by T. K. Leigh
“You won’t have to get used to it for long,” a familiar voice says.
We look toward the doorway off the foyer where my sister stands wearing a pair of ripped, skinny jeans and a billowy blouse. It’s a complete one-eighty from the put-together princess she was earlier today.
“In a few weeks, they’ll be calling you ‘Your Highness’. Then in a few years, it’ll be ‘Your Majesty’.” She approaches, pulling Nora in for a tight hug. “How are you handling everything?” Her concern is clear.
“Good.”
“Good.” Esme smiles, then looks at me, jabbing my chest. “It’s your job to make sure she stays good. Got it?”
“Got it,” I reply with a roll of my eyes, feigning annoyance.
“Because you’ll have me to answer to if you don’t. And you don’t want that.” She winks and offers me her cheek for a kiss. “Come on. We need to introduce Nora to the people who will remind her she’s normal.”
I grab Nora’s hand and follow my sister into the open living area. Five familiar people sit on the various couches and chairs, sipping cocktails and enjoying a lively conversation.
When we enter, they all stop, glancing in our direction.
“It’s about time you got here, you wanker,” a man says, standing and heading toward us.
“Good to see you, too, Marius,” I chuckle as he pulls me in for a quick hug. He’s a tad shorter than me, but still has an impressive physique. After all, he does have Norwegian roots. Most Nords I’ve met are exactly like Marius — tall, blond, and can drink you under the table.
“It’s not like you announced your engagement today or anything.” He winks, then turns to Nora. “This must be your blushing bride-to-be.”
“Marius Erling, this is Nora Tremblay. Nora, this is a dear friend of mine, Marius. And also Esme’s…” I trail off, not sure what to call him. I’m not sure boyfriend is appropriate here. They have an understanding. And when they’re not “understanding” each other, as Esme puts it, they’re simply friends. According to the rest of the country, however, they’re dating. Trying to explain this to an outsider really emphasizes how fucked up my world can be.
“That pretty much covers it. I’m Esme’s. Congratulations on your engagement.” Marius kisses Nora’s cheek in greeting.
If Nora’s surprised by this development, considering she’s more than aware of Creed and Esme’s history, she doesn’t show it.
“Thank you,” she replies.
“Although I should probably be thanking the two of you.”
“Why’s that?” she asks.
“Now we’re off the hook.” He gestures between himself and Esme as she approaches with a few rocks glasses filled with sparkling water, handing them to Nora and me. “Before your…unexpected announcement, your father’s dolt of a head of household and chief council, Dalton Peel, tried to convince us to announce an engagement in the hopes of swaying the vote on the referendum. After all, everyone loves a royal wedding. Now they’ll get a real one, not a sham of one. And people are already eating it up.”
“How do you mean?” Nora inquires.
“The headlines, darling. Granted, not everyone likes you. You’re bound to have a few haters. A lot of twenty-somethings are convinced you’ve stolen their prince from them, even though they never had a chance to begin with.” He looks over his shoulder, addressing one of Esme’s friends lounging on the couch. “Hey, Harri. What did that article you were reading to us say again?”
She smiles as she grabs her mobile and clears her throat before reading. “‘If you ask me, Nora Tremblay from America is exactly what this country needs. She’s a breath of fresh air. Beautiful and poised, she’s the reincarnation of Grace Kelly. Nora gives off the impression of being likable and, dare I say it, one of us. I, for one, am excited about the prospect of an American princess gracing our country with her fresh perspective. In my opinion, any romantic notions that may have existed between Prince Gabriel and Lady Caroline DeVries can’t hold a candle to the love I saw radiating between him and Ms. Tremblay this morning. I have no doubt this passion-filled marriage will breathe new life into a monarchy in desperate need of a facelift.’”
She lowers her phone, her dark eyes meeting ours. “And that’s just one of many. You chose good, Anders.”
I glance down at Nora. “It wasn’t even a choice.” I curve into her, giving her a soft kiss on her lips.
“Well, fuck me sideways. You two really are in love.”
I reluctantly pull away, looking at a blond man, his long legs propped up on the coffee table.
“Of course they’re really in love, you tosser.” The redhead beside him playfully swats his head.
“That’s Jasper and Maggie,” I tell Nora. “Jasper was one of my mates from…before.”
“Before you became a complete pillock.”
“Tosser and pillock?” Nora interjects, crossing her arms over her chest. “I might need a dictionary for some of these words. Or at least a translator. I know wanker, but what’s a tosser and pillock?”
“Idiot,” everyone says at the same time.
“Same as wanker,” I add.
“You have three slang terms for idiot?”
“Actually, we have a few more,” another man states.
I give him a smile and nod. “Cody.”
“Anders.”
“Wait until you find out how many slang terms we have for penis,” the woman at his side says. “I’m Penelope, but you can call me Nellie.”
“That’s because she made the mistake of marrying me. Used to go by Penny, but once she married some bloke with the last name Lane, well…”
As if on cue, everyone breaks out singing the classic Beatles song, myself included.
Nora looks around, appearing as if she just stepped into some third dimension. I can understand why it would surprise her, especially after all the pomp and circumstance of today. Which is precisely why I needed to bring her here. Surround her with people who won’t address her or me using some title. Who knew Esme and me before our lives were forever altered. Through all the changes, they grounded us. Hopefully, being here will help keep Nora grounded, as well.
“So are you going to leave me hanging here or what?” Nora asks once our spontaneous rendition comes to an end.
“About what?” I press.
“These slang terms for penis.”
“Right,” I answer, glancing around the room. “Well, there’s gentleman sausage.”
“Twigs and berries,” Marius adds.
Harriet raises her glass. “Meat and two veg.”
“Knob,” Esme says.
“Dobber,” Cody offers.
“Bell end,” Nellie states.
A brief silence settles as we all share a look. And like the old friends we are, we know precisely what we’re all thinking.
“And John Thomas,” everyone says in chorus.
“John…Thomas?” Nora arches a brow. “Isn’t that the name of the character from Lady Chaterley’s Lover?”
I beam. “One and the same.”
“And why, pray tell, would you nickname your man meat after a fictional character?”
“You’ve read the book, correct?”
“You know I have.” She gives me a look, reminding me of role playing in her favorite Manhattan bookstore. It feels like a lifetime ago now, instead of mere days.
“Then you’re familiar with his unique ability of coming up with many colorful sayings for penis. So… John Thomas.”
She stares at me for a moment, processing this rather unusual phrase for the male genitalia. Then she bursts out laughing.
“I will never again look at a penis without thinking of John Thomas.”
“I hope you’d think of me first.” I drape my arm around her shoulders, steering her toward my usual spot on the love seat.
“We’ll see.” She winks.
Chapter Thirteen
Anderson
I can’t remember the last time I’ve laughed so
hard. Or heard Nora laugh so much. If I had any worries about her meeting my friends, they vanished instantly. Unlike the less than positive reception she received at the palace, my friends happily accepted Nora with open arms, despite the fact that everyone here holds some sort of title, from Harriet, a duchess, to Marius, a lowly baron. At least that’s how he puts it.
But in this group, titles are irrelevant. It was a pact we all made years ago. One we maintain to this very day.
One I think Nora’s happy to be a part of, as well.
“What did everyone think?” Esme asks, settling into the chair beside Marius as we all sit around the dining room table, bellies stuffed and spirits lifted.
“Horrendous,” Cody jokes. “Absolute rubbish, darling. You shouldn’t be allowed in the kitchen ever again. I mean, look around you.” He gestures around the table, not a morsel left on a plate. “Obviously not a single person enjoyed it.”
“Riiight,” she draws out. “That’s the reason you licked your plate clean? Literally? I actually witnessed you licking your plate.” She playfully tsks. “What would your dear old grandfather have to say? That’s certainly not behavior becoming of an earl.”
“Either is running a bookie business, yet here we are.” He winks.
“What did you think, Anders?” Esme turns her attention to me, hopeful, as if my opinion is the only one that truly matters.
After all, I was the first person she used as a test audience when she started experimenting with food. Our grandmother would have a meltdown if she knew Esme once spent her days in the palace’s kitchen while one of the head chefs taught her how to make the various dishes they served. Esme always dreamed of opening her own restaurant, spend her life showering people with love through food.
But because of who we are, that’s not possible.
Instead, she’s resigned to hosting dinner parties for her friends, testing her latest recipes on us. Most people would probably be surprised about Esme’s love for cooking. It’s certainly not a hobby one typically associates with royalty. But we aren’t your typical royals. Probably because this was never supposed to be our lives.
“Exceptional, Esme. Truly some of your best work.”
She beams, a wide smile pulling on her mouth.
“Why don’t you grin like that when I tell you I enjoyed your cooking?” Marius asks, slinging an arm around her shoulders.
She pinches her lips into a tight line. “Because you have to tell me it’s good.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do, mate,” Cody states.
“How do you figure?”
“If you want her cookie, you compliment her cooking,” he retorts.
The room fills with laughter once more, but it’s cut short by the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by heavy footsteps.
“Expecting anyone else?” Marius asks Esme. “Perhaps someone else who wants your…cookie?” He waggles his brows.
“We’re all present and accounted for, darling,” she replies in a singsong voice, the large quantities of liquor she’s consumed throughout the evening evident in her slur. “As is my cookie.”
“Can we all please stop talking about my sister’s cookie, for the love of Christ?” I shoot back playfully, which elicits more laughter. Unfortunately, it dies the instant Creed’s imposing frame steps into the room.
“Your Highness.” He bows toward me.
“Uh-oh.” Esme giggles. “The party police have arrived.”
Creed clenches his jaw, stealing a glance in her direction. His normally stoic and business-like expression flickers when he sees Marius’s arm draped around her.
“Lawson.” Marius nods in greeting.
He’s fully aware of Esme’s history with Creed. Besides me, he’s one of the few people who is. If it bothers him, he’s never let it show. According to her, she’s never agreed to be exclusive with Marius. Then again, she never agreed to be exclusive with any of the other men she dated after Creed, yet every single one of them eventually proposed.
And she turned down every last one.
“Your Highness.” Creed bows toward her before glancing around the table. “Your Graces,” he greets the rest of the party. Then he looks my way. “I apologize for the interruption, but there appears to be a…situation.”
“Situation?” I tighten my arm around Nora’s shoulders as she sits in the chair beside me. I had a feeling something was amiss. Creed wouldn’t crash one of Esme’s parties without a damn good reason.
“I’m still looking into how it happened, but I believe the brief roadblocks we set up earlier may have caused people to grow suspicious.”
“Ya think, Sherlock?” Esme snorts, then hiccups.
I shoot daggers at her, silently berating her to play nice. I know my sister. She’s an emotional drunk. Tomorrow, she’ll regret the way she behaved and will call Creed to apologize, who will tell her it doesn’t matter, tone emotionless. Then she’ll get upset all over again. And the cycle will continue, much like it has over the past ten years.
“Regardless of what caused it,” he bites out through a clenched jaw, his words directed at Esme before his gaze refocuses on me, “there’s a crowd. Paparazzi. Fans. That kind of thing. We’ve got it managed for now, but the sooner we get you out of here, the sooner the crowd will disperse.”
I blow out a breath, my shoulders slumping. I hate to pull Nora away from this slice of normalcy, especially since I know precisely how difficult tomorrow will be. But the longer we stay, the larger the crowd will grow.
“I’m sorry, love,” I say to Nora with a small smile. “So much for giving you a bit of fun tonight.”
“I learned a long time ago to always expect the unexpected with you. Plus, I need to get used to this life. Nothing like jumping right into the fray, correct?”
“You’ll do fine,” Harriet encourages. “Don’t pay attention to the rubbish anyone says. They’re just jealous hags.”
“Thank you.” Nora smiles as she pushes back from the table.
I shoot to standing in order to help her, but after sitting most of the night, my muscles are tight, causing me to waver. Quickly, I place a hand on the table to steady myself.
Esme gives me a concerned look, as does Creed, but I subtly shake my head, wordlessly telling them I’m fine and not to press the issue. That’s the thing no one warns you about when you have MS. Everyday occurrences you never thought twice about now make you question its cause. Like muscle weakness, dizziness, loss of balance and coordination… All things I’ve experienced more and more of lately.
Once I’m more confident in my balance, I lead Nora around the room to say our goodbyes.
“You good?” Esme asks when I reach her.
“I’m good.”
“Okay.” She gives me a quick once-over, then wraps Nora in her embrace. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out. And like I always tell Anderson, don’t let the man get you down.” She winks.
“Thanks, Esme. Tonight was exactly what I needed.”
“Then we’ll all have to do it again sometime soon.”
“I’d like that.”
Once we finish saying our goodbyes, we follow Creed into the foyer where another guard waits. He has a similar build to Creed, although slightly shorter, his skin paler, his bright red hair shaved into a crew cut.
“Your Highness.” He bows his head.
“Kylian,” I respond.
“Lieutenant O’Kelly has been assigned to guard Ms. Tremblay,” Creed explains.
“A guard?” Nora presses, glancing between Creed and me. “Is that necessary?”
“It is.” I turn toward her, taking her hands in mine. “It goes without saying there’s quite a bit about this lifestyle I disagree with. But when it comes to your safety and protection, no amount of guards is too many. So far, you’ve only had a taste of what’s to come. The airport was controlled. As was the press conference earlier. This isn’t. There are entire websites devoted to re
porting on the royal family’s movements in the hopes of snapping candid photos. Among other things.”
“Other things?” she asks.
“There have been kidnapping attempts on Her Highness,” Creed says stoically, nodding toward the dining room where the lively conversation continues. “Every single member of the royal family is a high-priced target. And I have no doubt there may be threats to you now, as well. That you also have a price tag on your head. It’s why you’ll always have a guard at your side whenever in public, regardless of any lack of perceived threat. Why you’ll soon go through a training class to learn how to conduct yourself if you’re ever kidnapped and held hostage.”
“Held hostage?” Nora squeaks out.
“It’s standard procedure,” I assure her, squeezing her hand. “We’ve all been through it and have never needed to use what we learned because the Royal Guard is the best at what they do.”
I steal a glance out the front windows, crowds of people swarming the sidewalks and streets. The only barricade between them and us right now is the Royal Guard blocking the stairwell.
Local police attempt to move people along. This is private property and they’re currently trespassing. The threat of arrest never seems to dissuade them, though. In fact, some view getting arrested as a badge of honor. The best course of action is to give them what they came here for — a candid shot as we leave and get into the car. Then they’ll continue on with their existence until the next time. And the next. And the next.
“Ready?” Creed asks, looking between us.
Nora draws in a deep breath, squaring her shoulders, her head held high. If this scenario has her on edge, she doesn’t let it show, still the picture of confidence. Like she was born to be a star.
“Ready,” she states.
I nod at Creed. He presses a finger to his earpiece. “We’re coming out.”
The instant he opens the door, flashes blind us as we make our way out of the building and toward the SUV parked a few feet away. But those few feet may as well be miles for all the slurs I hear being flung at Nora.
“You’re no Grace Kelly.”
