“Nothing I can think of.” I shake my head with confidence, my mind flashing to me screaming strings of curse words as I drop from my helicopter. Oh, and screaming in ecstasy as well. So, generally lots of rather undignified screaming. “Really all pretty routine, I’d say, as far as jungle adventures go.”
Malika is giving me a hard look through the screen and based on the way her mouth is set tight, I’m pretty sure she’s already seen that footage of me shoving the showrunner, Dylan Sinclair, in the face and knocking her onto her arse in the mud as we crossed the finish line. I’m sure that little moment played on the news every hour for at least a week straight.
I clear my throat, a little too hot under my Smythe Duchess wool blazer. “It’s not a reality show, per se. It’s more of a nature documentary/adventure survivalist show. We were able to showcase some of the Congo’s vulnerable species such as the bonobos and… river otters.” They’re not vulnerable at all, to be honest. Turns out river otters are quite a rapey bunch, but I couldn’t come up with another example.
Hmph. She doesn’t look convinced. “Yes, but it would seem as though the network is billing it more on the tabloid television-side of things.”
I chuckle as though that’s the craziest thing I’ve heard, even though there is a very good chance that’s exactly what they’ve turned it into. “Oh my, no. Mr. Banks and I were utter professionals the entire time. If anything, I hope my performance in the jungle will be inspirational to women everywhere who believe themselves to be too weak to accomplish difficult, gritty tasks. Especially the last twenty-four hours where I had to overcome not only my fears, but was forced to stretch my physical capabilities to their limits in order to bring Mr. Banks to safety.” Ooh! That sounds good. I’ll have to remember that line for the press junket.
Malika stares at me for a moment, tapping her fingers on the table. “So, no reason for us to hold off on announcing you until after the show airs?”
I should just tell her the truth, which is that I’m really quite wild now and have no idea how bad they’re going to make me look. None whatsoever. But I really don’t want to lose this opportunity. It’s literally the most important thing I’ll ever do in my life. Smiling sweetly, I say, “None that I can think of.”
“Well, excellent. Now that that’s sorted, let’s get down to business. You’ll find being a UN ambassador is likely going to be one of the greatest joys of your life. It’s vital work and also will afford you opportunities to travel to places you otherwise may not have seen and meet groups of women who are incredibly inspirational. We work at a fast pace and although it’s a significant time commitment, I don’t believe you’ll find it overwhelming, given your usual schedule. We’ll be holding a small conference in two weeks’ time in Vienna. From the twenty-fifth to the twenty-ninth. Do you think you can make it?”
Oh, yes! That sounds very important, doesn’t it? Attending a UN Conference. I do my best not to look too thrilled. “I may have to move a few things around, but I’ll be there.”
The meeting goes on for another forty minutes. The entire time I oscillate between trying to focus on what she’s saying (and staying awake so as not to insult her) and wishing we weren’t on a video call so I could rest my eyes, just for a few quick seconds. It would feel so… floaty. Floating on a fluffy cloud in the warmth of the sun…
“Your Highness?! Are you asleep?”
I sit up straight in my chair, my eyes flying open. “No. Totally awake. I was … I’ve got something in my right eye, like a bit of dust. I was… trying to blink it out.”
“And the snoring sound?” she asks, glaring at me.
“Allergies.”
Shit.
3
Life with Chicken Little
Will
“Dwight, old buddy. How’s the world’s greatest agent?” I’m standing in front of the brick townhouse belonging to my extremely anxious manager, Dwight Anderson. His front garden is as neat as a pin, with not even one errant leaf on the perfectly trimmed grass. It’s a chilly autumn morning with crisp air telling me to get back on a plane and go straight home to the Caribbean.
“Not so good, Will. Not good at all. Where are you? I need to see you as soon as possible.”
“How about thirty seconds from now? Or however long it takes you to open your front door…”
“What?”
“I came straight from the airport.” Well, that’s not exactly true because I did stop at my cameraman Tosh’s place first, to see if I could stay with him, but it turns out he and my sound guy, Mac, are in Guadalajara right now filming Death in Paradise. Since they’ll be gone for months, he sublet his apartment, and Mac gave up his completely, which brings me here. “I stopped at Starbucks and got your favourite matcha green tea latte. You should let me in before it gets cold.”
“All right, what’s going on?” Dwight asks, his alarmist tendencies on high alert.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine. I have a small favour to ask. Well, maybe not a favour so much as a win-win situation. I’d like to offer you the rare opportunity to know where I am at all times over the next few weeks.”
Doesn’t that sound better than saying I’m desperately seeking somewhere to crash? There’s no way in hell he is going to want me to stay with him, by the way. This is also the last place I want to be, to be honest. I once rode in his car and wasn’t allowed to get in until he fitted some plastic down on the seat and I put little booties on over my shoes.
He opens the door and pockets his mobile phone. He’s already dressed in his suit, clearly ready to head out to work (which is perfect because I need a good nap). Crossing his arms, he says, “You figured you’d be staying at the palace and only just found out she’s not allowed overnight guests, didn’t you?”
“Yup.”
“And you’ve already been to Tosh and Mac’s only to discover they’re away.”
“Yes, but only because they both live closer to the airport,” I say, giving him a bright smile while gently tilting his latte side-to-side in what I hope will be a very enticing way.
Scowling, he says, “I’m not big on houseguests.”
“I figured as much based on that time I rode in your car. But I promise I’ll be a very neat and tidy guest. You’ll hardly notice I’m here.”
He sighs and steps aside to let me in.
Yes!
Or no.
Because that’s the word I’ve heard most in the last ten minutes, as in, “No leaving your clothes on the floor, no lying all over the top of the bedspread. Just get into bed when the time comes and make it as soon as you get up. No sleeping in the nude unless you want to replace the sheets.”
“Okaaay,” I say, peeking my head into the stark spare bedroom which has only a bed with all-white bedding, and a single nightstand (white, obviously) with a small old-fashioned alarm clock ticking away on top of it.
“No eating unless you’re in the kitchen—and I mean it. Not in the living room, not the bathroom—”
“Gross. Why would I eat in the bathroom?”
“Why would you have that disgusting beard?”
“Arabella likes it.”
“That’s because she’s probably not educated on what lives in beards. Now, can we continue? Because we’re only a third of the way through my house rules and I really must get to the office.”
“Sorry, go on.”
“No eating in the bedroom.”
“Obviously.”
We walk down the hall, and he points to his bedroom. “Off limits.”
“Why? Is that where you keep the bodies?”
“You’re welcome to stay somewhere else, you know,” he says, turning around and taking me back to the living room/kitchen combination where the waft of bleach hits my nostrils again. “No answering the phone, especially if my mother calls.”
“Are you avoiding her?”
“No, but I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m gay, and having a man living here would only confirm her suspicions.”
> “Really?”
“She grew up in a small village. The only tidy man she knew was also the only gay man in town.”
“Does it really matter if she thinks you’re gay?” I ask.
“Yes, because she keeps trying to set me up with other men which is not only awkward, it’s unfair to them when they find out the truth.”
“I see. So, no answering the phone and pretending we’re snuggled up having a lazy Sunday lie-in.”
Dwight gives me a deadpan expression. “There are plenty of Airbnbs in town.”
“I was only trying to lighten the mood. I promise I won’t answer the phone.”
“Excellent.” He sets to work checking his fanny pack for his essentials—keys, hand sanitizer, wipes, and Tums (which, if I had to guess, I’d say he keeps an entire closet-full in his bedroom). He pauses for a moment. “Why do you want to stay here, anyway? Surely, you can afford a hotel room.”
“I’m saving up for a ring,” I say, feeling slightly sheepish admitting it out loud.
He looks up at me with a small grin. “So, she’s the one then? The woman who beat you into submission?”
“No, she’s the woman who opened my eyes to love.”
“Same thing.”
“Some day you’ll understand,” I say, giving him a purposefully condescending look.
He busies himself clipping on his fanny pack and pulling on his suit jacket. “Now, I must run. You look like shit, so get some sleep. The press junket starts Thursday, so you’ll need to be camera-ready by then.” He gestures to my chin. “Best go to a barber to get that mess off your face. I don’t want any beard shavings in my drain. You’re obviously overdue for a haircut as well.”
I give him a wide grin. “Yes, well, I ran out of time when I was off sailing the South Pacific and having an unbelievable amount of sex, so…”
Dwight rolls his eyes. “When you’re out shopping for a ring, go buy a few new suits. You’ll need to be well-dressed for your television appearances.”
“Righto. Excellent point.”
He purses his lips for a second. “You’re also going to want to watch the promos for the show. It’s got a very different… feel to it than the previous seasons.” He walks over to the front door and puts his hand on the knob. “I’ll be sending you a list of questions to help you get prepared for the interviews. We can go over them tonight when I get back.”
“I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first rodeo.”
“It’s your first one with the entire kingdom watching and wondering exactly what kind of man is trying to join the royal family.”
Urgh. That made my balls shrink up to the size of macadamia nuts. Too much info? Probably. Sorry about that. “You’ve forgotten I’ve handled much scarier situations—with ease, I might add.”
“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here. Your entire career is on the line, obviously. But it’s so much more than that because your future wife’s reputation could also suffer irreparable harm, depending on what happened out there and what ABN decides to show.”
Now, they’re the size of raisins. My apologies. I can’t seem to stop talking about my balls. “Well, on that note, I think I’ll curl up in the fetal position until you get home.”
“Just don’t do it on the rug. I don’t want the oils from your skin getting into the fibers.”
“Now all I want to do is lie around naked on your rug.” I hold up one hand and add, “Obviously I’m kidding. What do you want for supper tonight, sweetie? Should I call your mum and find out what your favourite dishes are?”
Narrowing his eyes, he says, “No cooking. In fact, I’d prefer it if you went out to eat when I’m not here.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I mutter. Then raising my voice, I say, “Dwight, thank you. I really appreciate you letting me stay here. If I can ever repay you, just ask.”
“Oh, you’re going to repay me all right,” he says, opening the door. “I’ll give you a bill at the end of each week to offset the extra water, power, and food you consume.”
Welcome home…
4
Pajamas, Portion Control, and Having it All…
Arabella
“Welcome to margaritas and man-bash Monday,” I say as I step aside to let Tessa (the world’s greatest sister-in-law) and Nikki (her bestie and now one of mine) into my apartment. Tessa has her blonde hair up in a ponytail and she’s dressed in her Sponge Bob pyjamas, while Nikki, who is a hairdresser (sporting bright pink-to-purple ombre locks today) is in Juicy sweats and a tee. They walk in, and as I’m closing the door, I realize Bellford, my faithful bodyguard, heard me. I poke my head out into the hall and say, “Not you, obviously.”
“Of course, Your Highness,” he replies with a slight nod. Bellford is the best. He’s been my bodyguard since I was a teenager. He’s like a calming presence in my life and always allows me just enough space to give me the illusion of being independent whilst keeping me completely safe.
I shut the door and turn. “Let the games begin!”
“Yes, let’s! Four months without man-bash Mondays is way too long,” Nikki says, setting down two large paper bags on the dining table.
“Did you get me the kung pao chicken with the sauce on the side?” Tessa asks as she unpacks our dinner.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Nikki says, bowing at the waist.
I gasp, then realize Nikki’s trying to wind us up by calling Tessa by a title reserved solely for the ruling monarch.
“Oh, good. You remembered the steamed rice.” Tessa has been trying to lose the last twenty pounds of baby weight for over two years without much success. Poor thing can never quite be as glam as Impossibly Perfect Kate (as we call her), which really bothers her. Tessa’s only got one manny (who works days) and twins, neither of whom are what you’d call ‘good sleepers,’ meaning she’s up with one or the other every night only to wake early to a full itinerary. As she’s explained to me several times, this causes her to have uncontrollable sugar cravings due to reduced serotonin. She also has a serious addiction to crisps and freshly baked scones (which are basically unavoidable when you live in a palace), but we don’t talk about that.
The three of us start lifting lids off the containers and plating the food, Tessa careful to only take the steamed vegetables and the plain chicken and broccoli with a tiny dollop of sauce on the side. When we’re done, Nikki shakes her head at Tessa’s plate. “What a sad little dinner.”
“Agreed,” Tessa says, staring longingly at Nikki’s heap of saucy colourful goodness. “But it’s T-minus one-month until we go to England where I’ll be forced into another official couples photo with Princess Perfect and two sexy crown princes.”
I’m about to pour her a margarita, but she covers the glass with her hand. “None for me, thanks. This is a DEFCON 1 situation here. Xavier’s got me down to 1200 calories a day, and I already went over at lunch when Flora didn’t finish her alphabet pasta. Did you know there are over a hundred calories in only three tablespoons of that stuff?”
“I can’t say I did.” I walk over to the liquor cart and lift a bottle of Skinny Bitch Vodka, holding it up to Tessa. “Sixty calories okay?”
“Dear God, yes, but promise to stop me at one,” Tessa says. Scraping two spoonfuls of steamed rice back into the container, she says, “Maybe two.”
She means four.
When I return to the table, I set her drink down in front of her and take a seat. I’m about to take a bite when Nikki says, “So, tell us everything. How was sailing around the South Pacific with Will Banks, the hottie hot hot adventure man? How’s the sex? Fantastic, right? I bet he’s amazing, what with all those climbing and agility skills he’s got going on.”
I grin, my cheeks heating up as I nod. “It was wonderful. The water was just so blue and warm. I’ve never been as relaxed in my entire life.”
Nikki and Tessa both give me the ‘quit holding out on us’ look.
“And he’s incredible in bed.”
“I knew it,” Nikki says, rolling her eyes. “He’s probably quite acrobatic, like those Ukrainian dancer men.”
“Oooh, yes!” Tessa says. “I’d never have thought of that, but with all that crouching and kicking, I imagine that does translate quite well in the bedroom.”
I grin at them. “Based on my… ahem… research, I can safely say physical prowess is rather helpful when it comes to more… intimate pursuits.”
“Lucky bitch,” Nikki says, shaking her head. “Both of you, really. It’s a wonder I love you bitches as much as I do.”
“It’s because we’re rather loveable,” I say with a wry grin.
“True,” Tessa adds, nodding at me. “We’re absolutely delightful.”
“That’s because you royals have all the fun,” Nikki says, wiping bright-red sauce off her bottom lip. “You two seriously need to find me my own prince already. I’ve had it up to here with being a commoner.”
“God no. No princes,” I say, ripping off a small bite of onion cake and popping it in my mouth. “The last thing you want is to end up with some dreadfully dull royal.”
Tessa holds up her glass. “Arthur is anything but boring, thank you very much.” Looking over at Nikki, she says, “I promise I’ll continue the hunt for the perfect man for you.”
“Thanks, sweetie. Honestly, he doesn’t even have to be royal. I’ll take super hot and crazy rich, even if he’s new money.”
“Obviously,” Tessa answers. Turning to me, she says, “Now, back to you and your man. Have you two discussed how you’ll handle the fallout from the show?”
I shrug. “Won’t be a problem. We know how the whole reality telly thing works—they’ll take everything we said and did out of context to try to create a scandal. It may result in a few unflattering headlines and some nasty Reddit threads for a couple weeks, but things’ll die down, and we’ll go back to normal by November.”
Royally Wild (Crazy Royal Love Romantic Comedy Book 2) Page 3
