The Blue Collar Bachelors Box Set: The Complete Blue Collar Bachelors Series

by Miller, Cassie-Ann L.

  Jutting my chin out stubbornly—black eye and sticky T-shirt and pounding heart and all—I make the decision then and there. I'm not running anymore. This is me. He's free to make whatever judgment he wants to.

  Fuck his intoxicating accent.

  Fuck his potent smile.

  Fuck his many, many muscles.

  I’m done playing the spineless, helplessly-smitten damsel. I’m attracted to him and I’m going to roll with it. "I'll go get the keys," I grate out.

  I hurry off into the office to grab the keys from my purse and deliver them to him. The sooner I get him out of here, the sooner I'll be able to slip into a spare uniform shirt and get my head together.

  My fingers brush his palm as I'm dropping the clanging scraps of metal into his hand. Another powerful throb hits me between the thighs. By the grace of god almighty, I manage to stifle back a sigh.“I’ve got another copy of the keys,” I tell him roughly, “so just keep these until you’re done with all the repairs.”

  His eyes flick down the front of my shirt again and he nods distractedly.

  "What?" I hiss snappily.

  Shrugging a shoulder, he lets his gaze bounce back to my face. "Just appreciating the branding." Then he flashes me a teasing smile that should be trademarked. Or patented. Or whatever. "Interesting concept. The uniform, I mean. Sort of like Martha Stewart Living meets Hooters of America. No wonder the place is packed."

  I step up into his face, a finger pointed threateningly at his eye. “Y’know, the nerve of you—”

  He takes a quick step back, both hands up in the air. Defenceless. “Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” I’m not buying the innocent act, though. He’s barely biting back his smile. He loves watching me squirm.

  His hands fall to his sides when he sees that the threat of me clawing his face off has passed. “I don’t understand where all this hostility is coming from.” He blinks guilelessly. “I’ve been nothing but kind and helpful since we met…Talk to me. Tell me why you’re so upset.”

  I scoff, taking a firm step back and tightening my arms across my chest. “You are just unbelievable. Unbelievable. And rude.”

  His big shoulders rise and fall as he exhales, running a hand through his thick hair. His forehead is knitted with fake sincerity. “Look—I understand, darling. My dashing good looks tend to get you all hot and bothered when you’d prefer not to be. You can’t help it, it’s a natural reaction." My jaw is hanging loose in disbelief at this point. He continues anyway. "Plus, I’ve caught you in a compromising position yet again and that’s left you a wee bit embarrassed…but we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next—what is it?—eighty-nine days…so let’s just be adults about this, yeah?”

  “Wow—you’re good, turning all this on me.” I’m seething. My cheeks are on fire. But before I can really tell that asshole where to shove it, his lips curl into a slight grin and he takes a step closer.

  “I’ll cut back on the teasing, okay?” He almost sounds genuine, like he actually cares that he's unnerved me. "I hate seeing a frown on this pretty face. "

  The startled sound that comes out of me is completely involuntary and frankly, sort of embarrassing. It's just that the non-asshole side of him is the last thing I was expecting right now.

  In response to my shock, he smiles genuinely, a set of perfect, white enamel glinting. His voice dips low. "Yes, it is the prettiest face in town, Sadie. Pouting lips and swollen eye and all.” I stop breathing. Probably for a full minute. His fingers sweep tenderly across the discolored skin beneath my eye. He smoothly diverts the topic. “Remember to ice the swelling, yeah?"

  He flashes me a wink and strides for the door.

  Crazy butterflies in my belly right about now. Where’s my fly swatter when I need it?

  Chapter Four

  Xavier

  Whoever designed the flag of Ridgeland was a hot mess.

  I lie back with my legs hanging over the arm of the wingback chair and examine the crumpled picture in my hand.

  A golden shield stands proudly in the middle of the purple rectangle of fabric. The glittering sun rises above it, propping up the monarch’s crown. Ex nihilo nihil fit, it says in Latin at the bottom. Nothing comes from nothing. On the left, there stands a soldier clad in a full suit of body armor. On the right stands a virgin, draped in a white cloth…with a sword plunging into the middle of her chest and blood dripping down her gown.

  What the fuck?!

  Apparently, it all has some deep, philosophical significance. I’ve had the thing explained to me at least a dozen times by the Royal genealogist but I can never seem to remember what all of it was meant to convey.

  My gaze leaves the flag and sweeps across the photo to the trio of youthful, exuberant faces lined up in front of it. We're sticking out our tongues and holding up peace signs for the camera. Perfectly disheveled in our preppy boarding school uniforms. Stanley is making bunny ears behind my head and Charlene has got one arm wrapped around me, her eyes riveted to my face with a dreamy expression. Me, I stand in the middle. Center of the whole universe. As usual. And why not? I was born with an entire kingdom to my name.

  So clueless, we were. Innocence shining in our eyes. Dumb fuckers. We had no idea of the misery on the horizon. All we knew was that we were the best of friends. We were all so damn happy. All we needed was each other.

  That seems like such a long time ago. Almost like it never happened. Almost like that happy era in my life was just a dream. Now, my reality is the guilt, the blame, the responsibility for being the one who ruined that amazing thing. The memory is sharp. Scalding grief throbs in my heart. The pain is like running barefoot through a field of broken glass.

  My eyes burn and I rub them with the heel of my hand. I try to tell myself that I’m just tired, the result of skimping on sleep. But I know the sleep deprivation is effect, not cause.

  The guilt forever saddling my conscience is the cause.

  I’ve got to fucking move past this. I just don’t know how.

  I yank open the bedside drawer and shove the wrinkled picture at the bottom, under my T-shirts and socks. The shot glass is in my hand before I've even slammed the drawer shut. My gut churns with anxiety and regret as the cognac goes down fiery and smooth. The overpowering scent of fried chicken rising up from the ground floor restaurant isn’t helping with this nausea at all.

  Grabbing my phone beside the liquor bottle, I scroll furiously through my contacts.

  I need to apologize. I don’t want to punk out and change my mind again. This time, I'm going to do it.

  Thankfully, I remembered to load my old contacts into my new burner phone before I got started on this bender. I find Stanley’s number and hit ‘dial’. My chest squeezes tighter and tighter as the phone rings. Once. Twice. On the third ring, he answers. “Hello?”

  My words scrape through my vocal chords. “Stan. It’s me. It’s Xav.”

  A loaded silence greets me. I hear his heavy breathing, his anger.

  And then the line goes dead.

  He hung up on me. All it took was the sound of my voice and the person who used to be my very best friend in the world hung up on me. He hasn’t forgiven me. He’ll never forgive me.

  Stanley used to be my partner in crime. The person I’d drag unwillingly into all my schemes, with his smudged glasses and his bowl haircut. He’d come along, whining and complaining but secretly loving every second of our wayward adventures. And Charlene would trail behind us, annoying and fussy, but we could never get rid of her. As children, it started as jaunts through the meadows, trapping frogs and chasing butterflies. As we grew older, it became all about going on joyrides and kissing pretty girls. But then Charlene was the pretty girl I wanted to kiss. And that’s when everything changed.

  So I don’t deserve his forgiveness. I can’t blame him for his bitterness. I have no right to relief from my remorse. But it still burns to know that his life is forever ruined by the poor decisions I’ve made.

  My loneliness swells, filli
ng the whole damn place with shadows that reach out to strangle me and echoes that drill into my conscience. It's misery.

  I want to talk to somebody. I don’t care who, really. I just don’t want to be alone right now.

  The first person my mind flits to is Sadie but I quickly dismiss that thought. I’ve already been doing way too much as far as that girl is concerned.

  I made up a pathetic excuse about needing her keys and showed up at her job…Ethel left me spare keys to all the apartments in the building.

  I really just wanted to see her, to confirm to myself that the real thing couldn’t possibly live up to the fantasy of her I built up in my head. Well, that turned out to be a mistake because the sight of her pert nipples, erect under that wet T-shirt has had my cock aching ever since. Add that to my list of ninety-nine problems.

  So, no. No more Sadie for me tonight.

  I scroll through my phone, passing dozens of names. All acquaintances. People I share forced laughs with at social events. Chaps who invite me to the pub to pick my brain or lobby for their business interests. Women whose flirtations and seductions are motivated solely by their royal aspirations. I just want to talk to somebody real.

  And I must be lonelier than I initially realized because I find myself dialing the office of the Queen. The call has to be screened, passing through three different under-secretaries before my grandmother’s personal assistant tells me coldly that she’s indisposed at the moment.

  Well damn. I didn't expect that Grandmum would be camped out by the phone, waiting for the me to make contact but I figured that she'd at least take my call. I am the appointed conveyor of her bloodline after all.

  A half-breath later, the phone rings and when I answer the Queen’s voice comes over the line. “Xavier?” She sounds a bit weaker than usual but the note of authority is still there, the unquestionable strength, the awareness of the power and stature she was born into.

  “Yes hello, Grandmum."

  "Well, well, well. If it isn't the prodigal prince." There's not a single note of humor in her tone.

  I ignore her snarky greeting, trying to keep my tone pleasant. "How are you feeling?”

  "How am I feeling?" She laughs but I hear the stark displeasure in her tone. "Well, my physician would have you know that my blood pressure has soared over the past week. The spike coincides with the sudden disappearance of a certain wayward heir and the arrival of an excitable American commoner. You might have heard of that."

  There's no record of it anywhere but I'm sure the woman secretly obtained a doctorate degree in sarcasm at some point.

  My thoughts swirl, the room tips. I bring another shot of cognac to my lips and swallow. "Don't be dramatic, Grandmum. I've just gone on a little trip. Even working royals are entitled to a holiday every now and then. Maybe you'd benefit from a little escapade yourself. Just you and George. Y'know, the old lad who maintains the west wing gardens. He gives you the googly eyes every time you trample through the geraniums when you're on the phone with the Foreign Affairs Minister.

  As expected, she growls and I imagine her cold, pale fingers going white as they strangle the bejewelled receiver of her office telephone. I know she'd rather be strangling me.

  A working royal’s primary duty is to assist the Queen in the fulfillment of her functions as monarch. The royal family must at all times be the picture of unity, stability and philanthropy, and most importantly, we must be the moral beacon for our people. But after the mistakes I’ve made and with all the secrets I’m carrying, I’m not suited for that role. Pretending that I am is nothing but hypocrisy, boldface deception.

  “You're entitled to a holiday, hmm?" she grits out. "Your entitlement is one of your many grand flaws, chap. Here I am with one foot through death's door. Meanwhile my heir is on holiday. No wonder the Brits won't stop laughing at us."

  By now, I'm gulping straight from the bottle. “Now Grandmum, remember what your life coach told you about comparing yourself to the Brits. Your self-worth should not be measured as a function of Queen E.’s popularity.”

  Oh, I know how to push her buttons. She does not like to be reminded of those sessions with her life coach.

  An explosion of anger erupts on the other end of the line. "At this point, you're best to worry about your relationship with the Brits because after this little stunt you've pulled, you might find yourself writing to 'Queen E.’ in search of asylum."

  Ouch! Fighting words…

  My voice sags under the weight of my defeat. “I needed space, Grandmum. A little time to myself. With all the things that have happened over the past few years...”

  There's a heavy pause. It stretches on and on and I know that the Queen is softening on the other side of the Atlantic. She may be iron-fisted with Ridgeland's enemies and unwavering in her support of our allies but when it comes to her family, the most powerful woman in Ridgeland has a weak spot. I don't care if it makes me a bastard, I'm going to exploit it.

  She sighs. “Where on Earth are you, boy?”

  “I can’t tell you that. I’m sorry. I just…I need a little more time.”

  "Life doesn’t care if you’re ready, Xavier. This is bigger than your whims and your moods. An entire nation relies upon this family. Upon you. Their trust is a privilege we've been granted. One that's been passed down through the ages. This royalty business is not for the faint of heart. You don't take this responsibility seriously."

  Her frustration. Her disappointment. It gets to me.

  "Grandmum—"

  She cuts me off with a long bout of coughing. “My health isn't improving, chap. You have to be ready...” Her words sound ominious, too heavy.

  I joke to lighten the mood. "Well, my father is next in line to the Throne but if the worse should happen—god forbid—and I'm still not ready, there's always Lady Victoria..."

  Lady Victoria is my four-year-old sister, the daughter that my father spawned with Youthful Bride Number Three, the royal brat my step-mother faults with ruining her dance choreographer body.

  I nearly hear the Queen's eyes roll from all the way over here. "No offense but the child still shits her knickers. She's got a long way to go. At this point, she’s better suited to sitting on a potty than sitting on a throne."

  "Are you discriminating against nappy-wearing monarchs, Grandmum?"

  She snorts irreverently. "Oh, I might need some nappies of my own if you don't get your bottom back here and rid me of that Ethel woman. She's annoying as hell." I laugh and she coughs again. It’s a sound that rattles me to my bones. “I need to go rest," she says suddenly sounding very weary. "I have a few engagements this evening that we weren’t able to postpone.”

  We say our goodbyes and Grandmum hangs up.

  I’m left feeling the suffocating press of my birthright, the crown, the throne. I won’t be able to run from it forever.

  My grandmother is right. Being a royal is a privilege, an honor. An opportunity to shape the future of a nation. And someday soon, I’m going to need to man up to that responsibility.

  But as for today, my priorities include imbibing this bottle of cognac in its entirety.

  A few hours later, as I’m snuggled against the toilet with nausea roiling my belly and my cheek propped up on the seat, the only thought pulsing in my throbbing brain is, Ethel’s arse was here…Ethel’s wrinkly, nappy-wearing arse was here. Ugh.

  Grandmum is right. This royalty business is not for the faint of heart.

  Chapter Five

  Sadie

  I’m exhausted after a long day at the cupcake shop and all I want to do is crawl under my blankets with a box of donuts and watch cat videos on the internet until I pass out in a Boston cream coma.

  But my entire wardrobe has been sitting on the floor in the corner of my bedroom for days (weeks...?) now. I’ve been too busy with work to see about laundry and cleaning and all that other domestic stuff but it’s starting to backfire.

  Rule of thumb—when you find yourself rollerblading to
work in the heat of summer wearing a pair of pleather booty shorts paired with a long-sleeved flannel men’s pajama top whose legal owner you cannot accurately identify, then you might want to set aside some time to throw a load or two in the washing machine.

  In any case, this mountain of dirty laundry can’t be put off any longer.

  I dump all the clothes into my laundry basket and pop on my headphones, the scratchy sound of a Steven Tyler ballad keeping me company. I toss a few course manuals on top of the load, too. I may not be in school this semester but I won’t allow myself to fall behind. Being able to afford tuition is out of my control at this point, but making sure I keep up is not. Excuses won’t stand in my way.

  Propping the laundry basket on my hip, I lock my front door and trudge down the shaky staircase to the laundromat on the ground floor.

  As I step onto the gravelly sidewalk, my heart catches. My eyes lock on the tall muscular form exiting the fried chicken restaurant next to the laundromat. Man, he looks good. Thick, dark hair. Long, lean muscles. Even in a worn-out T-shirt, faded jeans and god-awful double-strap open-toe dad-sandals, Xavier has this air of confidence, importance about him. His presence is overwhelmingly commanding. I can't look away.

  I’m tempted to run, to duck back into my apartment but I won’t. I promised myself I’d stop acting weird around him. He’s just a guy. Guys don’t intimidate me.

  Usually.

  All I know is, now, I’m wishing I’d brushed my hair sometime in the past 48 hours or that I was wearing something other than my psychedelic tie-dye T-shirt and the pair of marijuana-print boxers Cobi left behind after his mom got mad at him for ordering them online. Jesus, I have redefined hot mess.

  At least the swelling around my eye has gone down and my hair color is starting to grow on me. So, I can be grateful for that.