by Lexi Whitlow
“Hum,” he says, lifting a finger, tracing the round of my shoulder. “You first.”
I’m thinking so many things. “I’m thinking this could get complicated,” I admit. “I’m afraid of that.”
“Don’t be,” Owen whispers. “It doesn’t need to be complicated. It is what it is. When it doesn’t work for you, then you get to uncomplicate it.”
That sounds so simple. It probably is for him. Just “extracurricular fun” outside the terms of our contract. He’s paying me for the pretense of a relationship, not an actual relationship. Simple. So simple it makes my heart ache.
“Norah?” Owen asks.
“Yes?”
“Do you know how to cook?”
What an odd question. I lift up, propping on my elbow so I can look at him. He’s sleepy, starting to drift.
He opens his eyes, just tired slits, smiling up at me. “That morning in Paris, when I had to go, I was hoping you’d cook me breakfast. I wanted to stay and spend the day with you. That’s what I’d planned. I’m sorry it didn’t happen that way.”
He’s delirious from exhaustion. He’s babbling. He’s also incredibly sweet.
“Yeah,” I say, “I know how to cook.”
It took some doing, but I’ve managed to wrangle my way into the palace kitchen and bully the head cook into letting me make Owen’s breakfast. The cook is aghast that I’ve turned up with Sally, my maid, running interference for me.
“It’s quite a romantic thing,” Sally says to the cook as I’m scouring various walk-ins and pantries for eggs, bacon, and pancake mix.
“You don’t have any grits, do you?” I call out to the cook, who’s shouting something incomprehensible in French at Sally. She’s blocking his way, keeping him from throwing me out of his private dominion.
I establish that there are no grits in the palace, settling instead for fried, hash-browned potatoes. I merrily begin to whip up a South Carolina style breakfast fit for a king while the cook stalks, swears, and threatens, not understanding a word Sally tells him—until she points out my ring. When he sees that, he takes a step back, takes off his chef’s hat, and quietly backs out of the room.
Sally makes coffee while I get everything set up on a nifty rolling cart to deliver upstairs. “I’ll take it from here,” she says, smiling. “I’ll have everything upstairs in just a few minutes.”
When I get back to my apartment, Owen is still snoozing to beat the band. He’s adorable, all tousled hair and easy-breathing, tangled up in the sheets like a little kid. I slip back in bed with him, sidling up against him, hoping I don’t wake him just yet. I want breakfast here first, filling the room with the scents of fresh bacon and sweet pancakes before he opens his eyes.
That hope is instantly dashed when my phone, plugged up on the nightstand beside Owen, starts ringing. He stirs, a frown scouring his handsome brow.
I scramble, reaching across him, stretching to grab the phone and silence it.
“Hummm,” Owen mumbles, waking up, catching me mid-reach. His hands circle my hips. He hefts me onto him, my thighs straddling his hips.
I grab my phone and swipe to send the call to voicemail, noting with no small amount of irritation that the call is from Eric.
“Good morning, Duchess,” Owen purrs at me, smiling sleepily, looking me over, hands strong on my thighs. “How come you’re dressed? How come you’re not naked?”
I feel a stiffness rise, pressing the fabric between my legs.
“Somebody’s happy to see me,” I say, leaning down to kiss him, nipping his bottom lip. “Sorry that woke you. I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer.”
“Why?” he asks, licking his lips.
“Breakfast,” I say proudly. “I made you breakfast. Sally’s bringing it up now.”
Owen wakes up with this. He sits up, propping on an elbow to face me. “You made breakfast?” he asks. “How?”
“I bamboozled my way into the kitchen and frightened the head cook off. Sally helped.”
He’s astonished. “I don’t even know where the kitchen is,” he confesses. “You really did that?”
I nod, almost giddy that he’s impressed. A moment later, Sally shows up with the evidence of my bravery and determination.
Twenty minutes later, Owen is busy slurping down pancakes, dipping forkfuls in runny egg yolk smeared across his plate. “This is excellent,” he mumbles, wolfing down a mouthful of greasy bacon. “We should have a kitchen put in our apartment so you don’t have to fight the cook. I could get used to this.”
I laugh, then pause, realizing he said “our apartment,” as if this thing we’re doing is real and not just an arrangement of convenience. A kitchen in “our apartment” signifies private time, shared meals, genuine conversation, and time spent together out of preference, not obligation.
Or maybe he just really likes my pancakes.
“Who was on the phone before?” Owen asks, looking up from his cleaned plate. “I meant to ask earlier, but I got so distracted by all this I completely forgot.”
I shake my head dismissively. “Only Eric,” I say. “Not important.”
“Who’s Eric?” Owen asks, setting down his coffee cup.
“You remember,” I say. “The guy in the art gallery in Paris who dissed you? The blond with a shitty attitude?”
Owen nods slowly, the recollection returning to him. “I do remember,” he says. “Why is he calling you?”
I shrug. “Probably because he’s heard I’m engaged to the future king of Anglesey, and he’s calling to offer congratulations.” That’s wishful thinking, but I can hope. He’s probably calling to cry about his shattered dreams for us and beg my forgiveness for stealing my money and threatening me.
“Were you two together?” Owen asks, that furrow returning to his brow. “I remember he gave me a look that night like I had just stolen his ice cream.”
“Never together,” I say. “Eric’s just a friend.”
Owen punches the inside of his cheek with his tongue, the furrow softening just a little. “Well, he wanted to be more,” he says, a tinge of jealousy weighing his tone. “If you call him back, keep that in mind. Trust me—I know.”
I don’t doubt him. “I don’t have much reason to call him back,” I say. “The last time we spoke, it ended badly. I’d rather leave it at that.”
Owen nods, lifting his cup again, smiling at me. “Good. I like that better,” he says. “And another thing: your apartment in Paris. You had some photos on the walls. You’re a photographer. Where’s all your stuff?”
“It’s all in storage back in Paris,” I say. “I was planning an extended vacation, not a fake royal wedding. I haven’t really had time to deal with it. Plus there’s nowhere to put most of my things. My apartment here is furnished to the nines.”
Owen smiles at me again. “Your apartment is yours to decorate—or not—however you like. It’s not a museum. Anything you want to get rid of, call housekeeping and tell them to come get it. I’ll arrange for your things to be brought from Paris. I’ll also arrange for a decorator to meet with you and help you with any renovations you’d like done.”
“Renovations?” I ask. “Like what?”
“Well for starters, like a kitchen for us. You think on it. Anything you want is fine.”
Anything? “Can I have… a library?”
Owen cocks his head to the side in question. “A library?” he asks. “We have a library.”
“You have a library,” I correct him. “I have my own books. A lot of them. If I can have a library, I can get my books from home in Charleston. I miss them something awful.”
He nods. “Duchess, you can have anything you want.”
He could get used to my pancakes, and I could easily get used to everything else that comes with this life.
10
Owen
You’re an asshole,” Norah spits out, glaring at me over the screen of her laptop. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”
What did I do
? This morning I was Prince Charming, making her laugh with my witty remarks while making her come for the third time.
She swings the laptop around to face me. It’s the main page of Today’s Mail, that rabid tabloid royals love to hate. They’ve run with the photo from the garden, and it’s salacious, a perfect night-vision shot: high detail of me and Norah doing what looks like “the nasty,” with her skirts hiked up and me wrapped up in them, my hands nowhere to be seen, my head buried in her tits. Norah’s wearing an expression of ecstatic bliss, looking like she’s about to melt.
“Yeah, about that,” I say. “I should have…”
“You should have told me we were being photographed? You should have told me you set it all up?!”
She’s angry. Understandably so.
“I didn’t think…”
“You didn’t think!” she snaps. “You thought it out well enough in advance to plot the place, time, and moves. What the hell?”
“I had a good reason. If you’ll just manage your moral outrage for a second, I’ll tell you.”
“This should be rich,” she spits. “I can’t wait.”
“The maids were talking,” I say. “They were surprised we weren’t sleeping together. There was gossip. Duncan caught wind of it, brought it to my attention. I just set that up to squash any rumors that might have gotten started about us not being… real.”
“And so finger-fucking me in public in front of cameras—that seemed like the appropriate response?”
“I didn’t expect it to go that far,” I admit. I sit back in my chair, heaving a sigh. “I kept expecting you to back off or shut me down, but you didn’t.”
“You’re an asshole,” she repeats. “An unmitigated, royal asshole.” She slams her laptop shut, gets up from the table. She turns her back and storms out of my library, leaving me to consider my options.
“Don’t forget our appointment at three!” I call after her. The palace portrait photographer is coming to take our official engagement pictures this afternoon. It’s a pain in the ass and an epic waste of time, but it’s got to be done.
“Lift your chin up to the left just an inch,” the photographer says to Norah. “That’s it. So beautiful. Hold, and…”
The flash goes off in our eyes for what seems the billionth time. All I can see are stars and weird-colored orbs floating in the room.
Norah’s still upset. She won’t talk to me except to bite. I’m back to being “Prince Conniving,” and she doesn’t mean it in a teasing way. As beautiful and cute as she is when she’s seething, I like it better when we’re friends. We were doing so well. A return to the cold-shoulder and being kept at arm’s-length makes me sad.
And I get it. I wasn’t thinking. Or I was. I was thinking of myself and all the things people are saying about me. I put her reputation at risk, and there’s evidence in every single newspaper in this godforsaken country.
“I think that’s enough,” the photographer says, bowing to us. “Thank you very much for your patience.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Can you give us a few minutes alone?”
“Certainly, sir,” he replies, making himself scarce.
Norah stands up, turns toward me, slips the sapphire off her finger and hands it to me. “You keep that,” she says, ice in her tone. “Trot it out as needed for photos and public appearances. We have an arrangement, but it doesn’t say I should be responsible for a rock like that. I put the necklace and bracelet in the box in your bedroom where you keep your cufflinks and watches.”
“Norah…”
She shakes her head at me. “No—I get it: you need me to be convincing. I’ll smile and play along. This is a business deal, nothing more and nothing less. But from here on out, you keep me informed. I don’t know what I was thinking. Once all this settles down, you and I can go back to leading our old lives. You can go screw strangers in the park since that seems to be your thing, and I can go back to working on my career after popping out a royal kid or two—as per section three, items one and two of the contract.”
“Norah, stop,” I insist. “I’m sorry. I should have been explicit about what was happening. I assumed too much.”
“Apology accepted,” she says. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”
“Please take the ring back,” I say.
She shakes her head, dismissing the idea. “You know, one day you might actually find someone you really want to wear that ring. And it would be a shame if that girl thought it was a sloppy second. This way you can tell her the truth.”
“Norah, you’re the girl I really want to wear this ring,” I say, telling her what I should have said weeks ago. “I don’t want some other girl.”
She glares at me, incredulous.
“This started out fake. It’s not fake anymore. I think that’s why you’re so angry, too: because you care about me, and you feel betrayed, and that’s an awful feeling. I’d do everything differently if I could.”
“You’re delusional,” she says. “Maybe what your brother has is catching.”
“I’m not delusional. I’m smitten with you, and that doesn’t happen to me. I’ve always been a one-and-done sort of asshole. You’re different.”
She rolls her eyes. “One-and-done assholes shouldn’t be kings of places that insist on wives and offspring. It’s a bad combination.”
I nod, smiling. “That’s so true,” I say. “Which is why I’m so glad I’m fake-marrying you and not someone else who I’d get sick of. Who would annoy me. Who isn’t the most captivating, mercurial, stunningly beautiful woman I’ve ever met in my life, who makes the most amazing pancakes.”
“Oh good Lord, Owen,” she sighs. “Give me the damn ring back and stop groveling. It doesn’t become you.”
I’ve got one shot at getting it right. I need to not fuck this up. I drop to a knee in front of her, holding the ring in my hand. “Norah Ballantyne, I can’t imagine not having you as my best friend, and my foil, and my wife. Will you marry me? For real?”
She reaches down and plucks the ring from my hand. “I’m not letting you out of the contract,” she says. “I have a feeling that being really married to you, I’m going to earn every penny and then some.”
“Is that a yes?” I ask hopefully.
She nods. “Get up, Prince Charming. If anyone sees you like that, they’ll start asking questions, and you’ll have to contrive some new line of subterfuge to throw them off the scent.”
I stand up. “Are we friends again?”
“We’re fake friends,” she says. “I’ll act like your friend as long as you act like a decent human being.”
Fair enough. It’s a starting point. I reach forward, taking her hand in mine, pulling her close. “Fake kiss me so I know we’re alright.”
“Don’t press your luck, Prince,” she quips, smiling. “I’m still carrying around about six gallons of fake moral outrage. I need to let it soak before I’m up for fake smooching.”
“Can I at least fake hold your hand and fake walk you home?”
“I guess that would be alright, since home is just down the hall.” She leans down, slipping her heels off, then hands them to me. “Make yourself useful,” she says. “Carry those.”
We’re both dressed in semi-formal wear for the portraits. She’s lovely in a sunny yellow skirt that brings out the golden highlights in her hair. She’s beautiful no matter what she wears.
“I can’t wait to take that dress off you, Duchess,” I tease, leading her toward the corridor, away from the cameras and lights. “And after that, let’s talk about taking a short holiday somewhere you’ve never been before. Just the two of us.”
“Sounds like fun,” Norah says, feigning disinterest. “Just you and me, six guys from the royal guard, plus Duncan, and a thousand paparazzi from all over the world.”
She has a point.
Back in our apartments, she goes her way to change clothes, leaving me to go my way. I’m pulling my tie and shedding my shiny shoes when I h
ear Norah’s phone ringing in the library. She must have left it there this morning. I lift it just before it rolls to voicemail, seeing the caller is “Eric.” She’s even got a photo of him that pops up along with his name and number when he calls.
Why is this guy calling her?
Just then a text notification appears. I click it. It reads:
You really should have taken my calls. Now I’m pissed. And I’m in London. I will see you tomorrow, one way or another. Don’t ignore me. We have too much history.
What the hell? He’s coming here? Who the hell this guy?
11
Norah
Explain it to me like I’m a six-year-old,” Owen says. “From the top.”
I sigh again, frustrated that Owen is taking this so weirdly. “We’ve known one another since we were kids. Our parents are dear friends. We went to the same school from kindergarten through graduation,” I say. “It’s not any more complicated than that. We went to the same summer camp. When he couldn’t get a date for the prom, I went with him. We’ve been friends since forever, and we dated—briefly. He’s the ex I told you about the night we met.”
“And he loaned you money?” Owen asks. “How much money?”
This is where it gets difficult. I haven’t told Owen about Eric cleaning out my account and closing the credit card. It all happened to coincide with us reconnecting. I just sort of let it all go, figuring that Eric would go away.
“He didn’t loan me money, exactly,” I say. “He arranged for me to get a credit card, issued from his firm, after mine were cancelled when Barney Mackoff swindled my parents. I was stuck in Europe without a card or access to my bank accounts back home. Eric helped me. But when I got to Anglesey and spent money on clothes, he got angry.”
“You spent your money,” Owen says. “Not his money.”
