The Proposal Problem: A Billionaire Royal Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  A flash of panic courses through me. Have these men been watching me? Were they able to uncover the specifics of Bredan’s schema for race day?

  The spied on me once, but is it ongoing? Did they watch me and Braden last night? Were they somehow about to see into the kitchen this morning—that warm intimate private scene of two people falling in love?

  Or are they bluffing? I felt the acid in my stomach begin to turn.

  As if on cue, the two agents move towards me. They’re larger than I remember—one of them smells like fried onions, one like gym socks and Listerine. I briefly reflect on the randomness of my thoughts at a time like this, but the mind is a strange thing.

  “Do you have his plans, Jenna?” Harrison asks her. His voice is low. His eyes are cold.

  I shake my head hard, twice.

  “That’s funny,” Sanchez says, “her nostrils just flared. It’s like she’s lying to us. You don’t think she’s lying to us, do you?”

  “No way,” Harrison says, his mouth twisting. “She’s too smart for that. You’re too smart to lie to the FBI, right?”

  “Okay,” I say, “fine, I have them. But—” I think quickly. “They’re not here.”

  They don’t say anything, but look at me doubtfully.

  “I swear,” I say. I can hear the desperation in my own voice. I look down, trying to buy some time to come up with a plausible lie.

  “Oh yeah?” one of the agents says. Harrison, perhaps? I don’t lift my head to see.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Yes. I have it in the safe in my team’s office. I didn’t want Braden to find them or anything to happen to them.”

  I lift my head to see how my words have landed. Sanchez and Harrison exchange a look. Sanchez glances over his shoulder at my front door. All at once it’s clear to me—they don’t have a warrant to search my home. They don’t have anything on me—or Braden, for that matter.

  Suddenly I wonder if there’s anything they can actually do if I don’t comply. Have they been playing me this whole time?

  I square my shoulders and lift my chin. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’d like to go into my home, and unless you can conjure a warrant from thin air, I’m going to ask you as politely as I can to leave my driveway and my property.”

  “Jenna.” Harrison grabs my wrist again. “We have a lot of information; we have a pretty solid case against him and against you. We’ve offered you immunity but it’s contingent on you being able to deliver useful information.”

  I pull my wrist back. “Honestly? I don’t think you have much, Agent Harrison. If you did, I’m positive you wouldn’t be stuck outside of my home—you’d be here with a team turning this whole place over. You either have nothing or close to nothing.” I can feel my hands shaking, whether with anger or fear I can’t say.

  “We’re coming to the race tonight,” he says, moving so close to my face our noses are nearly touching. “You will bring us Braden’s plans or we’re going to consider you an accomplice to whatever it is he has planned. Immunity will be off the table and you won’t be given an opportunity for a plea deal. I will personally make sure of that.”

  Neither of us say anything for a moment more.

  I take a breath and say: “I asked you, sirs, to leave my property.” I push through them, put my key in the lock and walk through the door.

  I slam it shut and lean my back against it for a second until my breathing settles down. Then I turn the dead bolt and secure the chain. My hands, I realize, are still shaking.

  “What am I going to?” I whisper, letting myself slide to the floor, hugging my knees to my chest. The peaceful calm of the morning is gone, replaced by fear for my team, my career, and for Braden.

  What the hell is he doing to us?

  Then, like a bolt, it comes to me: a clear plan.

  I know what to do, and if I can pull this off I might be able to save Braden, myself, and the future of both our teams.

  30

  Braden

  I really enjoy the anticipation of things. That’s why I’m usually as happy as you’ll ever find me when I’m getting close to the track, knowing that the unbeatable fucking feeling of sitting on top of an earthbound rocket, propelling myself past anyone who would even think about considering themselves my competition with ridiculous ease, is finally within my grasp.

  The only thing that comes close is knowing that I’m going to see Jenna soon.

  That’s a new one for me.

  That’s what makes this call even more maddening than I expected it to be. The track is getting closer, but I’m feeling none of the usual fire.

  I’m glad to have my sources inside the bureau, but this time the news is veering too damn far from what I wanted to hear.

  “When you say the word tonight, it sounds like a mistake,” I bark into the phone, “because then it would be pretty much underway already. How is that even possible?”

  “It’s the way things work sometimes…often.” The words coming through the other end sound smug and assured. “Everyone’s giving him shit. The agent, I mean. And that means he’s planning to make it all happen tonight—and I mean tonight, with nothing fucking figurative about it. I recognize the mode he’s in. It’s something every agent goes into sometimes. He’s hell bent on doing everything in his power to make this happen, including gathering what he needs. I’m as confident about that as anything.”

  “Right.” I hang up with that word.

  If I had to guess what things were really like inside an agency operating at the highest hierarchal levels, I sure as fuck wouldn’t guess in a million years that it was the same gossipy office politics and petty one-upmanship that’s rampant everywhere else.

  I don’t know why, though, because it makes perfect fucking sense.

  A few more minutes to the racetrack, and I’m hitting speeds that are usually transcendent for me. This isn’t feeling like the highlight of my day, or much else.

  The racing’s been going great for a while, but with Jenna in my life now, things that were once great are suddenly going amazing. I’m compelled to share everything with her.

  Now it looks like that’s going to cost me everything.

  This can’t be it, after what we’ve done, what we’ve been through, and all those things I’ve begun to feel. There’s never been anything like this, not for me.

  She can’t possibly be working to bring everything apart. I don’t want to fucking believe it.

  I keep thinking about how close I’m getting to the track, but it seems to be getting further. It’s like every block is getting longer, and it gets worse the more I accelerate.

  How could Jenna do this? How could she fucking do this?

  Charging like mad down the final stretch, I see the track, and it’s a relief that it’s finally getting closer. I go through that whiney-bitch sounding question one more time.

  How could Jenna do this?

  This is all psychological combat. I don’t know who’s sending out the signal, whether it’s originating with just the agent or there’s a larger scheme coming from the bureau, but these bastards figured out how to get to me.

  I don’t gently shift gears, I barely even steer, I just unthinkingly press down the brake and skid over to the curb.

  Now that I’ve probably figured it out, I need to give myself just a minute.

  I should absolutely be furious, and I am. I’m not somebody to play mind games with. However, I feel a massive relief, and I realize that I’m breathing easily for the first time in a few minutes.

  It’s not Jenna, after all. She’s not trying to steal my plans for herself. I knew it couldn’t be, was fucking sure of it, and that’s a sign of something. I’m not sure what that something is yet, but it feels great.

  What if it is, though?

  Fuck. There are those goddamn mind games again. I hate the invasiveness of it, and all over a fucking mod—a mod that no one has a good reason to concern themselves with.

  This whole thing is such a waste, and it’
s becoming so needlessly destructive, but my impulses take over again as I shift back into gear and start flying to the track. I feel the fire, the rapture of high speed, and the anticipation of things soon to come on all levels.

  The streets look abandoned, and everything is rushing by like magic.

  I was just thinking about how the worst part of all this is not knowing what’s going to happen next, but as I transition into a higher gear, barely even processing the blur in front of me, I realize the best part of all this is not knowing what comes next.

  The faster the race car goes, the more control you give it. Your reaction times and manoeuvres begin to lose meaning, but when you get as good as I am, you can learn to harness the wild speed—to channel the untamed power and make it yours.

  That’s when you can start embracing what comes next, whether you can predict it or not. It’s all part of the awesome, wild storm, and you’ve learned not to lose yourself in it no matter what.

  I’ve learned that. At least I hope I have, because if this G-Man has something to prove to his buddies, I better know not just how to ride but also how to control the shitstorm that’s brewing at this very moment.

  I won’t see anything there, though. This is a wild-goose chase, but that’s the best kind of chase for the absurd bullshit of this situation.

  Things are getting dark, in a real sense, when I start powering around the perimeter of the track. There’s no one else here except for maybe one or two drivers. I’m not noticing much; these mental tricks are still playing with me in surges, coming and going.

  I just hope I’m doing it to myself. Like the way I’m racing right now, feeling the raw energy of my vehicle but staying on top of it.

  Okay, who the fuck are they, anyway?

  This is the second time I’ve seen those two shadowy figures, those blurry shapes that I’m rapidly approaching. Whatever the fuck they’re doing, it doesn’t seem like a natural part of the racetrack life that I know every particle of by now.

  One figure is handing a document—a whole folder, in fact—to another. I really wish I didn’t know who both of them are, but I won’t be able to deny it for much longer.

  I’m stopping way too quickly again, the word downshift disappearing from my vocabulary. I’m braking hard, sliding, almost losing control.

  Of course, I don’t fucking lose control. Ever.

  I come to a beautifully askew stop just a few feet away from Jenna. No, that’s not...yes, there’s no doubt that’s her.

  What the actual fuck?

  Jenna’s right there. I know now that my worst fears are about to be confirmed. I can’t delude myself into thinking there’s anything else she’s doing here.

  She’s talking to another man, and she doesn’t look happy to be doing it.

  She doesn’t look reluctant either. It’s a weird look, because I pulled up so fast it’s like I’m studying a still frame. Despite the world-shuddering I must’ve caused pulling up, along with the odor of burning rubber and the vision of my racer drawing closer at an alarming trajectory, the recognition that I’m here is somehow only now dawning on her face.

  Some fucking federal agent, too, who’s also just now turning around. What the fuck did they think was happening? Jenna should’ve spotted me sooner, but this must be challenging for her.

  This job she’s doing.

  This betrayal.

  It’s no joke; he’s making it happen, like he said. But that’s not even in the running to be my top concern right now.

  One thing I can gather from this sloppy farce I’ve driven in on is that my Fed friend here is rushing things. If he let this bullshit play out more naturally, they might have had my ass reeled in more securely.

  They. I cannot fucking believe it. I grind my teeth so hard I hear my jaw creak.

  The still frame of Jenna’s reaction is morphing into slow motion, especially since Mr. fucking Federale is just now turning around to face me. Good going, dipshit.

  Here comes the wild storm. It’s not coming from an engine this time, but it feels as overwhelming as ever, with an untameable intensity.

  How could Jenna do this?

  That dumb question again—all part of the mental warfare from this weasel who’s daring to try and face me directly right now.

  I’m ahead of the wild storm, as usual, channelling it as a sturdy fist right to the G-Man’s jaw. I can hear the transferred energy in the forceful popping sound that echoes across the empty track.

  Like I said, some federal agent, crumpling to the ground in pain. Whether or not he ever trained to be prepared for that, he certainly wasn’t ready.

  Jenna’s not ready either. Nothing’s playing in slow motion anymore. I’m watching her shock register at regular speed.

  There’s no more wild storm, just disappointment. With the brief look I give Jenna, I make sure she sees it.

  The disbelief on Jenna’s face is slowly changing as she tries to think of something to say. She doesn’t even notice that I snatched the folder right out of her hand until it’s safely in mine.

  I have to move past this as quickly as possible, though. I’m back on the right and flying away through the streets before Jenna has any chance to react.

  Speeding away from the ache in my chest as if I’m in the most significant race of my life.

  But this is one race I don’t think I’ll be able to win.

  31

  Jenna

  The only other times I’ve felt like I do right now is when I’ve just been in a car accident. I mean, right after that moment of impact, after feeling a two-ton, swiftly moving metal machine come to an abrupt halt, slamming every bit of its kinetic energy into the rear of your own vehicle, which is innocently waiting at a red light.

  During those moments, there’s a brief little ripple of denial, at least for me.

  That didn’t just happen. No way. It was nothing. I can just keep driving like normal.

  That’s the way I feel about seeing Braden tear into my meeting with Harrison like the proverbial bat out of hell.

  That’s an expression I now understand all too well.

  That kind of ferociousness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, from Braden or anyone. It’s as unreal as a sudden accident, except this is no accident.

  Although Braden’s long gone now, I’m starting to register it as reality. Harrison recovering from Braden’s blow to the face is driving it home.

  This isn’t happenstance; this is a huge fucking complication that I need to adjust to, somehow, although with the other complication of Harrison stalking toward me and looking pissed, I don’t know if that’s possible.

  “This is what’s going to happen,” he begins, and I immediately go wide-eyed, trying to convey that I have no clue what’s going on.

  I watch Harrison, waiting to hear what he’ll say next, but there are no more words. I’m face down on the ground, feeling Harrison’s grip on my arms and the cold sting of metal around my wrists. I yell wordlessly in protest, but it’s over before I grasp everything that’s happening.

  I hear Harrison stand up, and I climb up unsteadily, using my legs until I’m standing as well.

  My hands are cuffed tightly behind my back, and I’m trying to push away another bout of denial about this mess.

  I don’t have time for that before Harrison shoves me hard with both hands.

  I twist to my right side while plummeting back to the ground. I don’t have the option of using a hand to break my fall and though I instinctually fall on my right shoulder, I don’t know if those instincts are right.

  My shoulder slams against the paved roadway, and pain radiates through me from the point of impact. My right arm takes some of the brunt of the fall, which is probably the only reason I don’t seem to have any major injuries as I squirm on the ground and try to stand up again.

  I roll over onto my right side, and I hear Harrison’s car start, followed immediately by the sound of him burning rubber after Braden.

  There are a few more
complications now, to say the least.

  I sit up readily as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits. I need to get to my car. Now.

  I try to get back upright, only to find a fresh tremor of sharp pain from my right arm. I close my eyes and will myself back on my feet with random bursts of agony that are thankfully getting duller as they go on.

  Feeling dizzy, with a throbbing ache still going through my shoulder, I half stagger, half gallop around, almost blindly, until I magnetically end up outside the driver’s side of my car.

  I shut my eyes, cursing my past self for closing the door. I revolve myself around so that my left hand is lined up with the handle, and I’m able to get enough grip to lift the handle and get the door open a couple inches.

  I walk backward gingerly and pry open the door with my left foot, leaning against the car for balance.

  My keys are still in the ignition. At least they’re not in one of my front pockets.

  I try sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward. Fuck. If I can’t even turn the key, I probably won’t be able to steer.

  I turn my right side toward the keys helplessly, feeling the fading bursts of pain from my shoulder. I don’t even get close to turning the key that way.

  I kick the floor mat in frustration, and I’d love to do that a few more times while yelling at the futility of trying to catch up with Braden and Harrison, but there’s no time.

  I twist over onto my right side, trying to turn around in the seat, but it still hurts just a little too fucking much for that. I sit forward again, let out a sigh, give the floor mat a huge kick, and with a yell, I start twisting again, turning counter clockwise onto my left side.

  I start grunting with every movement as it gets more and more uncomfortable. I try to keep my legs and feet from hitting the steering wheel and everything else.

  I’m not as graceful as I could be.

  Once I’m facing backward in the seat, I’m able to reach the door handle to try and pull it closed.