by Nicola Marsh
I glance at the thin gold bracelet on my wrist, an eighteenth-birthday gift from my beloved grandmother, back in happier times. Back when she still remembered my name.
I swallow the threat of tears. This is hardly the time or the place to wallow in my personal woes.
“We won’t lose the apartment.” The words are a mantra. “And we’ll still be able to take care of Gran.”
I figure if I say the words enough, they’ll be true. So I open my mouth once more to repeat the statements, but the conference-room doors part with a whoosh, and my worry fades into the distance as the same formal-looking man who delivered my invitation steps over the threshold and announces my small country’s rulers in a booming voice.
“All rise for His Highness, King Nikolai of Edenvale, and Her Eminence, Queen Adele.”
The herald proclaims the royal couple as if they are entering an arena, and I, of course, shoot to my feet. My first instinct is to bow or curtsy, but neither one of them spares me so much as a passing glance. Yet I’m the only one in the room. I’ve been requested for a private audience with the monarchy, and they don’t even deign to look at me.
Still, I wait for the attendants who trail behind the pair to pull out two chairs at the head of the table. I wait some more as they lower themselves into the plush leather seats. And as I’m about to do the same, a man wearing half a tuxedo bursts through the doors still tucking in his wrinkled dress shirt.
He winks in my direction, flashing a knavish grin before turning his attention to the king and queen.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, checking a nonexistent watch on his wrist. Then he kisses the queen on the cheek while the king, a salt-and-pepper version of the young man, simply gives his son—Prince Nikolai—a pointed look.
While his parents—make that father and stepmother—take residence at the far head of the table, the prince sits across from me and flips open the embossed folder in front of him.
“So,” he says, sprawling in his chair and thumbing through the folder’s contents, “what fire are we putting out this morning?”
He runs a hand through his black hair, and I squirm involuntarily in my seat. Sure, I’ve seen photos of him before. Prince Nikolai’s image has graced the front page of the tabloids almost weekly since he came of age. But that sort of sensationalism has never been my thing. I wasn’t the preteen with pictures of the teen heartthrob prince on my wall. I didn’t wallpaper my computer’s desktop with his devil-may-care smile, no matter how gorgeous he was.
And he was. Even then.
But he was also a grade-A asshole. Even then.
And from the looks of things—from the colorful headlines that always seem to feature Prince Nikolai’s name—it doesn’t seem like anything is changing soon.
Still, when those slate-colored eyes look up from the folder and meet mine, I squirm again. He was handsome in photos and the few times I’ve seen him on television. Not that I watch much of that celebrity crap that’s thrown in the public’s face on a daily basis. But I’m not prepared for my reaction to the prince in the flesh.
He is nothing short of dazzling.
My lungs revolt, unable to take a deep breath even though I need air badly.
And as if it isn’t enough that he has some sort of superpower effect between my legs, I feel my nipples stand at attention against the lace of my bra. Thank God I’d had the forethought to keep my suit jacket buttoned.
“Nikolai—” the queen begins, but the prince holds up a finger as he returns to scanning the contents of the folder—the one I have been waiting for permission to examine myself. Apparently, the rumors are true—stepmother and stepson do not get on as they should. That explains the blatant disrespect.
His shuttered gaze roams the first page, then the second, and several more after that. I watch as his father crosses his arms and humors his son with a look that says no matter what antics the prince displays, the king will have the final word.
Prince Nikolai slams the folder closed and lets out a raucous laugh.
“Please, Nikolai,” the king says, steepling his fingers in front of him. “Do tell us what you find so amusing.”
The queen rests a hand on her husband’s forearm, but the man’s icy gaze remains directed at his son. All I do is stare, my head bobbing like I’m watching a tennis match in slow motion.
The prince narrows his eyes, pinning them on me, and my core tightens in disobedient response.
He takes his sweet time scrutinizing me, the corner of his mouth quirked in a crooked grin. Then he splays his hands on the table, leaning forward so that he’s close enough for me to smell the tang of alcohol on his breath.
“I find it hilarious,” the prince says with an edge to his words, “that you not only expect me to marry but that you think Little Miss Matchmaker-Dot-Com is the one to take care of the job. I mean, why not open me a royal Tinder account and be done with it?”
He has the nerve to sneer at me and my career? Oh, hell no.
Red-hot anger replaces that sensual tightening in my core.
The prince pushes from the table and smooths out his wrinkled shirt. “Father. Stepmother. As always, it’s a pleasure to see you both.” He doesn’t hide his sarcasm.
On instinct, I stand as he rounds the table, my cheeks blazing with repressed fury.
“I—I am not some dot-com organization. My matches are personal, well thought out...” I sputter as it sinks in not only what I’ve been called here to do but that my client is anything but willing.
“Save it, sweetheart,” he says. “I’d sooner fuck you than let you arrange my nuptials.”
The queen gasps, and King Nikolai slams his fist on the table.
“Enough,” the older man says, the finality of his authority dripping from the word. “Benedict is entering the priesthood. Damien is banished. If you do not marry with the intent to produce an heir, the throne falls out of the immediate family and to your cousin Ingrid. You will not fault on your duty.”
The muscle in the prince’s jaw pulses. “That’s right, Father. I’ve had enough.” His penetrating stare, though, stays on me the whole time. That’s when he leans in, hot breath on my cheek. “And you’d enjoy every goddamn second of it,” he whispers. “The word enough won’t even exist in your vocabulary.”
He bows toward his visibly shaken parents before making his dramatic exit.
I give myself a mental pat on the back for at least believing the stories.
The prince is a grade-A asshole.
My soaked panties, on the other hand, apparently did not receive the memo.
Perhaps they’re waiting for one with the royal seal.
Copyright © 2018 by Riley Pine
ISBN-13: 9781488082399
Sweet Thing
Copyright © 2018 by Nicola Marsh
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