Waiting for Prince Harry
Page 1
Table of Contents
WAITING FOR PRINCE HARRY
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
WAITING FOR PRINCE HARRY
AVEN ELLIS
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
WAITING FOR PRINCE HARRY
Copyright©2014
AVEN ELLIS
Cover Design by Christy Caughie.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-400-5
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I’d like to thank publisher Debby Gilbert for taking another chance on an author with a quirky style. I’m endlessly grateful to you for your belief in me and my stories.
Thank you to my family, John and Avery, for giving me time to write every weekend. And to my sister, Trish, for being my one-person marketing and promotion team.
Thank you to my critique partners, Valerie and Lynn, for their support and feedback on all things writing and beyond. Thank you to fellow author Holly Martin, for cheering me up when the chips were down. I wouldn’t be here without the three of you.
I also wouldn’t be where I am without the support of these amazing friends: Sarah, Barbara, Diane, Ashlea, Kelly, Beth, Denisse, Cindy, Cathy, Veronica, Claudia, Ellie, Amanda, Gemma, Tanya, Valerie, Elizabeth, Liz, and Valentina. Thank you for reading and for your constant encouragement.
Alexandra: Thank you for your continued hand-holding, proofreading, support, and love. Hopefully you have a good vacation lined up before we start work on Avery & Deacon, ha ha.
Thank you to these reviewers and bloggers in the USA for their continued support and friendship: Dawn, Gretchen, Caren, Nancy, Jillian and Carol. Y’all are amazing and I’m so happy we all met.
I need to thank some beautiful people across the pond that have been so generous with their time, their wonderful reviews, their continued support of my work, and their friendship: Simona, Victoria, Kelly R, Laura L, Laura D, Kirsty, Heidi, Megan, Derna, Emma P, Agi, Becca, Erin, Emma H, Whairigail, Ananda, Maryline, Alba, Isabell, and Shaz. You are all such fantastic people, and I’m so very blessed to know you.
I also need to thank the Girls With Books for helping me make Waiting For Prince Harry the book it is today (and for their support and friendship.) Wendy, Chelsea, Tonya, Danielle, Jessica, Trish and CeCe. You all are incredible women, and it’s easy to see why you all are friends. Thank you for everything.
Finally, thank you Mark, because Harrison Flynn would not exist without you.
Chapter 1
The Pop Quiz Question: You are at a crowded bar. The odds of finding your soul mate are:
A) I am open to the idea of meeting Mr. Right anywhere.
B) Probably not good, but a possibility.
C) I might as well be waiting for Prince Harry to come rescue me.
I immediately click on “C” as my answer on my iPhone. I am taking a quiz on how to find your soul mate, and, really, this question is easy. First, you never meet anyone of quality in a bar. The guys are usually hammered or looking for a score . . . or both. So that rules out “A”. Being that I feel that way, “B” is not even an option.
So “C” it is. I smile to myself. Besides, Prince Harry is gorgeous. I’ve always had a thing for ginger-haired men, and God, he is hot. An Apache helicopter pilot? A royal? Does charity work for children? Plays polo? That is a quadruple of hotness right there.
All Harry needs is his own Kate Middleton. Someone beautiful and practical and grounding to keep him on the steady.
I pause for a second. I have long, straight-brown hair like Kate. I’m only 24—good age match, yes? Okay, so he likes blondes but the right girl could change that. And living in Dallas might hinder my plan but I would soooo be open to relocation to London if required—
“Kylie Bridget Reed, you’re not going to sit at your own brother’s wedding reception and spend the evening hiding out with your phone, are you?”
I jerk my head up. My mother is standing over me, an annoyed expression on her face.
I feel guilt sweep over me. I flip my phone face down and look up at her. “Mom, I just needed a moment of quiet, that’s all.”
My mother sighs heavily. “Please go out there and socialize. It’s a wedding reception. You need to have some fun.”
I bite down on my lower lip. My eyes scan the ballroom at the Ritz Carlton in Dallas, all awash in pink roses, white orchids, and crystal. No detail was left untouched—as my brother, Brandon, a lawyer, wed society girl Candace in a posh Dallas wedding. The room is backlit in soft pink light; a live band is playing; hundreds of people are enjoying lavish buffets of expensive food. There’s lobster and caviar. A crazy huge cake with seven different layers. Ice sculptures of swans. A gourmet candy station for guests to fill bags to take home.
In all, it is a ridiculous amount of excess, in my opinion.
I see Brandon and his friends at the bar, drinking. I spot Candace, in her modern Reem Acra dress, her platinum blonde hair artfully styled, her spray tan perfect. She is dancing with bridesmaids who look exactly like her, all sorority sisters from SMU.
I couldn’t be more out of place if I tried.
I’m an artist. I work at Boutique Dallas, in Highland Park, one of the swankiest zip codes in the area. I do visual display for the store. But I enjoy things like sewing and baking and romantic movies. I admire Jackie Kennedy and Grace Kelly and their sense of style. And I love nothing more than p
oring over their outfits and cutting my own patterns and making my own clothes. I find peace in being alone, in sewing, and getting drunk and making out with groomsmen at my brother’s wedding is not my idea of a fabulous evening—
“Kylie, please. There are some really nice boys here,” my mother says, tucking a lock of her short bobbed hair behind one ear. “Go dance. You’re 24. Not 54.”
Ah, yes, here we go again. A lecture on how I act too old for my age, that I’m too old of a soul, that I need to have more fun. A lecture I unfortunately know by heart at this point.
“Right,” I say, not meaning it.
Just then my father walks up. “How are we doing?”
“Jack, you’ll be surprised to know Kylie was sitting over here with her iPhone. Being anti-social. As usual.”
“Well, Hilary, have you asked anyone to take our beautiful girl out for a spin on the dance floor?”
Gah! No! Not the pity dance!
I leap up from my chair, grab my phone, and throw it into my clutch. I turn and face my parents before this becomes a super hideous situation.
“Um, really, I’m good. I’ll go get a drink and mingle if that would make you happy, but for the love of God, please don’t ask one of Brandon’s friends to ask me to dance. Please tell me you haven’t done that.”
My mother glances at my father with an “uh oh” expression on her face.
And right on cue, my brother’s friend Jason strolls up.
“Kylie, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?” he asks, with a big fake smile plastered on his face.
Fuck, what am I supposed to do now? Oh, God, please let someone pull a fire alarm. Please let us have to evacuate into the steamy Dallas summer night so I don’t have to accept this charity dance.
But sadly, it doesn’t look like a fire alarm is going to save me.
Embarrassment engulfs me. Awesome. A pity dance with one of Brandon’s friends who is doing this as a favor for my mom. Suddenly I feel like I’m 16 and need a date to the freaking prom.
“Sure,” I say, forcing a sweet smile onto my face.
My parents beam with approval, and I fight the urge to vomit. They are so hopeful that I would fall in love tonight at this wedding. Like Brandon did with Candace at his best friend’s wedding two years ago.
Jason offers me his arm, and I reluctantly take it. He smells of overpowering cologne. And gin. His hair is slicked back with half a tube of gel and his smile is blinding white. Ewh, not my type. At all.
So sorry, mom and dad, there will not be a love connection made at the Ritz-Carlton tonight.
Jason leads me out to the dance floor and begins dancing wildly. I kind of try to dance away from him—as much as I can in my stupid mermaid pink bridesmaid’s gown, which is so tight I can barely wiggle my hips. But Jason pulls me in and flings me out, and back, and I pray the dress doesn’t pop at the seams as I go flailing around the dance floor in herky-jerky motions.
“Kylie, you’re dancing!” Candace cries gleefully. She hurries over to me and yells at Jason, “Jason, you’re so lucky. Kylie is soooo cute. She looks like Pippa Middleton in this dress.” Then Candace points at my ass and shrieks with laughter.
Did she just compare my ass to Pippa’s?
“Let’s check that out,” Jason cries, spinning me around. I gasp in horror as I turn over my shoulder and see Jason checking out my ass. “Yep it’s a Pippa ass.”
My torture is interrupted by the lead singer of the band.
“Let’s kick it old school with some 90’s dance music,” he screams into the microphone. “How about some C + C Music Factory?”
Then the band begins playing “Gonna Make You Sweat.”
“Time to grind!” Jason yells.
Grind? Oh no. Seriously no—
Jason pulls my back to him and puts his hands on my hips, and begins to grind on my so-called Pippa ass.
“Whooo!” Jason screams.
Okay I draw the line at grinding. I whip around—well, as much as one can in a mermaid dress—and put my hand on his chest to back him up. “I have to use the ladies’ room,” I shout over the music. “See you later.”
And then I exit. But before I do, Brandon stops me.
“Hey, did I see you dancing with Jason?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.
“Mom asked him to dance with me,” I explain. But I cut this short before the humiliation can go any further. I smile at my brother and speak from my heart. “I’m going out. Congratulations, B. I’m so glad you found Candace and you’re so happy.”
“You’ll be just as happy someday, K,” Brandon says, hugging me.
I nod as I step back from him. Sure. Guys are always clamoring for a quiet girl who loves retro clothing and evenings with a bottle of white wine, Thai food, and a movie, but that’s not the point. My life is good. I’m only 24. I’m not looking for my soul mate tonight.
“Bye, B,” I say, smiling at him.
As I leave the ballroom, I glance back to the dance floor, and Jason is dancing with another bridesmaid, this one tall with ample breasts. I laugh to myself. Pippa ass or not, he’s moved on. Thank God.
I step into the hotel hallway. The music is still pulsating through the walls, the sounds of laughter and chatter spilling out from the reception.
I need quiet, I think. I need a space to decompress, have a glass of wine, and just be alone.
I walk through the hotel in search of solitude. I pass the gorgeous arrangement of vases and flowers on a luxurious table in the lobby, and then I see it.
The Rattlesnake Bar.
Relief sweeps through me as I head toward the bar off the lobby. It’s dark and intimate, with rich mahogany walls. I see plush chocolate brown leather sofas, which are absolutely inviting. Chandeliers bathe the bar in a soft amber light, and people are mingling and talking in the room.
Yes, this is exactly what I need, I think, sighing happily.
I make my way up to the bar and order a nice glass of Chardonnay. Crisp and chilled, perfect for a sweltering Texas night in July. Then I look for one of those cushy chairs to sink down into.
As I walk, I’m suddenly caught. I turn and see someone has stepped on the tail of my dress, and I can’t move.
“Excuse me,” I say, yelling over my shoulder.
But the girl standing on my dress—in her spiked Louboutins—cannot hear me.
I decide to give the fabric a tug. Actually, I don’t care if I rip it at this point, the pictures are done, and I’ll never wear this again anyway—but as I do she moves and I go flying backward.
I try to right myself but I can’t, not in this skintight dress.
I fall backward and boom! I land right in a guy’s lap on a leather sofa. My drink goes flying, soaking us both. I’m beyond mortified.
I immediately push myself up and turn around, ready to apologize profusely and offer to pay for dry cleaning, but the words don’t come out of my mouth.
I’m frozen.
Because right now I am looking into the green eyes of the most beautiful ginger-haired man I’ve ever seen.
Chapter 2
The Pop Quiz Question: Would you ever pick up a guy in a bar?
A) Heck yes, if he’s hot and interested.
B) No, absolutely not.
C) Normally I wouldn’t even dream of it, but sometimes there is an exception to the rule . . .
I literally have no words as I stare at the man whose lap I was just in two seconds ago.
Because this ginger-haired man is the most gorgeous man I have ever seen.
More gorgeous than Prince Harry, God help me.
“Miss, are you all right?” he asks, standing up, furrowing his brow in concern.
I drink him in with my eyes. He is tall—about 6’1 o
r 6’2—and very broad-shouldered. He’s strong and athletic looking. This man has glorious ginger curls, silky and flame red. I’ve never seen hair like it in my entire life. He’s wearing a gray T-shirt—a designer one, I can tell by the cut and fabric—and jeans with an up-to-the-minute color wash that fit him perfectly. He has a cool black leather bracelet that looks like a belt—complete with a silver buckle—around his left wrist and—
“Miss?” he asks again.
The sound of his soft-spoken voice—one tinged with an East Coast accent—snaps me from my thoughts.
“Um,” I manage, now looking into his brilliant green eyes, “I’m so sorry,” I blurt out. I look at his shirt and it is drenched with white wine. I’m horrified as I see the huge stain across his broad chest and over his shoulder. “Please, let me give you some money to have your shirt dry cleaned.”
He glances down and then slowly lifts his eyes back up at me, an eyebrow lifted. “I think,” he says in a serious tone, “it will survive the incident.”
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until he smiles at me.
“Your dress, however,” he then says, nodding down to the floor, “looks like it was on the losing end of a battle with a stiletto.”
I quickly look down and see the mermaid tail is ripped. I raise my head at this Ginger Boy and smile.
“I can’t say I was planning to wear it again anyway,” I say honestly. Then I clear my throat. “Listen, I would like to buy you a drink for interrupting your evening like this.”
Suddenly his brow creases in a quizzical manner. “You want to buy me a drink?”
Shit. What if he’s here with a date? What if he thinks I’m trying to pick him up? What if he’s repelled by that idea, of me wanting to buy him a drink?