Everything I Hoped For

by Ann Christopher

  “It is.” Putting a Herculean effort into it, he tensed his muscles and stopped his leg from jiggling. “It went public twenty-odd years ago. Just before my parents split. So my father, ah, made some money—”

  “Some money?”

  She sounded strangled now.

  “It was, ah, one of the largest initial public offerings at the time, yes. But bad timing for my father, who was a cheating rat bastard and had to hand over a good chunk of it to my mother in the divorce. And when she died…”

  “You inherited it. As the only child.”

  “Right,” he said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Which is lucky for me, I suppose, because if it was up to my father, I’m sure he would have cut me off without a penny for having the temerity to think for myself on occasion. But my father is still the largest shareholder. And my inheritance is, ah, held in trust for me at the moment.”

  She gaped at him.

  “So, ah…” More from a desire to have a project for his restless hands than anything else, he poured himself another cup of coffee. “That’s my, ah, father’s side of my family.”

  More gaping.

  He picked up his steaming cup and forced down a sip.

  Still nothing from Melody.

  “Now might be a good time for you to say something,” he told her. “Just… you know. To keep the conversation moving.”

  She closed her mouth. Tipped her head to one side and studied him closely.

  “I’m trying not to be tacky here, but…You basically have more money than God, is what you’re saying.”

  Like that, the suffocating band of pressure that had been constricting his lungs for the past several moments loosened enough for him to manage a complete breath.

  They’d cleared the first hurdle, then.

  And she didn’t seem particularly upset if she was making jokes about it.

  “Sadly, I don’t have more money than God, no. Not until I come into my inheritance. Right now, I’m only living on a small portion of the interest.” He sipped again. “But I did hear that my father once extended God a line of credit.”

  He thought it was a pretty funny line, but she only managed a weak smile.

  He supposed it might be a bit soon for jokes.

  “You know that I don’t have any money, right? I mean, I’m starting to do very well at the hospital, but my balance sheet isn’t balancing at the moment because I still have some med school debt left. Harvard ain’t cheap.”

  He very well knew that Harvard wasn’t cheap, and he planned to eradicate her debt situation the second an opportunity presented itself. What kind of man would allow his girlfriend to struggle with student loans when he had more than enough money in the bank for both of them?

  But now wasn’t that time. He had bigger fish to try at the moment.

  “Understood,” he said gravely. “I’d planned to ask you for a short-term loan after breakfast, but now I’ve thought better of it.”

  She managed a real laugh this time. Shaky, but definitely real.

  Only it was gone much too soon.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said, sobering. “I guess you’ve lifted the ban on me looking you up online now, huh?”

  “I’m glad you gave me this little grace period about that. I just felt that—what’s wrong, darling? Why do you look so troubled?”

  She picked up her tea, frowning as she stared down at the contents. Then she put it down and ran her hands up and down her upper arms, as though she’d caught a chill.

  “I think I need a minute.” Rueful smile. “I feel like you’re not the guy I thought you were. Like I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. Which is silly, because we haven’t even known each other for two weeks yet, have we? So why would I think I knew much about you at all?”

  The first feelings of dread prickled up his spine.

  “I feel like we’re getting to know each other quite well,” he said softly. “And I’m exactly the same man I was ten minutes ago.”

  “You’re not, though. Ten minutes ago, I though the biggest obstacle to our relationship was that we live thousands of miles apart. I figured you were a guy who probably had a little money, but I thought you were just a guy. And I felt like we at least had the fundamentals in common. And now—”

  “I am just a guy, and we do have the fundamentals in common. And I don’t like the term obstacle.”

  Disbelieving look from Melody. “What would you call it?”

  “Minor details that we will work out if I have anything to say about it,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah, but—”

  “There are no yeah, buts. I live in London and you live here. It’s an easy flight, and I have the money to get us back and forth to see each other during this getting to know you phase. When the time comes, we’ll figure out a solution that puts us on the same continent. It’s not like I live on Mars and you live at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. And I don’t give a rat’s arse about how much money you have or don’t have. I assume you feel the same…?”

  “Well, don’t get me wrong. I’d rather date a guy with money than a guy who lives in a van down by the river. But we come from different worlds. I’m old and wise enough now to know that stuff like that matters. How much can we really understand each other?”

  His stubborn gene flared to life. “As far as I’m concerned? Sky’s the limit.”

  He held her gaze, willing her to see every ounce of his sincerity.

  And maybe she did, because the tightness in her expression eased enough to allow a hint of a smile to crinkle the corners of her eyes.

  “Well…it’s not like you just got out on probation,” she said, perking up and reaching for her toast again. “I need to keep this in perspective, right? You have some money. That’s a good thing. It’s a blessing.”

  Oh, how he wanted to freeze time in that moment.

  But he’d come too far to turn back now.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Because there’s more.”

  “What?” She tossed the toast back onto her plate, dusted off her hands and leaned back to glare at him. “I thought we were having a fun morning-after breakfast here. How many other shoes are you planning to drop?”

  “Just the one.”

  “Well, go ahead and hit me with it so I can eat my eggs while they’re still lukewarm and not stone cold. And don’t give me all that build-up again. Just tell me.”

  Famous last words.

  “Fine. My grandmother’s the Queen.”

  Blank look from Melody. Absolutely no reaction whatsoever.

  In fact, she went so blank that he had the strong urge to snap his fingers in front of her face to make sure she was still with him.

  She stirred after several long beats.

  “The…queen?” she asked weakly.

  “Yes.”

  “Of what?”

  What a wildly optimistic question. As though there were some chance he’d say that his grandmother was the queen of used autos in the metropolitan Detroit area or some such.

  “England, darling. My grandmother is the Queen of England.”

  Melody made a game attempt at a dismissive laugh. “You expect me to believe that?”

  He bowed his head and said nothing.

  “Your grandmother. Is the Queen of England. Queen Anna. Who rides around in carriages and opens Parliament and, I don’t know, does the royal wave.” Melody raised her hand and did a credible imitation of the royal wrist flick. “That’s your grandmother.”

  Since this showed every sign of continuing all morning, Anthony decided it was time to move things along.

  He’d tossed his billfold on the table last night along with his watch and phone. He reached for it now, pulled out one of the bright orange pound notes that featured his tiara-clad granny wearing her Mona Lisa smile and handed it to Melody.

  “This is my grandmother.”

  While she stared blankly down at it, he grabbed his phone and ran an Internet search on himself. Af
ter a quick, grimacing glance at what came up below all his most recent charity-related stuff, he handed her the phone.

  She blinked up at him, then warily down at the phone.

  Then she began to scroll, her face flooding with color and disbelief.

  “Oh, my God,” she murmured, putting a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God.”

  He saw it all in his mind’s eye.

  The family picnics with plaid blankets spread on the ground, perfectly normal if you ignored the Scottish castle, Balmoral, in the background.

  The whole family’s obligatory Buckingham Palace balcony pictures from his oldest cousin’s monster wedding a few years back.

  Granny passing him as she inspected the troops, making pointed comments about the sad decline in the quality of the officers while he stood there in his uniform and tried to swallow his laughter and keep his chin up.

  There were probably also several photos of him and his various girlfriends over the years, starting with his school crushes, progressing to his phase with a couple of aristocratic women who were basically older versions of Annabella Carmichael, through the various models and actresses and culminating with his most recent ex, a London bank executive.

  Melody took her time about perusing, blissfully unaware that he was mining her shuttered expression for clues or that every second she delayed giving him a reaction shaved a year off his life.

  “I don’t understand this,” she said finally, putting his phone down and rubbing her forehead. “I know about Prince Thomas and his brother Prince Arthur. I saw part of Prince Thomas’s son’s royal wedding on TV a few years ago. Why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

  “Granny has five children—”

  “Granny.” There was a hysterical tinge to her strained laughter. “You call the Queen of England Granny.”

  “We’ve got to call her something,” he said quietly.

  She flapped a hand. “Go on.”

  “Granny had five children: Thomas, the Prince of Wales. The heir.”

  “So he’ll be king when your grandmother dies.”

  “Yes.”

  “And his son was the one with the big royal wedding on TV a few years ago.”

  “My cousin, yes. He’s second in line to the throne. And he has a couple of kids now, so they’re third and fourth in line.”

  “Got it,” she said crisply. “Where do you come in?”

  “When it comes to most Americans, I don’t think they know or care anything about the family beyond that. Which is one of the reasons it’s so great here. One can fly under the radar. But Granny had four other children besides Thomas: Edmund, Frederick, Alice and Louisa, the youngest. Louisa was my mother. I was her only child.”

  “But she died when you were a teenager, you said.”

  “Yes.”

  Melody cocked her head. Frowned. “So your father, the American oil tycoon, married a princess.”

  “Yes. And they both wanted me to have a normal upbringing. So they refused any title for me and moved here when I started primary school. I think that’s also about the time their marriage started falling apart. Then they split when I was ten, and my father and I couldn’t tolerate each other. So I went back to England for boarding school. That’s where I met Baptiste and Nick. And you know the rest about the military, law school and my charity work.”

  “But you’re a prince,” she cried.

  It was hard to miss the accusatory note in her voice.

  “I don’t have a title. Yet.”

  “The grandson of a queen is a prince,” she said flatly. “So you’re in line for the throne.”

  “Well, sure, if about thirty of my aunts, uncles and cousins and their children get offed at the same time, leaving me as the sole survivor,” he said with a shudder. “Otherwise there’s no chance. Thank God.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “And what do you mean, yet?”

  He sighed and pushed away his cold coffee, wishing he had a whisky instead.

  “All my cousins have their titles and have done since birth. My grandmother acceded to my parents’ wishes about me being a commoner, with the proviso that I’d come into the title upon my thirty-fifth birthday or marriage, whichever comes first. I don’t want it. I’d rather keep my relative anonymity. But she’s the sovereign, and I can’t tell her what to do. And she’s determined to do it around my birthday next year. It’s also her golden jubilee year.”

  “So you’ll be Prince Anthony?”

  “No. Earl of Stockbridge.”

  She sat quietly, letting that sink in for a moment.

  Then she snapped her fingers. “That’s why Baptiste and Nick call you Stocky.”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded, her lips twisting.

  “So next year, England’s going to be focused on your family. You’ll be getting your title. There will probably be some interviews. A lot of interest in who you’re dating and who might be your countess. Some tabloid stories. And aren’t daily tabloids a big issue for celebrities over there?”

  He knew exactly where this was going. He didn’t like it, but they had to get there and deal with it.

  “Yes,” he said bitterly.

  She stared at him, her expression just as turbulent.

  “Sounds like it’s time for you to take your perch in your gilded cage.”

  “I hope not. Because that’s the last thing I want for my life. Especially now.”

  “How do you plan to avoid it? Magic wand?”

  “I plan to ride it out, then resume my regularly scheduled life.”

  The deluge of information seemed to take the wind out of her sails.

  As it would anyone, he supposed.

  He watched with a sinking heart as she planted her elbows on the table and collapsed her head in her hands, gripping big hanks of her hair on either side.

  Maybe that was the moment his creeping anxiety took a running leap into fear.

  If this woman decided she couldn’t handle the package deal that came along with him…

  If she turned her back on him now…

  “Melody…”

  Her head came up, brown eyes flashing with something. Whether it was mostly fear or mostly anger, he couldn’t tell.

  “What are you doing with me, Anthony?”

  “Getting to know you better and growing crazier about you by the second.” He gave her a pointed once-over. “I thought I’d made that perfectly clear last night. I can do better tonight.”

  “Doesn’t your family expect you to marry some duke’s daughter? Lady Something or other? I mean…” She trailed off as a new thought hit her. “Hang on. That’s what was going on with the mom and the woman at the gala, wasn’t it? What was her name? Annabella?”

  “I deal with that kind of nonsense a lot, yes. When people find out who I am, everything becomes an audition for the role of princess or lackey who can become part of my crew and ride along to enjoy the perceived rich and famous lifestyle. Or people want to pitch for their charity, as though I dole out million-pound checks to every person whose hand I shake. I’m fairly certain I’ve never had a true friendship with anyone other than Baptiste and Nick. And that’s only because I latched on to them at boarding school. They couldn’t get rid of me. I suppose I wore them down. They didn’t have an agenda. They didn’t give two fucks about my connections or my money, so they know the real me. And with you—”

  “You lied to me, Anthony.”

  He knew he’d earned the quiet reproach. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “It wasn’t a lie, precisely—”

  “Don’t bullshit me! You want to call it an omission? An oversight? Does that make you feel better about yourself? You asked me not to look you up online for the sole purpose of keeping me in the dark about who you really are.”

  “Yes, but who I really am isn’t a murderer or a criminal.”

  More bullshit, and her scowling face told him she took it as such.

  “Yeah, but you’re not a guy next door, eit
her, are you? Don’t pretend you are. And anyone who’s with you needs to know what she’s getting herself into.”

  That shut him down. She had him dead to rights, and they both knew it.

  They eyed each other, the silence seething and wary.

  “Look,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face in frustration and praying for the grace, just this once, to get his words right with no awkwardness standing between what he said and what he meant. “I want you to understand me—”

  “That’s part of the problem,” she said, her voice rising. “I thought I was beginning to, but now it’s like you’re some other guy completely.”

  Now she’d gone too far. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  The sharp finality in his voice evidently caught her attention, because she cocked her head and went very still.

  “Enlighten me, then.”

  He opened his mouth, but it wasn’t that easy to frame it so that he told her what she needed to know without telling her enough to make her take the nearest escape route, never to be seen again.

  And what was his whole truth? That the more time he spent with her, the harder it was to conceive of a life without her. That he was fairly certain this woman would one day become his wife. Which meant that he was also fairly certain that life as she’d known it up until now was a thing of her past.

  But…

  Didn’t everyone’s old life end the second they met their life partner?

  “I saw you online. Before we actually met.”

  “I know.”

  “I already mentioned how Baptiste told me that Samira had a surgeon friend who might want to work with my foundation. He gave me your name. I looked you up. I read your bio on the hospital’s website.”

  A gorgeous flush crept up her neck and over her cheeks. “And…?”

  “And…” He floundered. How to say it without sounding like a complete fool? “I lost my head a bit. There’s no other way to explain it. There was something about your eyes and your smile.” Shaky laugh. “But I felt like—I feel like—you’re a special person and I have to get to know you. We have to get to know each other. It feels incredibly important. Don’t you agree?”

  Melody lowered her gaze without answering.