Royal Attraction

by Truitt, Tiffany

  Liam.

  Ollie practically jumps into the car, pulling me with him. I stumble forward, landing in his lap—face first. I barely have time to pull myself up and stammer some mortified apology before the car lurches forward.

  “You all right?” he pants.

  I slowly look up and notice the telltale signs. How a small portion of the skin around his nose is peeling. The slight edge of a wig cap poking down his forehead.

  “You daft wanker!”

  He chuckles before reaching up and pulling off a prosthetic nose and red wig. A lazy grin crawls across his face. “Welcome home, Ryans.”

  Chapter Three

  17 Years, 7 Months, and 5 Days

  “How…how can you be laughing right now? What about any of this is funny?” I cry out as I pace back and forth. My eyes dart to my bedroom door, which now stands wide open. We’re unprotected. Any of the staff roaming around could hear us. I rush forward and push it closed. Not that it matters. Not really. The damage has already been done. I lean against the door and cover my face with my hands. There’s no stopping the tears now.

  “Ryans, you’re overreacting. It’s nothing. Who cares that he saw? It’s not our fault he doesn’t believe in having any fun and wants us all to be as miserable as he is,” Ollie scoffs, reaching up and pulling my hands from my face.

  “How can you be so dismissive? Even now? Really, Ollie?” Of course, it was always about having a good time when it came to Oliver. He searched out amusement like others searched for treasure. He would travel the whole world over looking for it if his father would allow it.

  The look on Aiden’s face.

  “Oh God,” I sob, pushing past Ollie. He moves to grab my hand but I slap it away. “You don’t even care that he was upset!”

  Oliver rolls his eyes. “He’s always upset. The moodiest damn royal since Hamlet. That’s always how he is, Ryans.”

  “Not like that,” I whisper, a shudder running through my body as I think about the murderous way he looked at Oliver. I did this. Or at least I helped do this. Feeling lightheaded, I go to sit on the bed, but one look at the rumpled sheets, and I feel nauseous.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out. Let me go get you some tea.” When I don’t bother to reply, Ollie sighs. “If it really means that much to you, we’ll talk to Aiden together. Even though he really doesn’t deserve any kind of explanation. It’s not any of his business. This isn’t about him. It’s about you and me. About us.”

  Us? That’s the problem. There wasn’t supposed to be an Us. It was never meant to be with Ollie. He knew that. Maybe he just didn’t care.

  “You said you locked the door. Did you?” I ask.

  “What?” he replies, seemingly caught off guard by my question. Rather, my accusation.

  “You’re always so careless,” I say, shaking my head.

  It’s the way every nanny and nearly every reporter described him since he was a toddler. I could fill volumes with the various times his antics ruined state dinners or banquets. I always found it endearing. The way he tried to make everything fun, light. But maybe it had nothing to do with that. Maybe it was just about fulfilling whatever whim he had. “You said you locked the door,” I continue, “but there’s no way you could have.” I catch my appearance in my nightstand mirror. Flushed cheeks. Messy hair. Swollen lips. A certain brightness to my eyes that I’ve never seen before.

  Everything is different now, but it doesn’t feel like a fairy tale. It only feels ruined.

  “He’s not upset it was you,” a dark voice slithers across my room.

  I look up to find Oliver glowering at me, leaning against my bedroom door with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “What?” I ask weakly. Not once has Ollie ever looked at me like he’s staring me down now.

  “I mean he’s upset he caught me with you but not for the reasons you think. Not for the reasons you wish he was upset.”

  The coldness of his tone breaks what’s left of me. He’s right, of course. But something about hearing him, him of all people, say it undoes me. “Get out! You’ve messed up everything. Everything!”

  I don’t have to tell him twice.

  Chapter Four

  22 Years, 9 Months, and 23 Days

  I feel a bit numb as I stare at myself in a mirror hanging outside my father’s study, taking a deep breath as I continue to smooth down my hair, which after the Great Escape looks tousled and crazed no matter how many times I’ve taken a brush to it. My stomach tightens at the memory. The nearly paralyzing fear that coursed through my veins once I realized the paparazzi had discovered us, the secret thrill of pushing my body to its limits as we raced through the alleyways and down the streets, and the dizzying shock that settled over me once I discovered Mystery Man was none other than Oliver, third in line for the throne of England and the boy I spent the past few years avoiding, would be enough to rattle anyone.

  “…Aly?”

  I spin around to find my father. I rush toward him and wrap my arms around his waist, burying my forehead into his chest just like I used to do when I was a little girl. Three years was far too long.

  For the first couple of years after my mom died, it was just Dad and me. He did his best back then. Truly, I know he did. Of course, it didn’t help that my super goal-oriented parents had decided to have me later in life. But I never went without love. If anything, after we lost Mom, it was almost as if Dad felt like he had to love me enough for both parents. I couldn’t possibly realize back then what that had to be like for him. To cover up his wounds, hide the pain so I wouldn’t see. Did those wounds ever heal? Was it possible for that kind of hurt to be mended?

  I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  To make up for the many hours he spent at work, I had every toy a child could wish for. The best nannies. The best of everything, really. But it had never been enough to make either of us truly happy. Losing Mom meant we lost what it meant to be a family. That’s what she was—the essence of what made us work.

  We were far from home in every sense of the word.

  Even though most ambassadors only served for a few years, my father served as the U.S. ambassador to England for both President Reagan and Bush Sr. before I was born. While most of his work was with members of Parliament, a quick and easygoing friendship formed between my father and the king after meeting at a charity cricket match. That’s all it should have been. If all was right and fair in the world, my father would have resigned, and he and my mother would have taken me back to the States to grow up.

  But life was a lot of things; fair hardly ever being one of them.

  My mother and the queen fell sick right around the same time. Cancer both of them. A sad, heartbreaking coincidence. Heck, maybe it was fate. I don’t know. I once read a particularly upsetting tabloid article that my father and the king had poisoned their wives as part of some sort of ritual pertaining to the Masons. Some days that thought felt easier to stomach than the truth—there was no rhyme or reason as to why the Dudley boys and I lost our mothers so soon. We just did.

  The friendship between my father and the king grew stronger as the men struggled to deal with the pain and the fear and the loss. Father resigned his position as ambassador while my mom went through treatments, and after she died, he was left not only without a wife but without a purpose.

  The king hired him as special advisor to the Crown. My father helped him navigate everything from issues concerning England’s relationship with the United States to which charitable foundations to support. Constantly by his side, my father was enamored by the press and, therefore, unfortunately, they became enamored by me.

  And things only got worse when we moved into the palace.

  To this day, I’m not sure what really caused it all to happen. What desperate conversation took place between the king and my father, or what the Queen Mother saw during one of my many visits, but one day we went from struggling to hold it together to living within the palace.

  And t
hen we both had our family back.

  The faint hint of cigars fills my nose, and I hold onto my father tighter. He chuckles. “I guess you’re glad to see me, Alexandra. Come, let’s take a look at you.”

  I run my hand down my hair as my father inspects me. Suddenly feeling thankful that Mrs. Wright had another dress waiting for me once we reached the palace, the former one rumpled from our run in with the press.

  “My, you look so grown up, Alexandra. So much like…” His voice trails off.

  “I know,” I say quietly.

  My father clears his throat. “Shall we go inside and have some tea?” He hooks his arm around mine and leads me into his study. It’s warm and bright and smells of oak and leather and furniture polish. Despite having a perfectly suitable bookshelf, books are scattered in piles on the floor and stacked on chairs. Even with the ornate, rich golden and red hues that decorate the room, it could not feel more lived in.

  In a way, it was this room that most felt like home in the palace. How many hours had I spent curled in one of the chairs reading comics or kicking a futbol around while he worked? It was unprecedented, a former ambassador and his daughter living in the royal palace. Some even called it a conflict of interest. Others called it a fairy tale. To us, it simply felt like home.

  “Some things never change,” I say with a smile as I survey the room.

  “The best things never change,” my father amends, pouring two cups of tea. He hands me one before motioning for me to sit behind his desk.

  “Really?” I ask, my eyes going wide. My father never let me there. One time he caught Ollie and I sitting in his chair together drawing on some documents that turned out to be rather important, and I thought he was going to ship me off to boarding school. I can’t help but grin and do a little jump as I make my way to my father’s desk before settling into his chair.

  “Mrs. Wright informed me you had a bit of a run-in before making it to the palace. Are you all right?”

  I take a long sip of my tea before answering, hoping I can hide the tremble that enters my voice every time I talk about the press. My father knows how difficult it was for me, being under their microscope, but I don’t want him to worry about it. “You know how they are. It’s just something we have to deal with,” I say with a shrug.

  “And Oliver was there? In costume?” he asks.

  I nearly choke on my tea at the mention of Ollie. The last time my father and I spoke of him had not been pleasant. I can tell by the redness that has broken out down my father’s neck that he’s remembering our last conversation about the youngest royal prince as well. My father didn’t always hate Oliver. Growing up, Ollie was in this study almost as much as I was.

  My father is wrong—sometimes the best things do change.

  I sit my cup down on my father’s desk and run my fingers through my hair. “Yes, he was in the pub in a disguise. It’s something we used to do when we were younger when we wanted to grab a drink,” I admit, feeling my cheeks go red. Yet another indiscretion from my youth to make my father proud. “You know he’s always had a sense for the dramatics. Apparently, he thought he would use an old play from the playbook and pull a little joke on me.”

  Of course, I’m not entirely sure why Ollie had been there. Soon after I discovered his identity, he was on the phone with security yelling about breaches in protocol and someone betraying his trust. Once we got to the palace, we were met with a horde of reporters camped outside waiting to catch anything related to the royal wedding.

  Liam, our favorite security guard and about the only one able to stand Ollie’s antics growing up, told us both to duck as we rolled in, and then I was whisked off by my own security detail once we reached inside the palace walls. After being briefed about what had been put in place for my safety, I was escorted to my room, and Ollie was nowhere to be seen.

  “Always so incredibly foolish. I never realized how much of an effect he had on you. How his bad behavior influenced you,” my father says, shaking his head as he rests his cup against his knee. “The press is more zealous than ever. No doubt, they were hiding out around here, trailing any sort of car that left the property. He probably led them right to you.”

  “Even if that was the case, I hardly think he meant to,” I offer. Whatever Ollie’s faults are, he isn’t as careless as my father thinks he is…

  But I can’t help thinking about that damned unlocked door.

  “Alexandra? Are you listening to me, darling?”

  “Yes, yes, sorry. Jet lag,” I stammer, bringing the cup of tea to my mouth in an attempt to pull myself together before having to speak again.

  “I really didn’t want to do this. To be honest, the whole idea of it makes me feel like a bit of a prat, but I see Oliver will, no doubt, be up to his old tricks in regards to putting you in situations where what’s best for you and the family is not a consideration.”

  My father takes a heavy, deep breath before continuing. “I want you to open the top drawer of my desk and pull out the file marked Alexandra.”

  Furrowing my brow, I pull out a thick manila folder. “Dad? What is this?”

  “Open it,” he says gravely.

  I smooth down my hair once before doing as I’m told. Within the folder are countless articles, some from tabloids and others from more legitimate news sources, all about Oliver. They’re all about his escapades in these last couple of years since I’ve been gone. I finger through them, glancing at the headlines. Questionable relationships. Wild partying. Possible drug usage. Girl after girl after girl. I slam the folder shut, attempting to swallow the rock that has settled in my throat. “Why?” I ask, my voice a bit uneven.

  “I didn’t pull these together to hurt you, Alexandra, but you should know what kind of man he is. He may have fooled you before…he fooled us both…”

  Oh, Dad, it wasn’t just his fault.

  “…I couldn’t risk something happening between you two while you’re here, and you running off again. This is your home, Alexandra. Our home. You haven’t been here in years, and it’s all that boy’s fault.”

  I can’t risk anything happening with us, either. Not unless I want my heart smashed into a million pieces. Because that is guaranteed to happen no matter which way it all went. Either I admit my feelings to Ollie, and he loves me back…which would lead to a life hounded by the press, and I’ll end up resenting him, or he would be shamed when all my indiscretions came out. Or, I admit my feelings, and he tells me that those moments we shared had meant nothing to him. It’s hard to say which would be worse.

  So, I nod and cradle the folder against my chest.

  Chapter Five

  15 Years, 7 Months, and 9 Days

  “You want me to kiss you?” I ask with a laugh. The loudness of which causes a few of the Queen Mother’s old biddies to look up from their cards.

  Ollie leans over, closing the distance between us on the couch. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

  I scrunch up my forehead. “I don’t know. Maybe for about a billion reasons.”

  “A billion, huh? Name them,” he challenges as he pretends to look over my Sports Illustrated.

  My eyes dart to the ladies playing cards. None of them seem to be paying us any attention. Why should they? It’s just little Alexandra Ryans and Prince Oliver sitting on a couch reading. We were the same age and grew up together. Pictures of us have graced the pages of newspapers and magazines for nearly two decades. Besides, the Queen Mother suspects that her friends cheat during bridge and always demands that one of us sit in to help keep an eye out. Ollie and I often volunteer. Mostly because we like the shortbread cookies his grandmother serves and love the way the old ladies gossip and tell stories about their world travels. Ollie always sits entranced once they start going. I imagine that he would spend his life backpacking across the world if it wasn’t for his position.

  Nothing is out of the ordinary and yet…

  I reach up and run a hand down my hair. Ollie catches the movement and gri
ns. For some reason, he seems rather pleased with himself. “For starters,” I whisper, “I’m practically your sister—”

  “You’re not my sister,” he insists, forcefully cutting me off. My eyes meet his, and there’s a seriousness there I’ve never seen. I’m left speechless by it, and all I can do is nod. “You said you just want it done with, right? So, why not with me? I could think of worse people you could kiss. Old lady Belton over there has a particularly dweeby nephew I recall fancied you.”

  “Very funny,” I reply, elbowing him in the stomach.

  Ollie leans back, grinning and holding his abdomen. “Better your first kiss is with someone you know. Someone you trust.”

  I press my lips together. Maybe he’s right.

  “A kiss is just a kiss, Ryans.”

  I nod in agreement, but something about it doesn’t feel like it could be contained by the word “just.”

  Ollie leans forward, and I half wonder if he’s crazy enough to kiss me right here and now in front of the Queen Mother and her friends. “Unless,” he whispers, “you’re waiting for someone else to do it?”

  My eyes jump back down to the magazine I’m holding in my lap. A shaky breath escapes my lips. Is it that obvious? I reach up and pull at the collar of my shirt, which suddenly feels much too tight around my neck. Ollie grabs my hand, taking it in his. “Aly?” he asks. I could count on one hand the number of times he’s called me anything other than Ryans. I slowly pull my eyes up to meet his.

  The way he looks at me…

  Chapter Six

  22 Years, 9 Months, and 23 Days

  After dinner with my father, I settle into my room. I haven’t been in this space in years, and yet, the Queen Mother didn’t touch it. All remains as it was before, even down to the lilac bedspread. It’s about the only thing that appears to have stayed the same in my life since leaving all of this behind. Or at least attempting to.