by Zoe May
I nod, switching my hands around. Mine and Anders’ faces are now only inches apart and I’m itching to kiss him. I don’t even care that we’re on a stage in the middle of a wedding fair with a crowd of people watching us and an overzealous body language expert orchestrating our every move, I just want to kiss him. So badly.
‘Can you take your glasses off?’ Sheila asks Anders.
‘Sorry, I can’t. Conjunctivitis,’ he mutters. Conjunctivitis? What’s he on about?
‘Really?’ Sheila raises an eyebrow.
‘Yeah, sorry,’ Anders comments.
Sheila purses her lips together, clearly not pleased. She’s hired a photographer who’s milling about in front of the stage waiting to snap us in action, and I can imagine it’s not going to look great on her website or wherever else she plans to use these photos to have a shot of a guy wearing sunglasses during the ‘wedding kiss’. I can’t help feeling a little bad for her. With her elaborate pulpit display, she’s clearly gone to a lot of effort.
‘Go on, Anders, just take them off for a minute,’ I implore him.
‘Oh . . . ’ he groans. ‘Really?’
‘Just take them off!’
‘Fine,’ he sighs, pulling off his sunglasses and slipping them back into his jacket pocket.
‘Thank you!’ Sheila gives me a grateful look. ‘Right! The wedding kiss. Don’t forget, be aware of your hand positioning, don’t be too eager and close your eyes.’
My stomach is fluttering with anticipation as I gaze into Anders’ deep blue eyes. I can’t believe we’re actually about to do this. We’re finally going to kiss!
‘I now pronounce you husband and wife!’ Sheila says with a flourish. Ander’s lips twitch and I’m trying hard not to laugh as well. ‘You can now kiss the bride.’
Anders grins and I smile back, and then he leans in and our lips meet. I close my eyes.
‘Perfect!’ Sheila enthuses.
And she’s right, it is perfect. Anders reaches up and cups my face as we draw into each other, our lips parting, our tongues exploring each other’s mouths.
‘What are you doing? No! Hands on the waist!’ Sheila cries.
I let my hands roam from his arm and neck, under his jacket and around his firm muscular body and, oh my God, it feels amazing! We kiss hungrily, passionately, ravenously; it’s incredible. Anders’ buries his hands in my hair.
‘Stop!’ Sheila cries. ‘That is not a wedding-appropriate kiss! What are you doing? Stop touching her hair?! Calm down for goodness’ sake!’
I’m distantly aware of Sheila shrieking, but I don’t care, it’s like a backdrop, a distant hum to the intensity of Anders’ lips on mine, his body, his smell, all up close and overpowering. Flashes are going off on our faces, and I’m surprised that Sheila hired such a heavy-duty photographer to capture her PR moment, but still, it’s not enough to make me want to pull away; this kiss is too good.
‘Is that Prince Anders? It’s Prince Anders with a new woman,’ someone says.
‘I thought he was single,’ another voice chimes in. ‘It’s definitely Prince Anders.’
Prince Anders? Prince Anders? Suddenly, we both stiffen. Anders pulls back, a panicked look on his face as our eyes meet. He looks towards the flashing camera. Except it’s not just Sheila’s PR person who is photographing us any more. A professional photographer with a huge camera is standing by the stage, pointing his long lens right at us.
‘It’s Prince Anders, Isaac’s brother!’ one of the girls says. ‘He never talks to the press!’
‘Prince Anders,’ I echo in disbelief, looking questioningly up at him.
Anders gives me a pained look. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ he says, before letting go of me, jumping off the stage, barging past the snapping photographers and dashing out of the room as fast as his feet will carry him.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Anders is a prince?’ Collette gawps as I kick my heels off and flop onto the sofa. There are a couple of pizza boxes on the coffee table and a trashy sitcom on the TV. Anna points the remote at the screen and turns it off.
‘A prince?’ she echoes.
‘Yep! He’s the brother of Prince Isaac.’ I reach into my handbag for my phone and find the Google results I’ve been reading in the taxi home. Not only does it turn out that Anders is a prince, but he’s the brother of Prince Isaac. Prince Isaac! The most famous prince in the world right now. Unlike his brother, Anders apparently shies away from the limelight, preferring to keep a low profile, which is probably why I’d never heard of him.
‘Look.’ I hand them my phone.
‘Prince Isaac’s brother? No way.’ Collette takes my phone, dazed, and scans the results. ‘Oh my God . . . ’
‘Nice work, Sam!’ Anna checks out the Google images. ‘Very nice indeed!’
‘It really is him,’ Collette observes.
‘Yep! It’s him. I kissed a prince,’ I sigh. Yes, the kiss was incredible. Unbelievably incredible, but I can’t believe Anders just ran off afterwards. I get that he wanted to get away from the cameras, but I tried to chase him into the hall and there was no sign of him. He’d gone. He just disappeared.
‘Hang on a minute, you kissed him?’ Collette gawps.
I tell them what happened.
‘Fair play!’ Anna comments. ‘I bet he was worth the wait!’
‘What was it like? Was he an amazing kisser?’ Collette asks, wide-eyed.
‘The best. The actual best!’ I admit.
‘Oh yeah, I bet!’ Anna drawls, eyeing one of the Google photos in which he looks particularly ripped and handsome. ‘Mmmm… Imagine being held in those arms. I bet it was amazing.’
‘Yeah, like really assertive and strong, but tender and gentle too,’ Collette muses.
‘Oh, definitely,’ Anna agrees. ‘Sexy but sensual. Soft but seductive.’
‘Okay, guys! He was a good kisser, all right? But he’s also a good liar,’ I point out.
‘What do you mean?’ Collette asks.
‘He lied to me! He told me he was a reporter for The Chronicle!’ I think back to all the lies Anders told, the comments about his contacts and the stuff he said about his experience working as a reporter in Norway. He even made notes at dinner tonight as though he was writing an article. Yes, the kiss we shared was smoking hot, but I thought he and I had a genuine emotional connection too, when really Anders had been spinning me a pack of lies the whole time. I whinge to Collette and Anna, getting it off my chest as I comfort eat a piece of pizza left in the box.
‘It can’t be easy though to just admit you’re a prince,’ Collette reasons. ‘Like, “Hey nice to meet you, and by the way I’m second in line to the throne in Norway! So, bad weather we’re having, aren’t we?”’
‘We got beyond small talk though,’ I remind her.
‘So, he told you he was a reporter for The Chronicle?’ Anna presses.
‘Yeah!’ I insist, although I feel a little hesitant. She raises an eyebrow.
‘He definitely told you that? You didn’t just misinterpret the situation?’ she persists.
‘I don’t think so . . . ’
‘Think about it,’ Anna urges me.
‘Okay.’ I cast my mind back to the moment when Anders and I first met in the lift. If I recall correctly, Anders didn’t actually tell me he was a reporter. I assumed he worked for The Chronicle and he didn’t contradict me. And ever since, whenever I’ve seen him at events, I’ve just assumed he was there for a story and he hasn’t suggested otherwise. But perhaps he was at those places for another reason. Maybe he was at Esmerelda’s bakery simply to pick up some croissants. After all, I never saw what was in the cake box she handed him. And when he was picking up the bouquet from Tamara’s and said he was just stopping by, maybe he genuinely was just stopping by and thought he’d pick up some flowers for his house. It was me who assumed he was being given his own press bouquet. And with the dinner tonight, perhaps he just happened to be at the Horsham Hotel? It’s no wonder Jerome w
as willing to serve us a three-course meal in a private dining room. It’s no wonder Jerome slapped him on the back and said he’d do ‘anything for him’.
‘Maybe he didn’t tell me explicitly, but he played along. He was making notes for an article in a notebook for goodness’ sake!’
Collette and Anna giggle.
‘It’s not funny!’ I insist. ‘He should have told me who he was.’
‘But maybe it was just one of those things that snowballs,’ Anna suggests. ‘You assumed he was a reporter, he didn’t admit that he wasn’t and then before he knew it, he’d got swept up in the lie?’
‘Maybe,’ I grumble, placing the empty pizza box back on the table. I slump in the sofa. ‘I still feel deceived though.’
‘He looks like a nice guy,’ Anna comments, reading one of the posts about him online. ‘It says here that he’s a campaigner for animal rights and donated half a million to a charity fighting child poverty.’
‘Yeah, I read that too,’ I admit. The posts that are out there about Anders make him out to be a modern-day saint. He may not be a reporter, but he’s certainly been keeping busy. According to one report, last year he spent three months volunteering at a school in a rural village in Tanzania.
‘He still deceived me though,’ I remind her.
‘It also says here that he’s “notoriously private”,’ Anna adds.
I nod. ‘I saw that too.’
‘Well there you go then!’ Anna tuts. ‘Maybe he liked the fact that you thought he was someone else? Maybe he was enjoying getting to be someone normal for once, someone other than a prince, even if it wasn’t quite real.’
‘Maybe . . . ’ I murmur.
‘It sounds plausible, Sam,’ Collette comments. ‘I get that you feel he should have been more honest, but Anna’s right, he probably just got carried away. He seemed really nice. And anyway, he’s gorgeous. Are you really going to reject the first guy you’ve fallen for in ages over one mistake?’
‘It was a pretty big mistake though. He completely misled me.’
‘It’s not even the worst mistake ever,’ Anna comments. ‘I’d still date him. Heck, with a face like that, he could get away with murder and I’d still date him.’
Collette and I both laugh.
‘Also, he’s prince! Are you really going to turn down a prince?’ Anna asks.
I roll my eyes. ‘Guys, it’s not really a matter of turning him down! We had one amazing kiss. But he’s a prince! I’m hardly going to end up as his girlfriend! The future sister-in-law to Holly!’ I laugh. ‘I guess the whole thing was just a fantasy we both got swept up in.’
‘You never know,’ Collette suggests. ‘Look at Holly. She was a regular girl and she’s marrying Isaac.’
‘Exactly!’ Anna concurs. ‘Fantasies can become reality.’
‘You could have your own happily ever after too,’ Collette muses dreamily.
‘Seriously?’ I tut. ‘I don’t even know how to date regular men! Let alone princes!’
I reach for the pizza box and scoff another slice, before heading to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
‘Sam! Wake up!’ Collette nudges me and I open my eyes, still bleary from sleep.
‘What?’ I grumble. She’s sitting on my bed holding lattes and a bag of pastries from the deli around the corner, which she sometimes picks up for us as a treat on Saturday mornings. She’s picked up a couple of newspapers too and has a weirdly panicked look on her face.
‘Sam, you’re on the front page of the Daily Post, the Morning News and the Echo.’
‘What?’ I sit up, rubbing my eyes. ‘What are you talking about?’
Collette holds out the papers. My eyes land on the front cover of the Daily Post, which features a photo of me and Anders kissing last night, with the headline: PRINCE ISAAC’S RECLUSIVE BROTHER IN PASSIONATE CLINCH.
‘What the hell?’
The story has Simon’s byline. Simon! My protégé has written about me. I read it.
Prince Isaac’s reclusive younger brother, Anders, was seen last night sharing a passionate kiss at a London hotel with a British journalist he is believed to be dating.
The eligible Norwegian bachelor, who has been staying in London for the past few months, was photographed last night at the Horsham Hotel enjoying a passionate kiss with reporter Samantha Fischer.
Like his brother, Prince Anders seems to have a taste for British women as Samantha is a London-based reporter who even grew up in the same part of Leeds as Holly Greene.
Onlookers commented on the steamy public display of affection between the pair, with one bystander describing the kiss as ‘fiery’ and ‘red hot’.
‘What the actual fuck?’ I utter, as I read the rest of the article, which is just more and more gossipy garbage about what a passionate kiss Isaac and I shared, implying that we’re in a relationship. I flick through the other papers, and it’s the same – the same photos and similar stories, implying that Anders and his brother have a penchant for regular girls from Otley.
‘I popped out to get coffee and then I was walking past the newsagent’s on the way back and I spotted these. I couldn’t believe it. Did you know Simon was going to write that?’ Collette asks.
‘No! Of course not!’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know! Oh my God!’ I reach for my phone on the bedside table and turn it on. All of sudden, it starts buzzing non-stop with notifications. And I’m not talking a couple of tweets and a few emails, I’m talking off the hook buzzing. I click onto my Twitter account to see that I have 3,421 notifications so far, and they keep coming through. Everyone’s talking about me, tagging me in tweets claiming that I’m Prince Anders’ girlfriend.
‘Oh my God, Sam.’ Collette looks at my phone screen as we both stare in shock at all the tweets and notifications, which are still coming through non-stop.
‘I need to call Simon.’
I quickly dial his number. He answers after two rings.
‘Simon, what the hell?’
‘Hey, Sam!’ he answers chirpily. ‘Nice work on the whole Anders thing!’
‘What? What are talking about?’
‘Dating him! Very clever. I knew you wanted to save your job but dating Isaac’s brother! Impressive.’
I pause for a second, taking in what he’s saying. He thinks I kissed Anders for a story in some kind of desperate bid to save my career. Does he really think I’d stoop that low?
‘Are you serious? You think I dated Anders to get a good story?’
‘Yeah! Didn’t you?’
‘No! I didn’t even know he was a prince!’
‘Haha, nice one!’ Simon laughs.
‘I swear, I didn’t. How did you get your hands on those photos?’ I ask, feeling flushed with anger.
‘My friend Jim was at the bridal show last night. He’s a freelance photographer. The organisers of the show hired him to take photos but then when you and Anders started snogging and he realised who Anders was, he took a bunch of pictures and touted them around the papers. We studied together on my journalism course, so he offered me first dibs,’ Simon says proudly.
‘Seriously?’
‘Yeah!’
‘And you didn’t think to call me? Or talk to me about the story?’
‘Sam, a picture speaks a thousand words and they were great pictures! You guys were snogging each other’s face off!’
‘It was a kissing demonstration workshop!’ I cry out. Collette’s eyes widen.
‘Whatever!’ Simon tuts.
‘I can’t believe you just invaded my privacy like that, Simon. I’m a reporter! I report on the news, I don’t become the news!’
‘Well, you’re going to become the news if you snog a prince in front of hundreds of people,’ Simon points out.
‘I didn’t know he was a prince!’ I repeat, although even as I say it I know how implausible it sounds. How is anyone going to believe me when I tell them I didn’t know I was snogging
royalty when the kiss we shared was that intense? With a kiss that passionate, no one will buy the truth that I didn’t have a clue who he really was. And anyway, I don’t even know if I want to admit how little I knew about him since it makes me look like the most clueless royal reporter ever.
‘Well, anyway, Phil told me to write the story so take it up with him,’ Simon comments.
‘Phil told you?’
‘Yeah! He thought you were doing it to save your skin too,’ Simon explains.
‘Wow, you guys think I’m such a nice person,’ I huff.
‘He said you were ambitious, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, I’m ambitious, but I don’t play people to keep my job,’ I groan, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. ‘I have to go.’ I hang up, dropping my phone onto my bed.
‘Collette, what’s happening?’ I ask. My bedroom smells of fresh newspapers, the pages open across my sheets showing me and Anders snogging each other’s face off. That moment, that perfect kiss we shared, is now emblazoned in fresh ink for the nation to see while they eat their breakfast.
Chapter Eighteen
Cameras flash as I arrive at work. Half a dozen photographers are standing by the entrance of the Daily Post, pointing their cameras at me. A reporter steps into my path
‘Hi, Samantha, how does it feel to be dating a prince?’ she asks, notepad and pen out.
‘What? I’m need to get to work!’ I exclaim, before trying to walk ahead, except the photographers are blocking the entrance. They keep taking photo after photo, the sound of their shutters on repeat. I’m being papped. I, Samantha Fischer, am being hounded by paparazzi.
‘Excuse me,’ I say as I try to push past, but they ignore me, taking more and more pictures.
‘Excuse me, I have to get to work!’ I implore them, covering my face with my hand like a harangued celebrity in a magazine, but they don’t react. They just keep taking my photo.
‘I have to get to work!’ I repeat.
‘How long have you and Anders been dating?’ the annoying reporter asks, stepping in front of me again. I ignore her this time.
