by Erika Kelly
As they made their way through the crowd, everyone stopping to hug and congratulate them, Knox had never felt so full. Of love and happiness, of the absolute rightness of her life.
Just as they reached the table with a stunning four-tiered white cake with wild flowers cascading down it, the door opened, and the hotel manager poked his head in. “Brodie?”
“Yeah, man, what’s up?” Her brother-in-law broke from the crowd.
“The princess of St. Christophe is here.”
They all turned to check out the lobby, where black-suited security detail surrounded a blonde-haired bombshell in stilettos and enormous sunglasses.
“And she’s demanding to speak with you.”
Also by Erika Kelly
Thank you for reading about the Bowie brothers!
KEEP ON LOVING YOU
WE BELONG TOGETHER
THE VERY THOUGHT OF YOU
JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
Have you read the Rock Star Romance series? Come meet the sexy rockers of Blue Fire:
YOU REALLY GOT ME
I WANT YOU TO WANT ME
TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT
MORE THAN A FEELING
And Erika Kelly’s super passionate Wild Love series:
MINE FOR NOW
MINE FOR THE WEEK
MINE FOREVER
Sign up for my newsletter to find out when my next book goes up for preorder and come hang out with me on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Goodreads, and Pinterest or in my private reader group.
Here’s a sneak peek of
JUST THE WAY YOU ARE
Princess Gone Wild!
When Princess Rosalina discovers her fiancé cheating on her, she's done being dutiful. Jumping on a plane, she lands five thousand miles away in a world of hot cowboys, jean skirts, and tequila. Grabbing her chance to fly under the radar, she plans on acting out every single fantasy she's denied herself while trying to meet the expectations of her family and country.
Brodie Bowie doesn't know what happened. One minute he's wreaking havoc and tearing up the slopes with his brothers, and the next he's an outsider. All of them are in serious relationships. He just can't figure out why they'd put a ring on it when there's so much fun to be had as a single man.
Brodie's not the settling down type, but then he's never met anyone like the woman who jumps in front of his bulldozer, refusing to let him dig up his meadow. The feisty chemist and perfumer is everything he never knew he wanted.
Except she only wants a summer fling before she goes back to her real life...as a princess.
He doesn't fit in her world, and there's no way she can live in his.
But a love like theirs doesn't play by the rules.
An excerpt for Just the Way You Are
I did it!
With her jar in hand, Princess Rosalina Anais Isabella Villeneuve crossed the lawn, breathing in the scents of freshly mown grass and clean, crisp June air. Sunlight glinted off a sleek blue BMW, and her heart clutched with happiness. He’s here. She’d couldn’t wait to show it to him. He’s going to love it.
Climbing the stone steps, she opened the back door of the castle to find the staff eating breakfast at the weathered table. “Something smells delicious.” On the island, she found a platter of buttery eggs, sliced bread, and strawberry jam.
Everyone looked over at her and smiled. “Morning, Miss.”
Chef started to get up, but Rosalina shook her head. Don’t bother. It was her fault she’d missed breakfast. Again. “I’ll eat later. I’d like to catch Marcel before he takes off.” She grabbed a croissant from the basket and bit into it. “Mm. So good.”
“It would’ve been warm and flaky if you’d had it fresh from the oven three hours ago.” Chef got up anyway and filled herself a mug with coffee from the French press, dropping sugar and cream into it.
“But then I wouldn’t have this.” She lifted the tiny glass bottle.
“Oh, you’ve got it, then?” Her father’s valet scraped his chair back on the stone floor and came over. Twisting off the cap, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “Ah. It’s perfect.” He broke out in a big grin. “Spot on.”
“Here.” Rosalina dipped a finger in and smeared a glob onto the back of his age-spotted hand.
The older man, in a black suit and a full head of salt and pepper hair, rubbed it in. “Rich…creamy.” With two fingers, he tipped her chin, and she caught the exotic scent of her family’s perfume. “It’s lovely. You’ve got it just right.”
“And it only took two and a half years to nail it. But, whatever, it’s done, and they can’t possibly say no this time.”
As if jerked by a string, they all looked down at their plates.
Rosalina’s stomach pinched with dread. “No, it’s different this time. You’ll see.”
Chef patted her shoulder. “We have all the faith in you, my love. It’s the tide of history you’re swimming against we’re worried about.”
She knew the challenge she faced—after ninety years of running a successful business off one product, her family wasn’t inclined to shake things up. But, this time, she’d come up with an idea that would fit seamlessly.
Chef offered a fork and a bowl of mixed fruit, but Rosalina couldn’t eat a thing. “I’ll be back for a proper breakfast, but right now I have to catch Marcel before he heads to the airport.” At the doorway, she turned to the staff who’d loved and protected her all her life. “And then we’ll celebrate the new product line.” Taking another bite of the croissant, she waved the jar at them with a mischievous grin.
A few rallied with warm smiles, but the others focused on their breakfast.
Well, obviously, if she went straight to her parents, they’d reject it outright. That’s why I’m going through Marcel first. Her fiancé’s father was the business manager for House of Villeneuve, and he oversaw the family’s Nocturne perfume company. Once she convinced Marcel and his father of the value of her idea, she’d let them present it to her parents.
They wouldn’t ignore advice from the people running their business.
Besides, she had a different angle this time. While at school, she’d created several truly lovely perfumes, and they’d rejected all of them. They don’t fit our brand.
This time, she’d simply expanded the product line by creating bath and body products based on the same essential oil that had been in the Villeneuve family for centuries. And she’d created proprietary ingredients to make them every bit as luxurious as the perfume itself.
She was adding to what they already had. They couldn’t say no.
As she headed down the cool hallway, her ballet flats shushed on the hundred-year-old runner. On either side, her ancestors lined up as though forming a gauntlet. You’re wasting your time, their expressions said, noses in the air.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered. Anyone who bought the perfume would want the soap and body lotion to reinforce the scent.
The thick stone walls of the castle muffled sound, so she only heard the quiet conversation when she reached the grand parlor. Shoot. She didn’t want to get pulled into one of her mother’s meetings. Hanging back, she peered into the room crammed with antique furniture, the walls covered in trompe l’oeil murals.
Sitting demurely on the embroidered sofa, her mother spoke quietly to a woman in a pastel-colored skirt and beige flats. On the glass coffee table, tea service had been set with fine china and silver.
Having only just crested the corner of the parlor, Rosalina figured she could quietly step back before being noticed.
“Oh, darling, there you are.” Her mother got up, her hand gliding toward the guest. “I’d like you to meet Marguerite, the wedding planner.”
The shock hit her system like a car crash, the jolt reverberating throughout her body. Wedding planner? For one unbearably long moment, she heard the ticking grandfather clock as if it were inside her head.
But, of course, she snapped out of it and shifted into full princess mode. Flipping on her royal
smile, she gave the woman a nod. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, your Highness.”
“Come.” Her mother strode purposefully out of the room. “She’s brought her portfolio and samples.”
“Unfortunately, this isn’t a good time. I’m already late for my meeting with Marcel.” If only she’d brought her phone with her, but she’d left it charging in her bedroom before heading to the lab that morning. Please don’t go until I talk to you.
“This won’t take but a moment.” Her mother’s low heels clacked across the marble foyer. “It’s just a preliminary meeting.”
Rosalina stopped just under the massive crystal chandelier. “Mother.”
Her mother slowly turned to her, one brow arched. No one used that tone to speak to Her Serene Highness the Princess of St. Christophe.
But, while her mother’s haughty expression made her cringe—she would normally never challenge her mother publicly—she truly couldn’t spare a moment. “Marguerite, I’m so sorry I don’t have time to discuss my wedding plans right now, but I do look forward to working with you.”
“Of course.” The woman reached into her tote and pulled out a thin silver case. Plucking a white card out of it, she handed it over. “Please call me at your convenience, and we can get started. I’ll leave my portfolio with you.”
“Perfect.” Rosalina tucked the card into the pocket of her capri pants. “Thank you.”
As her mother walked the wedding planner to the door, Rosalina spun back around and headed for the stairs. As excited as she was about her formula, she didn’t actually know if Marcel’s father would support her idea. He was very much of the same mind as her parents. As her American roommate’s father used to say, If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
“Rosalina,” her mother called.
Crap. Her fingers itched to text Marcel and ask him to wait for her. Why didn’t you bring your phone? He might’ve left by now. “Yes?”
“Come with me.”
She recognized her mother’s tone for what it was, and so she did as she was told. At twenty-five, it was time for the Hereditary Princess of St. Christophe to step into her mother’s shoes. Get married, give birth to an heir, and devote her time to a few established charities and one of her own creation.
Yes, she knew the expectations, and she would get there. But, right now, she needed to see her project through. She had the rest of her life to be a wife and mother.
Her mother led the way into the oak-paneled library. The scents of old books, lemon furniture polish, and her father’s spicy shaving cream filled the large room.
Oh, what about shaving cream for women? She’d use synthetic materials for that, though.
As they entered, her father lowered one side of his paper, a tea cup in one hand. “Oh, dear.” He shot a look to the door, as if calculating his getaway.
“Exactly.” For a moment there, she considered showing them the lotion, just to get the conversation away from wedding plans. As the hereditary princess, it would fall on her and Marcel to keep the company running. She’d be showing them that the family legacy was in good hands.
Ha. Good one.
Let Marcel lead the charge. Her fiancé had her back.
Her mother stood beside her husband’s chair. “I don’t appreciate you sending away my guest. I invited her here to launch the wedding plans, and I found it rude and disrespectful that you asked her to leave.”
“I’m sorry. It did come across as rude, but I wish you’d have discussed it with me first. I wasn’t prepared to meet with anyone this morning. In fact, if I don’t go right now, I’ll miss Marcel. He’s leaving for Zurich in a few minutes.”
Her father set down his paper, and his tall, lanky frame rose out of the chair. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he tapped out a text. “There. Marcel will wait.”
Uh oh. Her dad had something to say. Tension pulled at her skin, and she became aware of the cool breeze sweeping through the room, riffling the pages of magazines.
Pulling an engraved handkerchief out of the pocket of his slacks, he took the croissant out of her hand and wiped the buttery remnants off her fingers. Balling it up, he dropped it on the side table that held his silver teapot. “My sweet Rosalina, I think you can agree we’ve been more than generous in supporting your choices. We assumed, once you graduated from university, you’d come home and marry Marcel, but you wanted to continue your education, and we love you very much, we want you to be happy, so we supported that decision. But it’s time, my love. It’s time for you to assume your duties here.”
“Of course. I know that, and I’m absolutely going to marry Marcel. In fact, when I go upstairs, I’ll talk to Fabiana, and she’ll set up a time for me to meet with the wedding planner.”
“This is not the first time you’ve put off this discussion,” her mother said. “Darling, this is your wedding. You must take it seriously.”
Impatience rumbled under her skin. Why would she bother thinking about the details, when they were already set in stone? “What’s to talk about? We’re marrying in the church, and the reception will be held in the grand ballroom.” She shrugged. “I’m being fitted for my dress next week.” A tiny flicker of interest teased her heart.
The designer lived in the States. An old wild west town, Calamity had cowboys and ranches, saloons and gold mining. It even had a bison preserve.
Imagine that—bison!
“There is much to discuss,” her mother said. “And the top priority is setting a date so we can send out invitations.”
“Honestly, whatever works best for your schedule. It doesn’t matter to me.” Because it would be a performance in front of the entire country.
“Your enthusiasm for this wedding is underwhelming,” her mother said.
“Well, sorry, Mama, but it’s not like I have a say in anything.” Other than the dress and cake, none of the rest reflected her personality at all.
The newspaper rustled, as her father picked it up and sat back down. “Is there something you’d prefer?”
She scanned his handsome features. Does it matter? He gave her a deep nod.
Well, then. “Actually, I’d love to get married in the meadow.” The night-blooming flower used in Nocturne only blossomed for a few weeks in June. “If we could have the service at twilight, then the lyantha would perfume the night air during my reception.”
Her mother’s features tightened. “That would mean waiting a year.”
She watched the silent communication pass between her equally strong and stubborn parents.
“As long as the date is set and invitations go out before the vote,” her father said. “We can wait for the actual ceremony.”
“Really?” Since when did her family break from tradition? “Then I’d prefer a date in the middle of June, so that if we don’t get enough precipitation and the flowers bloom later, I won’t miss out.”
“Then, that’s what you’ll have,” her father said.
She could hardly believe it. “It doesn’t have to be in the church?”
“I would prefer the church,” her father said. “But I’ve learned to pick my battles with my oldest daughter.”
The comment swiped across her heart like a claw. She knew her father wasn’t referring to what happened all those years ago. Intellectually, she knew her single act of rebellion hadn’t caused his heart attack, but the two would forever be tied in her mind.
“What if, instead of having the wedding in the meadow, we fill the church with the lyantha?” her mother asked.
Rosalina reared back, as if her mother had suggested burning the castle to the ground. “We’re not cutting my flowers.”
Her father tried to suppress a grin. “Not to worry. The ceremony itself is far more important than the location. No harm will come to your precious lyantha.”
“You’ll be the first in six hundred years to marry outside the church.” But her mother sounded like she’d accepted Rosalina’s decision.
“I kno
w, but it’s my one and only wedding, and the meadow just fits me.”
Her mother broke into a luminous grin. “Then, the meadow it will be.”
“This makes me so happy.” Her parents were being awfully accommodating. Maybe… Her fingers curled around the glass jar. But, instead of presenting her idea to them, she found herself blurting, “I think I’ll go to the States for my fitting.”
They looked at her like she was the fly that had just landed in their soup bowls.
Spin it. “Marcel’s in Zurich for the week, and we’ll want to plan the wedding together, so the timing works out well. Besides, asking the designer to fly all the way out here seems ridiculous. I’m not her only client.”
Her mother pressed a hand to her shoulder. “That is enough, Rosalina. You take your life and your position in this country for granted.” She had a fierce look in her eyes. “But we face a formidable opponent with the People’s Party, who are passionate in their plea for an egalitarian society. Every minute you’re out of sight, still unmarried, still not pregnant with an heir, you reinforce their position that the monarchy’s dying out. When they liken us to ‘an ancient tree that no longer bears fruit,’ they’re not only referring to my inability to produce a male heir but to our oldest daughter, who shows no sign of settling into her role.” She glanced at her husband—not with an apologetic look because she’d had to stop bearing children after two girls but with a look that said, Back me up here.
“You’ve traveled the world, had your experiences, and now you must come home and embrace everything that entails,” her father said. “You must live here to understand the needs of the people so that you can choose a cause you feel passionate about. You need to stand with us in showing that our family may be small, but we’re devoted to our country’s well-being.”