Her Accidental Prince - A Married by Mistake Romance

by Holly Rayner

  Her Accidental Prince

  Holly Rayner

  Contents

  1. Max

  2. Poppy

  3. Poppy

  4. Poppy

  5. Poppy

  6. Poppy

  7. Poppy

  8. Poppy

  9. Poppy

  10. Max

  11. Poppy

  12. Poppy

  13. Max

  14. Poppy

  15. Poppy

  16. Poppy

  17. Poppy

  18. Poppy

  19. Poppy

  20. Poppy

  21. Max

  22. Poppy

  23. Poppy

  Epilogue

  Also by Holly Rayner

  Copyright 2019 by Holly Rayner

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  Max

  “You smell,” Alex says.

  I look up from the book I’ve been staring at for the last hour, turning page after page, trying to read but not getting anywhere. “Hm?”

  “He said you smell,” Jorge says, stretching out his legs.

  The jet cabin fills with the sound of laughter from my two closest friends. Snapping my paperback shut, I shake my head at them.

  “You really don’t want to start pointing that finger,” I say. “Because I’m not the only one who’s been hiking Switzerland and hasn’t had a shower in a week.”

  “Yeah,” Alex grins, “but we’re not on our way to meet with the King of Stromhaer.”

  My stomach clenches up, and I suppose Alex notices because the playful grin falls off his face. Jorge clears his throat and sucks in a breath like he’s about to say something, but the moment stalls.

  Stromhaer. People probably think so many things when they hear the name. Some have forgotten the small Scandinavian island country even exists. Some are surprised to hear it still has a constitutional monarchy. Some gush about how they would love to check out the rocky beaches there.

  Me? Most of my life, I’ve wanted to forget Stromhaer is real.

  But that’s hard when you’re the prince of it.

  Alex fidgets in his leather seat. “What I meant was, um, when are you installing a shower in this jet?”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re awful at backtracking.”

  “Hey.” Jorge, seated closer to me, leans forward. “Whatever King Otto wants to talk about, it will be fine.”

  I nod. One tight, clean, terse nod. It’s annoying to hear my friends refer to my father that way, but that’s what he is to them. Their king.

  Thank God they don’t treat me like their prince, though. I wouldn’t be able to handle that. In fact, the way they treat me like a regular person is a big part of the reason we’ve been tight since college.

  “Exactly,” Alex says, picking up on the vibe and waggling a finger at me. “It will be fine. You know how he is. He gets all worked up about something, but it never lasts long. He’s on to the next drama immediately after.”

  That much is true. As leader of a country, albeit a tiny one, my father is usually too distracted by formal affairs to take much note of family ones. Matters are quickly in and out of his office and life.

  But that’s also part of why I am worried. If Otto is demanding to see me, something must be wrong.

  I run my fingers through my hair and toss my book in the empty seat next to me. My jet seats twelve, but I don’t think it’s ever carried maximum capacity. In the eleven or so years since I’ve been allowed to take royal jets out on my own, I’ve mostly used them to go off on adventures with my few friends. Occasionally, when I’ve had to, I’ve used them to get to royal affairs.

  Alex and Jorge mean well, but the unspoken truth still presses down on my chest. By the time the jet is landing in Stromhaer’s one airport, reality has gotten so heavy it’s hard to breathe right.

  After I’ve said goodbye to Alex and Jorge and I’m in the back of the car my father sent to pick me up, I know I need to come up with some kind of plan.

  By the time we pull up to the palace, I know what it is.

  “Welcome home, Prince Maximillian.” Erik, our butler, bows.

  “Thank you, Erik.” I pause in the foyer long enough to hand my backpack over to one of the waiting footmen. “Is my father…”

  “He’s waiting for you in his office. He asked that you see him as soon as possible.”

  My jaw tightens. “Of course he did.”

  The palace has elevators, including one exclusively for the royal family, but I opt for the stairs instead. A little exercise might work out some of the anger pumping through my veins.

  My father is a good king. I know it. He’s done a lot for our country in his forty-something years of rule. But you can’t be amazing in one area of life without letting the others slack at least somewhat.

  I don’t fault him for not giving my brother and me all the time we probably could have used from him growing up. As an adult, I get it now.

  What I do fault him for is his expectation that I follow in his exact footsteps.

  Passing the two guards stationed at the entrance to my father’s personal hall, I go to the office and knock on the door.

  “Enter,” comes his deep voice.

  I open the door, standing as straight as possible while I enter. He’s behind his desk, and soon as he catches sight of me, he cocks an eyebrow.

  “Where did you get that?” he asks.

  “Hm?”

  “That. On your face.”

  I make a show of rubbing my hands in the thick beard I’ve grown out since the two months or so we’ve seen each other. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He scowls. “Sit down, Maximillian.”

  I do, but only because I don’t want to come across as any more petulant than I already have. I’m bordering on childish here, and if I’m going to tell my father what I’ve planned to, I need to keep a level of maturity about me.

  “Where have you been?” he asks, studying me across the desk with hands folded.

  The question makes me frown. “Switzerland.”

  Did he forget already? He’s the one who sent for me. I had plans to keep going, to fly to Ireland and do some hiking around there, and I was going to ignore his message for a meeting entirely, but my stepmother texted and basically begged me to entertain him.

  “That is why you smell,” he says.

  “Yes, Father,” I answer, as solemnly as possible. “Everyone in Switzerland smells.”

  His lips twitch, most likely headed in the direction of a frown. He’s never found me funny.

  Instead of frowning, though, he clears his throat and pierces my gaze with his. “You are aware, are you not, that with your hair and beard so unkempt, you look nothing like a royal?”

  It’s hard not to laugh. My dark hair barely curls against the nape of my neck, and the beard is full, but it’s still contained. There’s no food in it, at any rate.

  “I look nothing like a royal?” I throw back. “Well, that is the point.”

  It wasn’t the point, originally, but I’m fine with making it that now.

  “By royal,�
� I say, “I assume you mean I don’t look uptight or pretentious enough, and that’s fine. I don’t want any of that, Father. I’m done with that—”

  “Done?” He laughs over his shout. “You never started, Maximillian, despite the duty you have to your country.”

  I grip the arm of my chair. “What does dressing like a peacock and kissing butts at parties have to do with duty to my country? I donate. I volunteer. I help.”

  It’s not an exaggeration. I’ve started two charities, one to help the elderly in my country and one that funds clean-water projects in developing countries. I know what’s happening in the world. I stay abreast of politics, and there’s not the suggestion of a policy change murmured in Stromhaer that I don’t hear about. I care for this country with all my heart.

  But I wasn’t made for the show of being a royal, and nothing will ever change that.

  My father blinks slowly. “I called you home because I have some news for you.”

  My nails dig into the armrest. He hears nothing I say. Ever.

  “I have arranged a marriage for you,” he says, “to Princess Ana of Spain.”

  There’s dead silence.

  And then I’m laughing. Because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.

  He looks down his nose at me. “You find this funny?”

  “You didn’t do that.” Still laughing, I shake my head. “We’ve never once talked about me marrying.”

  “We do not have to discuss it. I am the king. I do as I see fit.”

  I stop mid-laugh, and it hits me in the gut. This isn’t a joke.

  My mouth goes dry, and I have to swallow several times before I can speak. “When? Why? How could you?”

  “We both know you have no intentions of marrying.”

  “That’s not true. How would you know that?”

  “You have never once expressed interest in any potential partners, despite the fact that there are several viable options.”

  “Princesses, you mean,” I say through clenched teeth.

  “They do not have to be princesses. You know that. But from a certain kind of family, yes.”

  I start to sigh, and he cuts even that off. As if my words weren’t enough. Now he has to try and steal my exhales.

  “This is the most advantageous marriage you could imagine,” he says. “You know that, son. This is Spain.”

  “I get that. I’ve been there. It’s a place.” I slice my hand through the air. “I also don’t even know Ana.”

  “You’ve seen her at plenty of events. You were formally introduced years ago, at the—”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Standing, I start to pace. “But I don’t know her.”

  I stop my frantic pacing to stare at him. “You set up a marriage for me to a stranger. How could you do such a thing?”

  “It is nothing new.”

  His face is red. He knows he’s in the wrong, but hell will freeze over before he ever admits it.

  “You didn’t marry a stranger,” I say. “Either time.”

  He looks away, uncomfortable. I don’t usually mention my mother. Her absence, even over a decade after her death, still rings through the palace’s halls.

  “So why should I have to?” I ask quietly.

  He stands up so roughly that his chair is knocked back. It teeters like it might fall, but he grabs the back of it and slams it down hard on the wooden floor. The noise is gunfire.

  “Because,” he hisses, “you have failed to do the little things you needed to, and now you must do this one big thing. Your head is in the clouds, Maximillian. A marriage will bring you back down to earth.”

  “How do you know I don’t want to marry someone else?” I ask.

  He scoffs and shakes his head.

  My family thinks I’m some kind of playboy because I’ve never brought a woman home, but that’s not the case. I date here and there, and I’ve had a couple serious relationships, but in the end they came to a close because the women seemed more interested in what I could do for them as royalty than in me as a person.

  I haven’t kept girls from my family; it’s my family that has kept me from girls.

  Folding my arms, I work to keep my voice calm. “I won’t do it. I refuse to spend the rest of my life bound to someone I don’t even know.”

  He doesn’t skip a beat. “Then you will be passed over in line for the crown. Sacha will take it instead.”

  My stomach twists. “I don’t want the crown.”

  It’s only partly true. What I said a minute ago about being done with royal life was spoken to anger him and get him to back off for a while.

  I already have to deal with the difficult parts of being a royal, such as being recognized everywhere I go and having next to no privacy. At least as king, I’d have more power and be able to create more change in the world.

  It was the one big thing I’ve always looked forward to in life, and now he’s threatening to take it away?

  Forget this.

  “Do as you wish,” I say. “You always do, anyway.”

  Spinning on my heel, I throw the door open.

  I jog down the stairs, my pulse roaring in my ears. With every step, my father’s threat is there, playing on a loop.

  If my mother were here, she would stop this. She would calm him down, make him see the other side of things. She was always good at that.

  My throat and eyes burn. I can’t think of her right now. If I do, I might end up leaving the palace bawling, and it would be just my luck that someone would get a picture of my tears and have it trending within a few hours.

  Catching a staff member, I send for the backpack I just landed with and start pacing the foyer.

  I don’t notice there’s someone in front of me until my shoulder collides with theirs.

  Swallowing a curse, I look up and find my younger brother Sacha staring at me with a knitted brow.

  “Max?” he asks. “Max, is that you? I can’t see you for all the hair in the way.”

  His dramatics make me growl. “Not now, Sacha.”

  “Sorry,” he says, chuckling. “I didn’t recognize you with the small animal glued to your face.”

  “Did you know Father has plans to marry me off?” I bark.

  The grin falls away. “Yes. I did know.”

  “And you did not think to warn me?”

  His lips purse. “How would I have done that? You have been tramping around Europe. When was the last time you checked your email?”

  “I’m not unreachable. Greta got in touch with me.”

  He shrugs like that argument is no good, and my hands curl into fists. My only sibling is not the worst, but we have more difficult interactions than we do smooth ones.

  Still, I don’t expect what comes next.

  “You pushed him to this point,” Sacha says.

  “Excuse me? I have only been living my life as I see fit, which everyone has the right to do.”

  “No.” He looks at me with what can only be pity. “There you are wrong. We are royals, Max. Born into a bloodline that comes with destinies as good as paved. We do not have the right to live as we see fit.”

  I shake my head. What can I say to that? Sacha sounds brainwashed.

  With perfect timing, a footman arrives with my backpack. Slipping it on, I give Sacha a two-finger wave.

  “Where are you going?” he calls as I give him my back and head for the front door.

  “Anywhere,” I say, not bothering to turn around. “Anywhere but here.”

  “You smell,” Sacha says, and it’s the last thing I hear before I’m out the door.

  Alex was right. I should have installed a shower in the jet.

  Also? I should have never come home.

  Chapter 2

  Poppy

  “I’ll take one of those,” I say, taking a seat on a barstool and pointing to the cocktail at the top of the menu. I don’t even stop to see what it is. Right now, anything will do.

  The bartender nods and gets to pouring while
I hang my purse on the hook under the counter and sigh. It’s a beautiful evening in Copenhagen, made even more excellent by my location at a beachfront bar with open walls. A breeze drifts in from the water and tickles my cheek.

  “Rum and coke,” the bartender says, setting the tumbler on a napkin in front of me.

  I arch an eyebrow. They put rum and coke on their menu here? One of the simplest and most common drinks in maybe the whole world?

  Well, all right then. I can get down with that.

  Raising the glass to him, I take a drink and set it back down with a lip smack. It’s a good drink; my preference all through college, so I’m not complaining.

  The blond bartender lingers nearby, cutting up limes. “American or Canadian?” he asks.

  “American,” I smile.

  “On vacation?”

  “Not really, no. I’ve been working in Sweden for the last half-year or so. I came to Copenhagen after that job ended.”

  I fiddle with the black straw in my drink. “I’m about to go home, though.”

  “Europe did not bring you all the dreams you hoped?” He grins.

  “It was everything I wished for and more.” I chuckle. “It’s just time to go home.”

  “Did you come here by yourself?” he asks.

  “Sure did.” I turn my hands up. “Friends in half a dozen countries, but I don’t know a soul here.”

  “That’s not always so bad,” the bartender says.

  “True,” I agree.

  “Let me know if you need another one.” He gestures at my drink then moves down the bar to serve a middle-aged couple that just showed up. Turning in my stool, I study the orange and pink washing the sky above the ocean.

  I could have gone into specifics with the bartender, but I chose not to. The fact of the matter is that I’m going back to New Jersey because I’m dead broke. What last bit of money I had from my most recent job I spent on a one-way ticket for a plane that leaves tomorrow night.

  Since the ski instructor job was seasonal, I squirreled away every bit of the money it paid me I could. That job ended a month ago, and I’ve been staying in a hostel in Copenhagen since then.