event was a thinly disguised attempt by the royals to find a bridegroom for their finicky son.

  The quest had gone viral among gay men after the royal family had announced they were including commoners to the pool of contenders. It was unprecedented, a once in a lifetime opportunity, and eligible bachelors from every corner of the globe had been issued invitations. I couldn’t figure out how I got on the list since I’d never posted a profile on dating sites and had yet to meet Prince Sebastian or any of his cronies. My temperament was more suited to candlelit dinners than clubbing—apparently one of his favorite things—which led me to believe we’d be a terrible match. Granted, he was easy on the eyes, more than passable, truth be told. I’d always been attracted to blonds, perhaps because they were my exact opposite, but there was something about this particular royal that went beyond good looks.

  Photos of him ladling soup at homeless shelters or handing out winter gear at the same location struck a chord when I’d come across the news on the internet. It wasn’t the first time he’d spearheaded charitable events and appeared to be genuinely engaged. Aside from his kindness, Sebastian had a beautiful smile with deep dimples in both cheeks that made me want to reach out and touch the guy. He was charming, in a playful sort of way, and the public and paparazzi loved him. I had to admit I found him quite intriguing. Enough to glance at the questionnaire and start filling it out.

  What’s your occupation?

  Didn’t these people already know? To be fair, I wasn’t much of a partygoer and didn’t socialize with the prince’s crowd, but my sculptures graced buildings and museums all over the world. Maybe this form wasn’t tailor-made for me after all. I frowned, wrote down sculptor, and moved on to the next question.

  What is your genetic background?

  I’m a transplanted Shetlander whose veins bleed red whenever I injure myself on the job. As unroyal as you can get but hardworking and healthy in every way.

  I underlined healthy twice. Put that in your data bank, sweet prince. If this was his subtle way of asking if I had any mutated genes that might produce a hemophiliac or worse, this would clear up the issue.

  Do you like children?

  Who doesn’t?

  Who’s your favorite historical person?

  William Wallace.

  Will you portray this figure at the ball?

  I hadn’t really thought about my costume, but I could play Sir William in a flash. I already had the kilt and could find war paint anywhere. Do the whole Braveheart thing and look fiercely sexy. Maybe the thought of what was underneath my plaid might inspire the prince. I wrote down yes.

  Are you willing to relocate?

  I already have!

  Pet peeves.

  People who ask dumb questions.

  Guilty pleasure.

  Hearing someone beg…

  Breakfast or dinner?

  Depends on the company.

  Can you climb stairs; i.e. are your knees healthy?

  Oh, that’s a good one. I thought about my answer for a second, then wrote my knees work just fine, thank you very much. Never had any complaints. I drew a big heart instead of a period. Hopefully he’d get a woody reading between the lines. Serves him right, tricky wee bastard.

  Do you like games?

  Can’t you tell by my answers? My favorite is hide the pickle. LOL.

  I snorted out a laugh when I realized I was getting hard thinking about the possible scenario. Hopefully, he’d get the same reaction instead of shredding the paper.

  Are you willing to submit to any and all medical procedures necessary to produce my heir if and when the time is right?

  I wasn’t sure what all was involved, but I realized this was the deal breaker. A negative reply would take me out of the running. Gnawing on the end of my pen, I tried to formulate an intelligent reply. Finally, I scribbled that I would only agree after a thorough briefing by the physicians in charge. I won’t go into anything blind. That would be irresponsible on my part. If all my questions are answered to my satisfaction, and I’m confident the docs know what the hell they’re
doing, then I don’t see a problem.

  Do you believe in love at first sight?

  Yes.

  Describe your ideal partner?

  Impossible to do in one sentence. Sometimes a song can evoke the right feelings, and these are a few of my favorites. They’re an eclectic mash-up of old and new but reflect my needs. “The One” by Elton John; “Sometimes When We Touch” by Dan Hill; “Queen of My Heart” by Westlife; “Who I Am With You” by Chris Young; “Truly Madly Deeply” and “I Knew I Loved You” by Savage Garden; “Another Lonely Night” by Adam Lambert; “Somebody to Love” by Queen.

  Shit. The last two selections were kind of pathetic. I didn’t want the prince to think I was a needy fuck, then again, I had a reputation to maintain, and inserting these two songs might give a clearer picture. I stuck the questionnaire in the self-enclosed envelope and put it on the table beside my car keys. It could have gone in my own mailbox if the damned thing wasn’t out of commission.

  With thoughts of weekend chores on my mind, I made myself breakfast for dinner—buttered toast and a mushroom, sausage, and cheese omelet with a pile of hash browns on the side. My pooch, Snow, was by my legs within seconds, waiting for a chance to lick the plate when I was done. I didn’t usually feed her people food—I’d go broke if I did—but she had a nose for eggs, and I indulged her shamelessly.

  Weighing in at a hundred and ten pounds, my Pyrenean had almost met her death under the wheels of my truck the winter before, around the same time my relationship fell apart. Some heartless bastard had dumped the wee puppy—she was a tiny ball of white fluff back then—and she’d wandered out to the highway in search of food and water. It had snowed the night before, and white on white was a disaster in the making. It was a miracle she wasn’t crushed, but I managed to stop in time. I wrapped her in a woolen blanket I kept in the boot for emergencies and brought her home. We bonded over the next few months, and my little “Snowflake” was renamed “Snow” as she expanded in height and girth. I wasn’t familiar with the Great Pyrenees breed and was astonished when my little darling turned into a woolly mammoth. Talk about a good appetite! I was constantly refilling the storage bin and eventually started buying her food in bulk. Even though she was huge and could probably rip out a predator’s throat in one bite, my girl loved a good cuddle. Her favorite thing was draping herself across my lap when I sat on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Her fur was so thick she kept me warmer than the flames.

  With Snow on my mind, I pulled the questionnaire out of the unsealed envelope and wrote a follow-up question of my own on the bottom.

  P.S. DO YOU LIKE DOGS? TEAR UP THIS SHEET IF YOU DON’T. I COME WITH HEFTY BAGGAGE.

  Folding up the paper, I slid it back into the envelope and sealed it this time. Snow padded softly behind me as I closed up for the night—locking the front and back doors, turning off the lights, and setting the alarm. Most of the people in my neighborhood were aware I had a living, breathing bodyguard, but it never hurt to be careful.

  I put my foot down when it came to our sleeping arrangements. There was no way in hell Snow was allowed on the bed. Aside from ruining my sex life—can you imagine anyone interested in sharing space with her furry arse—I had no desire to get crushed in my sleep or end up on the floor, which was the more likely scenario because Snow would rather bite off her foot than hurt me.

  She turned around a couple of times in her plush-lined bed in the corner, sank down, and laid her big head on her front paws.

  “Sweet dreams, baby,” I muttered softly.

  My life would be so much better if I could whisper those same words into a human’s ear, but I’d given up trying to fill the void with losers. My new motto was quality versus quantity, and if a blue blood could provide the physical and mental stimulation I needed to stay interested, then so be it. There was no reason to turn my nose up at a high-ranking member of society because of my own self-imposed rules. I’d made it a point to date men who were my peers, guys who shared the same humble beginnings but weren’t afraid of hard work to improve their plight. Unfortunately, these same men weren’t interested in broadening their horizons. Content in their ordinary jobs, with money to blow on the weekends, they didn’t need more. Unlike me. There were so many places I wanted to see, so much to learn, so little time, and never enough money. My bucket list was a mile long.

  Being an artist meant learning how to budget. Commissions were generous and sales were good, but the money didn’t show up every two weeks like a regular paycheck. It came in fits and starts and planning was critical to my piece of mind. It would be counterproductive to blow my profits on a trip to Ibiza if I wasn’t sure what was around the next bend. This tendency to scrimp had been one of the factors that broke up my last union.

  You have to be more spontaneous I was told on more than one occasion.

  Bullocks. If I didn’t have to pay for everything, then maybe I would entertain a trip out of town, but for whatever reason, these guys thought I should pick up the tab. Yeah, I made good money, but I wasn’t a chump either. Bunch of losers. It would be nice to date someone who might actually put himself on the line for more than sex.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like dating a royal. Would he be different—generous in and out of bed—or was I delusional? He was probably a lazy fuck and would expect me to do all the work. Not happening. I liked control in the bedroom, or at the very least, I enjoyed men who were open to a power exchange. It didn’t matter if the guy was a prince or a pauper, but while he was in my bed, he’d have to learn how to bend, even temporarily, or it wouldn’t work.

  Chapter Three

  SEBASTIAN

  In my eagerness to prescreen my future consort, I’d forgotten that someone had to read and sort through hundreds of questionnaires arriving daily. Unfortunately, I couldn’t delegate the job if I wanted this done right, but I did enlist Mama to help sort the trolls from the lookers. Every contender had been instructed to enclose a photo or a link to a dating site, where I could check out his appearance. I could be diplomatic and say that physical beauty didn’t factor into my decision, but it would be a lie. There seemed no point in considering a man I found unattractive, regardless of his inner beauty or worldly accomplishments. Mother knew the type of men I’d dated, and she was pretty good in separating the keepers from the rejects, but the pile of eligible men was growing.

  “I’m counting on your magic to keep me from making the wrong choice,” I said, glancing up at Mama. “How can I possibly do that when I have a smorgasbord of men at my fingertips?”

  “You’ll have to prioritize your needs,” she said wisely. “I know you’re hoping to fall in love at first sight, but that’s the stuff of fairy tales. Set your sights on someone who intrigues you, a man who engages your mind as well as your body. He needs to be the sort of person who will challenge you and make you want more, or you’ll be bored to tears after the passion fades.”

  “I don’t want a loveless marriage,” I stated emphatically. “The whole point to this stupid masquerade is to find the perfect match.”

  “There’s a spell I found that might whittle down the selection process,” she said uncertainly.

  I put down the questionnaire and gave her my full attention. “I’m listening.”

  Glancing around to make sure we were alone, she leaned toward me and whispered, “It’s simple enough, Bash. All you have to do is get him in your bed.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “You’re not seriously about to give me sexual pointers, are you?”

  “Heavens no,” she said, breaking into nervous laughter.

  “What then?”

  “I’m going to put something magical underneath your mattress.”

  “Sorry?”

  She gave a quick smile and continued, “The object in question is a tiny pebble. Ordinary men won’t even know it’s there, but your Mr. Right will insist something is poking him, making it impossible to sleep comfortably.”

  Grimacing, I impl
ored, “Please don’t use the word poke in my presence.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Bash.”

  “It’s difficult when we’re talking about luring someone into my bed.”

  “To verify your choice….”

  “God, Mama. It sounds positively medieval.”

  She looked uncomfortable but resolute. “It’s an old spell, to be sure, but very effective. My sisters swear by it.”

  Knowing she’d consulted with her witchy brood about my sex life creeped me out. “It’s been tried and tested on family members?”

  “Absolutely,” she said.

  “All right,” I agreed. “Don’t tell me anything else. I intend to forget this discussion as soon as you walk out the door.”

  “We’re spending an inordinate amount of time and money to get this right,” she huffed indignantly. “I don’t understand why you’re being so squeamish. You were the one who suggested magic in the first place.”

  “It was in the abstract, Mama. Having you mess around in my bedroom before I lure someone into my bed is a bit…weird. Don’t you find it uncomfortable imagining a naked man in my arms?”

  “I try not to think about it,” she said.

  “Do you and Papa still have an active sex life?”

  She stood immediately. “You’re being inappropriate, Sebastian.”

  “Sorry.” I felt like a jerk. What did it matter if they did or didn’t burn up the sheets? It was none of my business. I tugged on her wrist. “Please, sit down. I promise to behave.”

  “I doubt it,” she bemoaned, “but there’s too much to do, and we can’t waste time bickering. Let’s get back to the task at hand.”

  I nodded and picked up the next sheet of paper on the pile. Errol Maitland. As I started to read, I became more and more interested. There was something about this guy’s answers that caught my interest. He’d neglected to send a photo or a link, but when I put his name into my search engine, a photo popped up that literally took my breath away.

  Holy. Fucking. Shit.