Royally Loved: The Royal Romances Books 1-5

by McKenna James

  “How was your holiday, Your Highness?” Ariand, the barista asked as she brought my order out. We made small talk briefly as I slowly sipped the piping hot latte, warmth melting the ice that had formed around my heart at the commoner. I was an everyday guy, albeit the Prince of England, and I had to remember that everyone had bad days now and again.

  “Ariand, do you mind please, I need another latte and your sweetest breakfast pastry … to go, please?”

  “It would be my honor, Your Highness.” She curtsied and flounced out with a bout of laughter. She knew I hated being bowed to, and she did it just to jest me. She returned with the order promptly, and after sliding some cash into her apron, I headed back out into the cold.

  As I passed by the young lady, the steam still billowing from the radiator, I straightened my spine and walked with a determined gait of pride and confidence.

  As she saw my approach, she huffed and rolled her eyes. I didn’t let that bother me. I’d have the last laugh.

  With a condescending smile, I offered the cup and pastry bag to her, to which she shockingly accepted.

  “My lady, may this coffee and pastry warm and sweeten your heart so your attitude is more bearable for any knight in shining armor who attempts to save you today.” Her jaw ticked with fury, and I winked before I strolled away without another word, climbing into my warm vehicle and leaving that snotty hag in the cold.

  2

  Eliza

  “Bloody hell!” I shouted as if it would make a difference. “Now what?” I demanded to know. Although, there was no one listening. Or anyone who cared, for that matter. Drew Harrington, the freakin’ Prince of England, left me standing in the cold, and for good reason. I stared at him stupidly when he’d offered to help me. I was rude with my short responses. What could I say? It was clear my car was broken down. I didn’t expected him to sweeten me up—literally—with a latte and a pastry, but I understood the irony in the gesture. I deserved it.

  I was on my own. I had insisted that I could do this—move to the city and begin my life as an adult. I didn’t expect my damn car to break down on my first day of classes. Oh my luck was fancy.

  Against my parents’ wishes, I had applied to the most expensive school in all of England, Whitby University, and I was accepted. It was the happiest day of my life when I opened that envelope to see my name attached to a student I.D.

  I had spent the previous two years of my life working two jobs a week after school each evening, on weekends, and all summer, every summer, trying to pinch pennies and save as much as I could just to attend the university. And I did it. The only help I needed from my parents was that of a car to get back and forth from the dorm to my job at the cafe, because I’d need to work in order to maintain the expenses of living on my own. My father had given me the family car, an old hatchback hand-me-down that was older than me. He said I couldn't very well bring the bicycle that I had ridden from job to job for two years. No, I needed a real vehicle. Now I needed one that actually ran! I knew nothing about cars, aside from where to add the petrol.

  I’d just gotten off my early morning shift at The Pour Pauper and class when, after starting the car and letting it warm up, steam began to pour from beneath the hood. The motor was still running, though it sounded atrocious. I was worried that if I attempted to drive it, it would tear something up.

  I would have to call a tow truck to get this pile of metal to a garage. I could afford neither of those things, but I wasn’t going to ask my father for help. I would find a way to get it done, just like I had with school. I loved my independence, and I was determined to stand on my own two feet—even if I’d be walking for the unforeseeable future.

  I glanced at my watch and realized that I was already late to class. “Really? Can anything else go wrong today?” I asked snidely. Then I remembered that Mum always told me not to ask that question because as sure as you did, life would make sure something else would go wrong.

  I was already behind a semester because I had to work a few more months to save enough money to finish paying for what the scholarships didn't cover. I came into this feeling as if I was at a deficit and behind the other students. They had already been here for five months, and I was just starting out. They had already made friends, and I was new and didn't know a soul. I would work hard, keep my grades up, and stay at the university no matter what I had to do. It was my one shot at truly being somebody and doing something great with my life. Neither of my parents had gone to university and I was hell bent on being the first.

  I slammed the hood of the old car and dusted my filthy hands together, trying to remove as much dirt as I could. It did no good. I just hoped it wasn't on my face. Looking down, I noticed that my coat seemed to have escaped unharmed at least. I grabbed my books from the front seat and locked the doors, although I wasn’t sure why; no one was going to steal it. One foot in front of the other, I hurried the three blocks to Whitby University.

  Glancing at the clock in the hall, I realized that I was already late by fifteen minutes, so I decided to go ahead and add a couple more by stopping in the bathroom and washing my hands. What did it matter? Things were already a bit shitty, so why not just go ahead and frig things up royally.

  Speaking of royally, who did Prince Andrew Harrington think he was trying to “help me” fix my car?

  I was glad I’d turned his offer to help down. There was no way in hell that I was going to let him do anything for me. I knew how that stuff worked. He did something for me, and then he’d expect something in return. Tit for Tat, as they’d say; quid pro quo. Well, not with this girl. I’d make my own way. I always had and I always would. I didn't care if it meant I’d have to walk to class every day. I wasn’t going to allow the Prince to think that he could indebt me to him in any fashion at all.

  Looking in the mirror, I notice a smudge of grease on my right cheek. “Effing great!!” I said a bit loudly. Feeling embarrassed, I turned and carefully bent down to scan the bottom of the stall doors to make sure I was alone. I was, to my relief.

  I turned on the water and allowed it to run until it was hot before washing my face and hands. I was frustrated to say the least.

  Maybe I should just go back to my flat and skip class this morning.

  “No!! Pull yourself together,” I said as if I was talking to someone else. Sometimes I did that. My pep talks to myself were all it took at times to cause me to “straighten up and fly right,” to quote my father.

  I tossed the paper towel in the trash and took one last look at myself before leaving. It was as if I was suddenly seeing someone else instead of myself. In that moment, I began to question everything.

  “What are you doing here, Eliza?” I asked aloud. “You don't belong here with these elitist.”

  I stared at the mirror, hoping to find the girl who was giving the pep talk only two minutes earlier. Where was she? Maybe she realized that she didn't belong either and she got out while she could. I looked at my hair, a disheveled mess. My curls were everywhere. It was one of the drawbacks of having naturally curly hair. My makeup—or lack thereof thanks to the need to remove the grease smudge— was tragic; I looked sickly. Should I just leave and go home to Dad and Mum? Yes, I thought I should.

  I took one last look in the mirror at the poor girl who had worked so hard to get here, and I saw defeat. I didn't see the one who had put in hours of studying, nor the one who worked endless hours when she was worn out just to save up for this prestigious place. No, I saw a girl who didn't fit in these halls with the upper crust of society. I saw a girl who was dreaming big without ever considering what she would do with that dream once it came true. I saw a girl filled with self-doubt. I loathed her.

  I wasn’t that girl. I was the one who worked hard to earn the money to attend such a prestigious university. I was the girl who studied when her friends were out having fun. I was the girl who had realized her dreams when she opened the acceptance letter welcoming her to Whitby University. I wasn’t going to allow
any self-defeating attitude or a broken down car to stop me from achieving my goals. I belonged here just as much as anyone else, maybe even more so.

  “Now straighten your ass up and get out there to that class, missy. You deserve to be here more than half of those wealthy snobs whose mothers and fathers probably paid to get them in here!!”

  I grabbed my books, shot myself a smile, and walked down the hall with my new attitude to the classroom where I would begin my journey.

  As I opened the door, I could see that the class was almost completely full. The academic adviser had already told me as much when I registered, but it was a bit of a surprise to see almost every seat in the large room filled. I scanned the space and found one in the back, luckily. Whew! I dodged that bullet. I didn’t want to be the one who walked in late and had to go in front of a hundred other students to find somewhere to sit. How embarrassing would that have been? I really would have left if I had to do that.

  I opened my textbook to the chapter that was written on the blackboard and tried to catch up as Professor Haddish spoke. I also turned on the recorder on my cell phone so I could play back his lecture later on when I was alone in my flat. I had heard others say that it was helpful to record professors because they spoke quickly as to get in all of the information in the allotted time period.

  There I was, a student at university with my books, my recorder, and my seat in the class. I couldn’t have been prouder of my achievements. I would have taken a selfie and posted it to Insta if I wouldn't have looked stupid or have gotten called out for it; though, glancing around and judging by the looks of some of the girls, I'd say they had already done it or were thinking about it as well.

  As Professor Haddish spoke about the boring details of some guy in Africa and his caravans of gold, I wondered if I could sneak in a text to Mum, letting her know that I was actually in class at a real university, with a real professor down front. I was thrilled to be here, and I just wanted to share it with someone. I quickly decided that I would text her later and that I needed to pay attention, especially on my first day.

  I really wasn't looking forward to this class, but it was a requirement for my degree in education. I had no interest whatsoever in Anthropology but it was a must, so I bucked up and decided to make the best of it. Although I was a bit miffed that something so trivial was a required course for me, I was determined to make the best grade possible in the class.

  3

  Drew

  Listening to Professor Haddish speak about the Sahara Desert and the gold exchange was fascinating to me. I had been interested in Anthropology as far back as I could remember, so when I was asked, as a child, what I wanted to be when I grew up, of course my answer was Indiana Jones. It always got a laugh, which at the time I never understood, but now that I was able to choose what I really wanted to do in life, I chose Anthropology.

  Wow!! Was that the door? I thought when I heard a loud creak and then a slight slam. Who could be coming into class this late? I glanced at my watch; the class was already almost an hour in and someone was just now gracing Professor Haddish with their presence? How rude.

  Looking back, I saw the familiar strawberry blonde doll that I had encountered an hour before in the parking lot of the cafe. Was she in my class? I couldn't help but chuckle as fate kept giving me signs that this was going to be an interesting semester.

  She looked around the room and noticed a seat two rows down from me. Her petite frame took its place between other girls; though attractive themselves, they didn't hold a candle to her beauty. I observed her as she nervously took out her textbook and turned her phone on to record. I had the best seat in the place. I could see her, but she had no idea that I was there. I could tell by her actions that this was her first class, maybe even her first year. There she was looking all academic with her pens, paper, and recorder, when most of the rest of the class was almost asleep from boredom.

  Was she an academic as I was? Was she interested in Anthropology as well? I would make it my mission to find out. Actually, I wanted to find out as much about her as I could. Given her attitude toward me before class, I wasn't sure that she would allow it. What exactly had I done or said that had caused her to be so dismissive of me without cause? Did I want to find out? Was I up to the challenge? Hell yes. A resounding yes! Whatever this girl had, I had never seen it before. Was it charisma? No, I didn't think so. Was it sensuality? Maybe, but I had very little experience with relationships, so it was hard for me to tell. I didn’t waste my time with girls who were self-centered and caught up on the latest Snap filter. That was why it was rarely reported that I was involved in a relationship or photographed with women. My time and energy were too valuable to be wasted on someone who didn’t have the same goals as I had. No, this was a woman. A woman I wanted to get to know better. She was different.

  Professor lectured the class, and I was sure it was interesting, but it was as if my mind and body were in two different places. He was saying something about gold, West Africa, and something else, but all I heard was the sweet voice of the kitten in front of me who had brushed me off earlier.

  Snap out of it, man! My god, you act like some kind of stalker staring at the poor thing.

  I had to mentally talk to myself to keep from daydreaming about this mystery girl. I knew she wasn't royalty or the daughter of someone famous because she was driving an old beat-up car. Surely, no one with any amount of money would be seen in something that had dents in it and was probably in production before she was even born.

  No, she was someone who had actually earned her way into this place. She was a hard worker. She had to be extremely intelligent as well because only the upper crust of society attended Whitby unless their grades and test scores were high enough. Wow, beautiful and intelligent. That was a fantastic combo. How could I get close to her? What could I do to get her to talk to me on a different level? There must be something I could say to get her to come around and be nice.

  I suddenly heard my name called. I had been so out of it while salivating over this mystery girl that I missed what Professor Haddish had been talking about.

  Oh God, what did he just say? Why was he calling on me?

  I would have to wing it. What other choice did I have?

  “Yes, Professor?” I asked as if I’d been paying attention all along.

  I heard chuckles from my peers. What were they laughing about? What had he said while I was far away in lala land with Miss X?

  “Prince Harrington, did you hear the question?” he asked in his stuffy, uptight voice.

  No, actually I didn't hear the question because I was trying to think of ways to get Miss X to talk to me. Would you mind repeating it, you uptight, old crank?

  “No, sir. I'm sorry. Can you repeat it for me? I was lost in thought about the gold caravans.” I did my best to cover my lack of interest in anything that had to do with the hot girl with the curly hair.

  “Actually, Prince Andrew, my question was about the gold caravans. I asked if you could tell me the country where it all ended.”

  He gave me a look of vexation, and I knew that I had messed up. I didn't really care. At that point, all I wanted was to know this angel in front of me. I wanted to feel her long curly hair on my bare chest. I wanted to touch her lips with mine.

  “Sir, I can't. I must have missed that part. I am quite sorry. I will listen more closely next time.”

  It was all I had to give him. The truth. I hadn't been listening, and I wasn't going to just make up an answer. What if it was the wrong one? How stupid would I have looked then? Probably as stupid as I looked now, by not paying attention at all.

  After deciding I had better listen up to what was being lectured by the professor, than to what was being done two rows down, I began taking notes. I couldn’t fail the test or get an unsatisfactory mark. I had to ace it like I had been doing since I first set foot in a classroom at four years of age. I had never gotten a bad mark in my entire educational experience, and I didn't
intend to start now.

  After thirty minutes passed, Professor Haddish announced that we would be doing a project that would take the semester to complete. I was thrilled. The thoughts of doing a dig or something similar was right up my alley. I was in my wheelhouse, so to speak, with this project. I couldn't wait to hear what it was.

  “You will be paired up, two by two, and I expect everyone to do his or her part on the project. No one is to put all of the work on the other person. This is going to not only show me that you know what you are talking about on the particular subject of your choosing, but that you can work as a team as well. Part of Anthropology is working with others to find treasures buried in the earth. I expect nothing less than professionalism and courtesy from you to your partner. If anyone comes to me and says they are doing all of the work, that slacker on the team will automatically receive a failing grade for the project. This project is worth 200 points toward your final grade and must be presented on the final day of the semester. Are there any questions?”

  I considered the project and hoped that I would get paired up with my best friend Clayton. He had a love for Anthropology as well, and I knew that he and I could really present something great.

  I listened as Haddish called the names and each student moved to the one they were paired with. Clayton was paired up with Alistair Griffin, my nemesis. That guy was so good at everything he put his hand to, including women. I had never felt as good as he was. He wasn't royalty, of course, but it didn't matter—he had charm and charisma. He could get a girl into bed before she even knew what he was saying. I always envied his talents with the ladies. His father was heir to one of the largest watchmakers in history. Alistair was rich, handsome, and a snob. I couldn't believe that Clayton was stuck with him. Judging by the look on my best friend's face, neither could he. I shot him a grin and chuckled as I thought about how lucky I was to not have been paired with that prick.