A Royal Shade of Blue (Modern Royals Series Book 1)

by Aven Ellis

  My dad affectionately loops his arm about my shoulders. “Love you, kiddo.”

  “I love you, too,” I say.

  “We need to celebrate,” Paisley adds, brushing back a strand of her long, dark hair from her face. “Lunch before we fly back later this afternoon, Clem?”

  I smile. “I want Pizzeria Bianco,” I say, referring to the famous Phoenix pizza place.

  “Done,” Dad says. “We have plenty of time to get that before you girls need to head back to the airport.”

  “Let’s go home. I’ll put on some coffee,” Mom says. “And hot chocolate.”

  I grin. “Perfect.”

  Before we get in the car, I stare out at the Phoenix landscape, the rugged mountains behind the city and the palms dotting the area around the medical building we’ve just left.

  “Hold on, I want to take a picture,” I say, moving underneath one of the palm trees and angling my phone so I’m looking up through the palm leaves and to the blue sky above. I snap it, and then I hurry to catch up with my family, who are getting into the car. I take my seat next to Paisley in the back of the Lexus, and I see CP has messaged me while I was with Dr. Choi:

  I know you are going in soon. I’m with you. Imagine me holding your hand. I’m with you, facing this with you, whatever this is. I’m also asking for every favour in the universe for you to get a good result.

  Tears sting my eyes. I’m touched by his words. He’s sincere and genuine in what he says, and I feel blessed CP has found his way into my life. I attach the picture of the palm tree and message him back:

  Beautiful day in the Valley of the Sun. A day made even more beautiful because I don’t have a tumor but rather an allergy to lavender oil. I’ll never let poor Chels with her essential oil diffuser live this one down, ha-ha.

  While I see he is typing a reply, I send a quick group text to Chelsea and Bryn telling them I am, without a doubt, one hundred percent fine, and we’ll celebrate when I get home tonight. By the time I’m finished, CP has sent me a new message:

  BRILLIANT, ABSOLUTELY BRILLIANT, ACE! Thank God. THANK GOD. I just exhaled for the first time today. We’ll figure out a time to celebrate at the same time.

  I smile to myself as I type:

  I don’t think I could have gotten through this without you. I’m grateful you are in my life. Headed back home now, then going to have the best pizza in the world for lunch. I have a flight at five tonight to San Jose. Send more puzzle pieces while I’m at the airport. I will have a lot of time to kill.

  CP is typing …

  Maybe it’s time to complete the puzzle.

  My heart leaps inside my chest. Is CP ready to show himself to me? I reply:

  You know I would love nothing more than to see your face. You can trust me, CP. You know that.

  CP is typing …

  I know I can. Just … just promise me you will call me from the airport after you get it. I need you to promise me that, Clementine. I need to explain some things. Once you get the puzzle completed, you might not understand.

  I furrow my brow. What is he so afraid of? CP has told me he’s not disfigured, that he’s not Shrek. Okay, so he didn’t say that, but he said he’s an average guy, so I can safely say he’s not Shrek.

  I promise I will call you. I can’t wait to see you.

  I don’t know how else I can reassure him, but I know every word I’m saying to him is true. I’m falling for this man I’ve never seen, and to anyone else, this would be an absurd lack of caution on my part.

  Or sheer stupidity.

  But all I know is when I talk to CP, everything makes sense. For the first time in my life, my attraction has grown from CP’s thoughts, his words, and his cleverness.

  My heart is falling for his mind, his heart, and his soul.

  No picture required.

  I don’t need to see him to know him. I know what drives him crazy, like how he can’t deal with indecisive people or extreme plastic packaging that no human can open without a saw. I know he’s a horrible dancer and loves taking long walks in the countryside with Lucy. I know we share the same sense of humor.

  I know he loves M&M’s and is jealous of all the flavors we have in America, and his favorite Christmas treat is a Christmas pudding. I know he’s passionate about Arsenal football and playing polo. I had to tease him about the polo thing. It made him sound oh-so-posh, and he told me he’s only posh if he’s in an all-white uniform.

  CP even told me he’s expected to go into the family business upon graduation. I remember he got sidetracked after that comment, so I don’t know what the family business is, but he didn’t seem passionate about having to work for them.

  And I’m able to talk to CP about all of my idiosyncrasies, like my love of Shrek movies and how I hate mean-spirited people. He knows I worry I’ll never find a job with antiques. He knows I don’t like crispy taco shells because I got a fragment of one stuck in between my teeth and it hurt and I can’t get past it, even though it happened when I was six. He knows I hate eating fish and love anything with marshmallows. I’ve told him about my parents, how my dad is a chief financial officer for a company in Phoenix and my mom is a preschool teacher, and I told him of my childhood adventures with Paisley growing up in Phoenix. I also informed him it’s a myth that Phoenix is full of only old people, thank you very much.

  CP knows my most guarded secret, too. Well, besides the tumor one. Okay, my second most-guarded secret.

  I don’t like the Harry Potter books.

  Luckily, he forgave me for that one.

  But that is what makes us different: the way we can talk about everything and anything for hours, unfiltered, one hundred percent real.

  I’ve never had these kinds of conversations with any other guy.

  The thing is, after having them with CP, I don’t want to have them with anyone else.

  I put my phone down and gaze at the desert landscape that is rolling by out the window as we head back to my parents’ place in Scottsdale. I take in the stucco and mountains and cactus, loving everything that makes up the landscape of the Southwest. Normally, I cherish my visits home, not only to see my mom and dad, but to bask in the desert that I’ve always known and loved.

  Today, however, is different.

  I can’t wait to get to the airport.

  Because when I’m there, CP is going to send me the pieces to complete the puzzle.

  I draw an excited breath of air. The fact that CP is willing to reveal his true self to me marks a significant step for both of us.

  One that will change everything.

  Chapter 6

  The Complete Picture

  “Okay, out with it. Who is the boy?”

  I blink. Paisley and I are sitting in Sky Harbor International Airport, waiting for our flight back to San Jose.

  I try to ignore the flush climbing up my neck and take a swig out of my water bottle instead.

  “What boy?”

  “Exactly! What boy?” Paisley asks.

  “Why on earth do you think there’s a boy involved?”

  Paisley lets out an exasperated groan. “You keep checking your phone every five seconds.”

  “Oh my God, so if I’m looking at my phone, it means I’m waiting for some guy to text me?”

  Okay, she totally doesn’t have to know she’s bang on with that comment.

  “Clem. You are my sister. You’ve been weird this whole time, since we left for Phoenix yesterday. You read your phone and laugh and smile before manically texting back. But the telltale sign is the blush you get when you’re doing it. You’re smitten with somebody, and I can’t believe you haven’t told me!”

  “I haven’t told anybody!” I blurt out.

  Crap.

  Paisley’s eyes pop wide open. “There is a guy!”

  How do I begin to explain so Paisley doesn’t freak out and think some serial killer is going to come after me? How do I tell her I haven’t met CP in person, yet I’m falling for him, without sounding cr
azy?

  I bite my lower lip. Paisley—rightfully so—will think I’m acting rashly. How can I know someone without having met him, let alone have such strong feelings? She’ll say it’s infatuation, that I have no clue who I’m really dealing with and I should grow up and quit acting like a teenage girl with a crush.

  Except I have communicated with him—via text, WhatsApp, private messages, or long emails—every day, for nearly two months. I’ve also talked to him on the phone. I talk to CP more than I talk to Paisley.

  “It’s, um, complicated,” I say.

  “Shit, he’s not married, is he?”

  “No!”

  Paisley exhales. “Is he older? If he’s as old as Dad, I’ll be kind of creeped out. I mean, if you love him and everything, I’ll accept it, but I’m just being honest here.”

  “Oh my God, stop it.”

  “A professor?”

  “If you’ve seen my professors, you know that is a big fat no.”

  “Then tell me!”

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  I gasp aloud when I look down. It’s a notification from CP.

  I’m about to see him for the first time.

  “Excuse me,” I say, getting up as excitement shoots down my spine.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “I need to take this, but I promise, Paisley, I’ll tell you everything soon.”

  I stand up, and Paisley scowls at me.

  “By soon you better mean you’ll tell me everything by the time the flight attendants come out with drinks and peanuts!”

  I ignore her and walk down a few gates, to one where the board shows a flight to Chicago has just departed, leaving it deserted. I sink down in one of the faux leather chairs and steel myself. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for: to see if his picture matches the one I’ve been painting in my head.

  I swipe open my message. CP has attached a picture of his eyes, which are a piercing shade of blue.

  I study the picture, and a memory begins to surge to the surface. I furrow my brow as I study the eyes. They are sad. I can see that.

  Wait.

  I’ve seen these eyes before. I start sorting through my memories, much like Sherlock Holmes does on the BBC version of the show, things coming in and out. I keep flipping through them until I get the one I want.

  My mind goes back to the day in the library when Chelsea had her tabloids out.

  These eyes belong to the Golden Prince.

  I drop my phone, sending it crashing to the floor.

  This whole thing is nothing more than a freaking charade. I have no idea who I’m talking to. None. Everything has been a lie. When it came time to show his face, he sent me a photo of Prince Christian.

  CP.

  Christian.

  I’m going to throw up.

  I slide down to the floor, grabbing my phone. I sit against the chair, using it for support, and I Google Prince Christian with a shaking hand. His serious face appears on the screen, and I scroll through his Wiki profile, which gives his name as Prince Christian Phillip, House of Chadwick.

  I begin violently shaking. CP Chadwick? He lied about his whole identity to fool me? To take advantage of me? Or to get me to fall for him and then reveal he’s a married man? A psycho? To try and eventually steal money from me?

  I try to breathe, but I feel like I can’t.

  CP is typing …

  Please call me, Clementine. I need to explain.

  Call me.

  I find my breath as anger rips through every inch of me. Seeing this person—whoever he is—type me a message has lit the firecracker in me.

  And now this fraud is about to get the explosion.

  I pull up his number in my contacts and tap the dial icon.

  “Clementine,” his familiar voice answers on the first ring. “Clement—”

  “You lying bastard!” I yell at him, causing some people walking by in the terminal to stop and stare at me, but I don’t give a shit. “Prince Christian? You stole his identity to try and deceive me?”

  “What?” CP says, shock resonating in his deep voice. “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m such an idiot. I hate myself right now. I hope you’re happy that you’ve completely ripped me apart with this. I belie—”

  “Clementine, listen to me. I am Prince Christian; I can prove it. We can FaceTime right—”

  I laugh manically, as I’m moving into hysteria now, and he stops speaking mid-sentence. “Stop it. Just stop. You probably think I’m a stupid American, but I’m not anymore. How could you? To think I’ve told you things I’ve never told anyone! ANYONE! You must have been laughing your ass off, whoever the hell you are!”

  “I am telling you the truth. Please. You need to listen to me,” the stranger says firmly.

  “Don’t you ever tell me to listen to you again,” I roar back. “CP Chadwick. Very clever.”

  “I am Christian Phillip. Our house is the House of Chadwick. I’m not lying.”

  “Oh, shut up!” I yell. “Everything coming out of your mouth is some sick fabrication.”

  “Explain to me why I would spend hours talking to you if this was all a fabrication? I meant every word I said to you. Every. Single. One.”

  “How should I know how your sick mind works? I bet you really loved the tumor bit. That must have added some dramatic flair.”

  “Don’t,” he says, his voice deepening with anger, “make light of that. Ever.”

  “Don’t you tell me what to say or do,” I fight back. “In fact, I don’t want you to talk to me ever again.”

  “Clementine, don’t say that.”

  “The game is over; don’t you see that? Your fun is up, whoever you are.”

  “You promised me you would listen to me,” he pleads. “I know you’re shocked. I know it’s unsettling.”

  “You,” I say with a shaking voice, “don’t know anything.”

  “Clementine, I car—”

  “You do not. Don’t say you care; don’t you dare.”

  He falls silent for a moment. “I was falling for you.”

  His words slice through my heart, ripping it in half. The hysteria evaporates in that instant, and a crushing, horrific pain replaces it.

  “I’m done with this. I hope you’ve enjoyed being a life ruiner. Don’t text me. Don’t call me. You do not exist—”

  I choke on the last word as I realize I will never talk to him again.

  “I was falling for you, too,” I say, my voice thick with unshed tears. “You just broke me.”

  Then I hang up.

  I’m sobbing as I block his number from my phone. I block his email address and his account on WhatsApp.

  The worst, however, is when I get to Instagram, where it all began with what I thought was a genuine message about the work I was doing with art.

  My finger hovers over the key to block him, wishing I could, even if only for a second, believe that he was Prince Christian instead of a lie.

  But I can’t.

  The complete picture gave me the truth.

  I hit the button to block him.

  CP never existed.

  With that thought, I bury my face in my hands and weep as if I’ll never stop.

  Chapter 7

  Eleven Hours

  I blankly stare at the laptop parked on my knees. I’m binge-watching all the episodes of Is it Love?, where last season’s lead tells multiple girls lies about how special they are and how much he loves them, only to take it all back.

  All lies, I think, blinking back tears.

  I’m on the third episode, and girls are crying right and left as he’s telling them none of them have the potential to be love. Each season, Bryn and Chelsea and I sit around on Tuesday nights, sipping wine and eating pizza and rolling our eyes at these women crying over men they don’t know.

  Little did I know I’d understand this all too well. At least they met Tom. I don’t even know who I was falling for.

  The se
mi-permanent lump in my throat grows. I’m going to bawl again. I’ve done nothing but since I removed him from my life. I can’t bring myself to say his name because I know that isn’t even real. I told Paisley the horrible story in fits of sobs that were so bad a gate agent brought me tissues and a bottle of water.

  One of the things I love about my sister is that in a time of crisis, she doesn’t ask a million questions or judge. In fact, she took me straight back to her apartment in San Francisco, said I was spending the night, and opened a bottle of rosé, and after we downed that; we opened another one. Her husband, Evan, offered to track him down and punch him in the face, which made me cry again because they love me so much.

  Either that, or me drinking a bottle of rosé by myself was making me a wee bit more emotional than usual.

  Evan brought me back to Palo Alto this afternoon, worse for wear with a swollen face and a headache from getting drunk on wine. I schlepped myself upstairs to an empty apartment. Chelsea was out shopping with her mom today and planned to spend the night at her family home. Bryn stays at Graham’s on Saturdays. Neither one of them know, although I know they were sad I didn’t come home Friday night so we could celebrate my good diagnosis together.

  Now it’s me and Bear.

  I try to swallow the tears away. I’ve got to stop crying for a man I never really knew.

  “I wanted so badly to believe you were real,” I whisper to myself.

  A single tear runs down my face, past the side of my nose, and splashes onto the keyboard, followed by another.

  I grab another tissue from Chelsea’s box and dab at my eyes, hoping to keep the flood at bay.

  Don’t cry, I will myself. You’ve got to stop crying.

  Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. Bear leaps up, barking as he races to the living room. I don’t move. Whoever it is, they can go away.

  The knocking doesn’t cease—rather, it gets louder and more determined—and Bear keeps barking.

  Shit. I’m going to have to deal with this so the neighbors don’t complain about the noise.

  I toss my rumpled tissue on the bed and get up by sheer force of will, as my body is exhausted beyond belief.