Accidentally Royal_An Accidental Marriage Romance

by R. S. Lively

  “To be honest, I was sort of hoping that –”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You don't even know the first thing about me. You don't even know if I'm involved with anybody right now. For all you know, I could be married and have ten kids.”

  That cocky little smirk touches his lips. “You're too young to have ten kids.”

  “Shut up,” I say. “That's not the point. The point is –”

  “Are you?” he asks. “Married? Involved with somebody?”

  I let out a frustrated breath and stare at him. I know Carter, probably better than most people, but his level of arrogance is still astounding. That he thinks he can waltz into my life – ten years after destroying it – and start over again like nothing ever happened is beyond maddening.

  “That's not your business, Carter.”

  “Darby, please,” he says. “I'm just trying to make this right.”

  I get to my feet and take his coat off my shoulders, dropping it on the bench behind me. I stand before him, lifting my chin defiantly, and summon all the strength and nerve I can manage.

  “Some things can't be made right, Carter.”

  “Darby, I –”

  “No,” I snap. “I've moved on. I think you should too.”

  I walk off the patio and make my way back to the main gallery room and leave. As I stand at the curb and flag a cab though, I can't get the image of Carter's face when I left out of my mind. He looked like a little boy lost. Wounded beyond comprehension.

  There's a small part of me that revels in the fact that I'd scored a direct hit. That he got some small taste of how bad he'd hurt me. There's another part of me though, that wanted nothing more than to take him into my arms and soothe him. Care for him. And yeah, pick up where we left off.

  Yeah, I've really moved on, huh?

  Chapter Nine

  Carter

  I lean back in my seat, staring out at Central Park beyond the window, though not really seeing it. My head is most definitely not into working today. It's still wrapped up in Darby. Because, of course it is. Not even a heavy drinking and womanizing binge over the weekend was able to clear her out of my head.

  It just seemed so serendipitous to run into her at the gala. Of all the places in the world to run into her. Though, given the fact that she's wealthy and an artist, maybe it shouldn't have been all that surprising. But, in all the years I've worked with the Ravere Group and the Sheldonhurst Foundation in general, I've never seen her. Never heard her name even mentioned.

  So, to run into her like that I really thought I was being given a second chance with her. Maybe it was a little presumptuous to think everything would be okay again, maybe I was an idiot to think that – I was probably an idiot to think that – but, when I saw her there, I really believed it.

  “So, how was the gala?”

  I spun around in my chair quickly, a little startled. Rupert was sitting in the chair in front of my desk, a shit-eating grin on his face.

  “Jesus,” I say. “I didn't even hear you come in.”

  “Yeah, you seem a little preoccupied,” he says. “Or maybe, your ears are still ringing from going ten rounds with Mike Tyson.”

  I ran a hand through my hair, a rueful chuckle escaping me. “Heard about that, did you?”

  He's having a hard time controlling his laughter as he looks at me. His eyes are shining with tears with the effort. I lean back in my chair and shake my head.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Get it all out.”

  And he does. Rupert laughs long and hard, doubling over with the effort and has to wipe away the tears. Finally, after what feels like forever, his laughter subsides. He sits up and takes a minute to catch his breath.

  “You done?” I ask.

  He chuckles a few more times and then nods. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Good,” I say. “So, people are obviously talking about that, huh?”

  “Talking about it?” he asks, arching his eyebrows. “Hell, the tabloids are eating that shit up, man. Somebody got a video and it's on YouTube right now, as we speak.”

  I press my head back into my seat and stare up at the ceiling. “Wonderful,” I say. “Just fucking great.”

  He shrugs. “Like they say, there's no bad publicity, right?”

  “Yeah, actually, there is.”

  “So, who was she?” he asks. “One of your one-night flings looking for a little payback?”

  “Hardly,” I say.

  “Somebody who didn't take kindly to your proposition?”

  “Strike two.”

  Rupert looks at me, the light of amusement in his eyes. He's enjoying this far too much.

  “So? Who was she?” he asked.

  I let out a long breath. “Darby,” I say. “It was Darby.”

  Rupert sits up and his eyes widen in surprise. He knows all about Darby. I've told him about her over drinks many times.

  “The Darby?”

  I nod. “Yeah, the Darby.”

  He whistles low and sits back in his seat. I can see his mind working, which means I need to nip it in the bud before he gets rolling.

  “She made it abundantly clear that she has no desire to talk to me again,” I say.

  “And that's stopped you – when, exactly?”

  “This is different.”

  “Oh?” he asks. “How so?”

  “She has a legitimate right to be pissed at me.”

  Rupert smirks and crosses his legs, putting on his serious “fixer” face. He suddenly seems very invested in this – which concerns me. Rupert is one of the exceedingly rare few people who can talk me into doing anything.

  “True,” he says. “But, plenty of people have a legitimate right to be pissed at you. I mean, no offense, boss, but you can be kind of an asshole sometimes.”

  I let out a wry chuckle. “That's true,” I say. “But, those people aren't Darby. I can't explain it, but it's just different.”

  “Look, she's pissed and has a right to be, I get it,” he says. “But, you also got stuck between a rock and a hard place because of that prick brother of hers.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  We are all well familiar with Mason White in the office. Hell, in this industry. Somebody, somewhere along the line, nicknamed him Ahab for his crazed relentlessness in going after people like me – successful people. Yeah, he's snared some of the shady operators in the industry – much to my delight, to be honest – but, he also pushes boundaries. When he gets a taste of blood, he is a zealot, sometimes working in a legal gray area, pushing and pushing until he brings down whoever his white whale of the week is.

  “Darby is a grown woman,” he says. “Free to make her own choices.”

  “Yeah, I thought so too,” I say. “But, it's probably for the best. No use dredging up old ghosts like that. They usually only end up fucking you in the end.”

  “Fuck Mason White,” he says. “He can't touch you.”

  “No, but he could still go after Pops.”

  Rupert looks at me for a long moment. “Let me ask you something,” he says, “you really think Pops has some bodies on him? You really think Mason can pin something on him?”

  As much as I want to flat out deny it, but the truth is, I really don't know. Pops had a whole life – a whole darker life – before I met him. I'd met him after he'd gotten out of the game and he never wanted to talk much about his past, and I never pushed him. I figured it was his past, I had no business in it. If he wanted to talk to me, that was one thing. But, in all the years he's been in my life, he hasn't.

  “I honestly don't know, man,” I say. “And I shouldn't risk it. I don't know what I was thinking when I saw her. I guess I just went a little nuts.”

  “Or maybe you didn't,” he says. “Darby's been your white whale all your life, man. I've seen you when you're with other women. You are always comparing them to her.”

  “I am not.”

  “Bullshit,” Rupert says and laughs. “Maybe not verbally, but I can always see you tak
ing their measure and matching them up against Darby.”

  I want to argue further, but he was probably right. It's not a conscious thing, but I can't really deny it. Darby is my gold standard. There is no sense in arguing the point.

  “Maybe you need to get with Pops,” he says. “Maybe you need to hash this out with him and see if Mason even has anything you – or he – needs to be worried about.”

  “And then what?”

  “And then you go after your white whale, man,” he says. “It's not often you get a second chance in this life. You know that. Maybe, she was there at the gala to remind you of that fact. And it's up to you to capitalize on it.”

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “I don't know man,” I say. “I just don't know. Sometimes, it's best to let old ghosts just – die.”

  Rupert cocks his head and looks at me, a grin tugging the corners of his mouth upward. “Are you getting soft on me?” he asks. “Are you turning into a giant pussy right before my eyes?”

  I laugh. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I'm serious, I'm starting to see you turning into a vagina,” he says. “I sure as hell don't see any balls on you right now.”

  “Don't you have some work you should be doing?” I ask.

  “I'm doing it right now,” he replies. “I'm the office shrink.”

  “Yeah well, you suck at it.”

  “At least I'm not a pussy.”

  I stand up and laugh. “Get out of my office,” I say. “Go play shrink to somebody else. I have a meeting to get to.”

  Rupert stands and heads for the door. Before going through though, he turns back to me and his expression grows serious.

  “Look,” he says. “I know what this girl meant to you. And it's rare that you get a second chance with somebody who means that much to you. Maybe, somebody's trying to tell you something. And maybe, you need to listen.”

  “I appreciate it, man,” I say. “But, that was a long time ago. Another lifetime. She says she's moved on.”

  He shrugs. “What else was she gonna say?” he asks. “The truth is, if she felt nothing for you anymore, she wouldn't have cared to make a spectacle of herself by popping you in the middle of the gallery. That kind of anger takes some passion. Love, even.”

  I laugh heartily. “Get out, Dr. Freud,” I say.

  “Just giving you food for thought,” he says.

  Rupert leaves and I grab my coat. I need to head down to the conference room to meet with a couple of prospective clients. The whole time though, Rupert's words ring in my ears. If she truly felt nothing, would she have been angry enough still to slap me? Or was Rupert just making shit up as he went along? Not that it would be the first time.

  As I step into the conference room, I do my best to shift gears in my mind. I do my best to focus on the task at hand – which is my clients.

  It's not easy though. Darby's face continues to float through my mind, and though I can feel the sting of her words every bit as sharply as I felt the sting of her smack, I can also hear something in her voice. I can hear the pain and the hurt. But, I can also hear a longing.

  Or, maybe I'm just full of shit and am making it up as I go along too. It wouldn't be the first time for that either.

  Chapter Ten

  Darby

  With the instruction portion of my class over, I walk around the room, looking at my student's work. But, I am distracted. My thoughts keep drifting back to the scene at the Sheldonhurst Gala. Drifting back to Carter. Not even almost a week's worth of distance now, has dulled the memories at all. I got the answers I'd wanted for years. The trouble is, I don't really know what to do with it now. What am I supposed to think?

  On the one hand, the fact that Mason interfered with my relationship infuriates me to no end. And I'm going to have a few words with him about that. On the other hand though, Carter let him interfere with our relationship. And he'd done it for a guy who may or may not have actually killed somebody. Or maybe, multiple somebodies.

  I'd always thought Carter was the type who wouldn't let himself be pushed around. Would always stand up for what was right. I'd always thought Carter was somebody who would stand up for me. Fight for me. I'd thought he loved me.

  Come to find out though, that love was conditional. And apparently, I fell behind some washed up gangster in the pecking order of Carter Bishop's priorities.

  “You okay, Ms. White?”

  I turn at the sound of my name to see Emilio looking back at me, concern on his face. I give him a smile I hope looks more genuine than it feels.

  “I'm fine, Emilio,” I say.

  He cocks his head. “You sure?” he asks. “I mean, you look a little upset.”

  I wave him off and laugh. “Nah, I'm good.”

  “She's having boy troubles.”

  I turn to the girl at the easel next to Emilio's and see Jenna looking back at me, a knowing smile on her lips. Jenna isn't the best artist in my class, but she's sweet and she tries hard. She's also perceptive as hell and knows a lot more than a girl her age should. She also likes to talk. A lot.

  “I am not having boy troubles, thank you very much, Jenna.”

  She shrugs. “It's not all that hard to see, Ms. White,” she says. “It's all over your face.”

  “Oh, is it now?”

  She nods. “A woman gets a certain look in her eye when she's dealing with boys,” she says, dabbing a little color to her canvas. “It's different from say, car trouble. Or money problems.”

  “Oh, well thank you for that, Dr. Freud,” I say and laugh, trying to diffuse the sudden tension that's tightening up my body.

  “If some guy is giving you grief, I'll kick his ass for you, Ms. W,” Emilio says, his face earnest. “Nobody messes with you. Not while I'm around.”

  This time, a genuine smile crosses my face. I'm actually touched by his display of protectiveness over me.

  “Thank you, Emilio,” I say. “But really, I'm fine. It's nothing.”

  “I wouldn't say it's nothing,” Jenna chimes in. “It's definitely something.”

  “Well then, let's just say it's not something that's appropriate to a classroom setting,” I say. “Fair enough.”

  Jenna smiles and shrugs, happy that she'd scored a point by getting me to admit that my troubles are in fact, boy related. I just shake my head and grin. I love my kids. As quirky and frustrating as they can be sometimes, they're good kids.

  “If you ever need some schmuck's ass kicked, you just let me know, Ms. W,” Emilio says. “I know people.”

  “I will keep that in mind,” I reply. “Thank you, Emilio. Now, get back to your piece. I'm anxious to see how it turns out.”

  Strolling around the room, I try to focus my mind and get my head on right. If my kids can see through me, I really need to buckle myself down a little tighter.

  “Ms. White, I'm out of a couple of colors I need,” Jenna calls over to me.

  “Go ahead and get what you need out of the supply closet,” I say.

  Standing behind a boy named Aaron, I cock my head and look at his work, trying to figure out where he's going with it. It's more abstract than the assignment had called for, but I can't deny that it's striking. Bold strokes, subdued tones – it's an incredibly moody and atmospheric piece. It's surprising to me, because he's never shown this sort of artistic flair before. He's usually quiet and keeps to himself. His work – both papers and paintings – are usually done by rote, without any sort of real emotion behind them. This is something completely new from him.

  “Aaron, that's a beautiful piece,” I say. “Very striking.”

  He gives me a small, unsure little smile. “Thank you,” he says, his voice soft.

  “Ms. White,” Jenna calls from across the room. “We're out of a few of the colors I need.”

  I turn and see her standing beside the supply cabinet – and see just how empty it is. I turn back to Aaron and smile.

  “Keep up the great work, Aaron,” I say. “I'm really excited to see the
completed piece.”

  I walk over to the cabinet and feel my heart sink when I see the dwindling supplies inside. I'd sent in my re-order request a week and a half ago. The cabinet should be full.

  “Okay, well, see if you can get the colors you need from somebody else,” I say. “We'll get the supply situation sorted out.”

  “Okay,” Jenna chirps brightly and bounds off.

  I walk back to my desk and pull up my email on the computer. Scrolling through the messages, I notice I have an unopened message from Friday. I quickly open it and see that it's from the textbook manager, informing me that my request for supplies has been denied due to recent budget cuts.

  “How in the hell am I supposed to teach without the proper tools?” I growl to myself.

  “Ms. White,” I hear Jenna's voice call out.

  “Yes, Jenna? What is it?” I call back as I stare at the computer screen, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

  “I think that thing that's not appropriate in a classroom setting is in the classroom,” she says and giggles.

  I look up and feel all the blood in my veins turn into ice. Butterfly wings of nervous tension flutter against my insides, and my pulse begins to race. Standing in the doorway at the back of the classroom is none other than Carter Bishop.

  He's leaning against the doorframe, wearing a well-tailored black designer suit, a metallic blue tie, the only splash of color, that clings to his body so perfectly. His hair is stylishly cut, and there is no question that he cuts a striking figure. I notice that a few of the girls in class have their heads together, their eyes locked on Carter, whispering excitedly amongst themselves.

  I walk quickly to the back of the room and usher him out the door, closing it behind me – though, not before I heard the chorus of “oohs,” “ahhhs,” giggles, and kissy noises. When I'm alone in the hallway with Carter, my cheeks burning, I look up at him.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask.

  “Well, something you said the other night stuck with me,” he says.