by Aven Ellis
“Are you planning to hang your hat here often, Your Royal Highness?” I ask suggestively.
Christian wraps me in his sculpted arms. “Yes,” he says, dropping his mouth on mine.
As I kiss him back, I feel so full of optimism for our future. London is the beginning of our fairy tale. Not one about the American girl who falls for a prince, but one of two young people in love. We’re starting new chapters in our lives, but we’re starting them together. There will be dirt, as Jillian says, but there will be light and laughter and love, too.
This love, I think as we fall back onto my bed, will see us through whatever the future holds.
“We need to be quiet,” I whisper. “I mean, we just got here.”
“I can be very, very quiet,” Christian assures me with a wicked grin. He slides his hand underneath my T-shirt, cupping my breast in his hand as his tongue explores my mouth. I instantly grow hot, as it’s been too long since our bodies have been entwined, too long since his mouth has claimed mine, too long since we have made love.
“I love you,” I whisper against his full lips as I reach for his belt buckle.
“I love you more,” Christian whispers back, taking my lower lip between his teeth and sexily tugging on it.
“Oh,” I gasp, arching my back as I fumble with his belt.
“I want you so much,” he murmurs into my neck. “I’ve missed you, all of you. I’ve missed the softness of your skin, the scent of your perfume.”
Christian finds that sweet spot between my neck and shoulder and places his mouth there.
“Christian,” I whisper as I unbutton his jeans, my fingertips trailing along the band of his boxer-briefs. He groans against me, his mouth seeking mine again, this time with a hot and urgent kiss.
He pushes up my shirt, and I sit up to remove it. Christian tugs off his shirt and tosses it aside. I slowly unhook my bra, and the second it’s off, Christian pins me back to the mattress, his hand finding mine, linking our fingers together as he kisses me passionately.
“I’ve missed you. God, you have no idea,” he murmurs, his voice deep with desire. “Your body was meant for mine. I want you. I can’t wait.”
“Now, Christian,” I beg urgently against his lips. “Get the condom. I need to love you.”
Christian complies with my request as I lose myself in him.
Joy surges through me as I know this is our life now. I’ll never have to be without his love, his presence, his touch again.
This man is my world.
And I know the fairy tale is real.
Chapter 23
A Fabulous Hat
I feel the sun on my face and lazily open one eye. How is it still daylight? I saw Christian out early last night. Did I only sleep for an hour or so? I roll over and reach for my phone, which I have charging on the nightstand, next to the lucky grasshopper. I unlock it and gasp when I see its eight thirty in the morning.
Crap, I slept that long? I knew I was exhausted, but I’ve slept for more than thirteen hours! I immediately wonder why Bear hasn’t woken me, and then I see the door is open a crack. I roll out of bed and open the door, hoping Bear hasn’t peed on Jillian’s floor—or worse.
I stop as soon as I hit the hallway.
I smell bacon.
Glorious, sizzling-in-the-pan, bacon.
My stomach grumbles. I remind myself that it’s Jillian’s bacon, not mine, and I’ll have to go grab a coffee and a danish, which is disappointing after inhaling that magical scent.
I’m adding bacon to my shopping list.
Along with a day dress, a dress for Ascot, heels, a purse, and a fabulous hat. Oh, and an evening gown for dinner tonight.
Easy.
I walk down the hall, and as I look into the kitchen, I see a sight that warms my heart. Jillian is cooking at her range, turning the bacon, while Bear lays at her feet, happily munching on what looks like a dog biscuit.
I take a moment to study Jillian, who is chic even when preparing breakfast. She is wearing another pair of dark skinny jeans; an orange, three-quarter-sleeved, fitted button-down; and a fabulous pair of strappy, orange heels.
She makes bacon in high heels.
At seventy.
Jillian is so going to be my Yoda.
She turns over her shoulder and smiles at me. “I took Bear out for you. I heard him at your door.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “I honestly didn’t intend to sleep this long. I wanted to have gin and tonics with you last night.”
“Well, you can have breakfast with me now if you like,” Jillian says, taking some slices of bread and popping them into the toaster.
Bear comes over to greet me, and I see he indeed does have a dog treat.
“I ran out and got some treats for him,” Jillian says, moving to the fridge and opening the door. “Would you like some coffee? Orange juice?”
“Juice would be lovely, and I can get it,” I say. “Please don’t wait on me.”
“Nonsense. I haven’t had the pleasure of cooking breakfast for anyone since George passed. Let me revel in it.”
She retrieves a small glass from her cabinet and pours me some juice. I remember in our phone conversation that Jillian lost George two years ago after a lengthy battle with Alzheimer’s. Jillian cared for him until the very end, right here in this flat. They had been married for fifty-one years.
I can’t imagine how you recover after losing someone you had shared a life with for that long.
“Here you go,” Jillian says, handing me the glass. “Would you like eggs? A bacon butty?”
I grin. “I have no idea what a bacon butty is.”
Jillian cocks an eyebrow. “I need to discuss this with Christian. He’s never introduced you to this? What about brown sauce?”
“No, and no,” I say. “Obviously he’s lacking. I might have to revoke his boyfriend card if he’s been keeping the good stuff to himself.”
Jillian laughs. “A bacon butty is a sandwich. HP Sauce has a wonderful sweet and smoky flavor that is divine with salty bacon.”
“That sounds ridiculously good,” I say as I inhale the scent of bacon wafting through her kitchen. “I would love one. And some eggs.”
“Scrambled?”
“Perfect,” I say. “Excuse me for a moment. I’m going to feed Bear. I packed some food in my bag.”
“I hope it’s okay, but the poor thing was hungry this morning, so I fed him some eggs and cheese.”
“Oh, my gosh, thank you for taking care of him. I should have set my alarm last night. I only intended to take a nap, not crash for fourteen hours.”
“I don’t blame you; travel from the opposite side of the United States is always tiring. Now, please, go have a seat. Let me fuss over you this morning. I love feeling useful.”
Her words reveal a lot to me. Jillian and George had no children, and taking care of George when he was ill must have been incredibly hard. Then having that world suddenly gone must have left her at a loss.
My guess is that when George died, Jillian felt her purpose did, too, in a way.
I move to the small dining table, and Bear follows, barking at the french doors that lead to the terrace.
“May I let him hang out on your terrace?” I ask.
Jillian stops cooking and gives me a stern look. “Darling, this is your terrace now, too, and Bear is free to roam where he likes.”
I smile. This reminds me of the first time I met Bryn in the dorm and how we connected within the first few hours of living together.
I already know I’m going to become close to Jillian.
I let Bear out and then head back down the hall to go to the restroom, brush my teeth, and retrieve my phone.
As soon as I come back in the room, I find breakfast waiting for me on an exquisite platinum-rimmed plate beside a linen napkin with a silver grasshopper napkin ring around it.
“More luck?” I ask, sliding off the ring as Jillian sits down across from me.
“George
loved grasshoppers,” Jillian explains, pausing as she picks up her fine china coffee cup. “I like having them around the house in little ways to remind me of him. As if I could forget him.”
I swallow hard. I can feel the ache in her words.
“Can I just say how lovely it is to have you here? And Bear?” Jillian says, shifting the topic. “It’s nice to hear other people besides myself prattling about.”
I pause as I pick up my bacon butter thing or whatever she called it. “You don’t hear everything, right?”
Jillian takes a sip of her coffee. “Hmm, like what? Headboard banging perhaps?”
I blush furiously. I put my sandwich down. I’m about to offer a string of apologies when Jillian begins to laugh.
“Please, if I had a young man like Christian, I’d be getting a go at that as much as possible.”
I can’t help it. The cool, sophisticated Jillian saying “getting a go at that” makes me burst out laughing, and she does, too.
“I’m so sorry. I told him to be quiet. We missed each other so much and well …”
“Life has dirt and, with good luck, noisy sex,” Jillian declares, taking a bite of her toast, which is smeared with jam. She swallows and studies me. “I also own earbuds and a wonderful collection of classical music on Spotify.”
“Oh, my God, my roommate Bryn was loud,” I say. “I used my earbuds all the time.”
We both laugh.
“The prince loves you,” Jillian says, shifting topics. “I can see it in the way he looks at you.”
A happy feeling surges through me. “I love him just as much, Jillian. Christian is like no other, and that has nothing to do with him being a prince.”
“Tell me about him,” Jillian encourages. “How did you meet? Oh, and if you need me to sign confidentiality papers first, I can.”
I furrow my brow. It hits me that certain people I meet will try to take advantage of my personal stories with Christian now that our relationship is out. I will have to be careful.
But I don’t have any fears with Jillian.
“No, I trust you,” I say. “I don’t think you’ll be running off to Dishing Weekly to spill my sex secrets with the Golden Prince.”
“Heavens, no, that’s a rag. I’d hold out for a higher-end entertainment magazine,” Jillian quips.
I laugh and pick up my sandwich and take a bite. Oh, my. First of all, this English bacon is completely different than American bacon. It’s thicker and meatier. I taste the fresh, toasted bread; the lush butter; and this amazing brown sauce that pulls it all together.
“Oh, my God,” I murmur with my mouth half-full.
“You approve?”
“This is fantastic!” I rave. “How has this been missing from my life? I could eat this every day!”
“I’ll up the bacon quantity on the shopping list,” Jillian teases.
“I’ve got to get on Christian about hiding this luxury from me. That hoarder.”
“Oh, yes, those stories,” Jillian says, rolling her eyes. “I never once thought he was a hoarder.”
I pick up my phone and snicker. “Truth? He has very few things. He likes things orderly and neat. Dishing Weekly would be disappointed to find out he’s not buried in trash and takeout tubs and that Queen Antonia didn’t need to hire a hazmat team to shovel him out.”
I take a picture of my sandwich to text to Christian.
“Have you met the queen?”
I glance up from my typing. “No. I’ve met King Arthur, though, and he’s a wonderful man, astute and kind.”
Jillian nods. “I can see that about King Arthur. He seems genuine in his desire to use the monarchy to help people. It seems he would like to modernize things but is being held back by … others in the palace.”
Hmm. She takes another bite of her toast, and I know by “others” she is intimating Queen Antonia and the Dowager Queen.
I go back to my text and send the photo to Christian:
We are going to have a row, as you would say. How could you have kept this bacon sandwich out of my life?
Then I hit send.
Within seconds he replies:
Good morning, my love. I wasn’t aware you fancied bacon butties, or I would have made them every morning for you when you were here.
I smile and text back:
I forgive you. Are you getting ready for Ascot?
I put the phone back down. “Christian is at Windsor today. He’s going to Ascot.”
“Ascot is fantastic,” Jillian says. “So much amazing and hideous style all in one place. I adore it!”
“Christian asked me to go to Ladies’ Day,” I say, taking another bite of my sandwich.
Jillian’s eyes light up. “Ooh, you’ll be in the royal box! What are you going to wear?”
I’m still chewing when my phone buzzes. I glance down, and Christian has attached a snap of him looking oh-so-dashing in his morning suit with Xander, James, and three young women I recognize as his princess cousins: Liz, Bella, and Victoria, all in dresses with fantastic hats. He has scribbled on the photo for me:
You’ll be part of our squad tomorrow, Fiona.
I put the phone down as the pressure of the moment hits me.
“Clementine? What’s wrong?”
I glance up at her and push my plate away as anxiety takes over.
“The royal box at Ascot, where everyone will be watching me, comparing me to the princesses and Queen Antonia. I’ve never dressed for an occasion like this. I need a day dress and an evening gown, and if I mess up, the world will hear about the Messy American with Shit Taste who uglied up the royal scene.”
Jillian places down her cup. “You will do no such thing.”
“But what if I do? What if I get some saleswoman who gives me awful advice and I believe her? What if I look ridiculous? All these royal ladies probably have stylists and—crap, oh, crap. If I mess this up, it will make Queen Antonia dislike me more than she already does.”
I cringe. Shit. I totally shouldn’t have said anything negative about Queen Antonia.
Jillian doesn’t flinch from my verbal breakdown.
“First of all,” Jillian says slowly, “have you seen what Queen Antonia wears? She’s worn the same sheath dress for the past thirty years. She’s fantastically dull. Second, you have a chance to make an impact here, Clementine. You’ll wear something fresh and floral and quintessentially UK but with a modern spin. You’ll wear a British designer to give a nod to your new country. And you’ll wear color, unlike the neutrals Antonia favors, because you are not Antonia two point oh. You are Clementine Jones, the American girlfriend of the Prince of Wales. We will find a dress befitting of not only Ascot but your unique spirit, too.”
I hold my breath.
“We? You’ll help me?” I ask, praying that Jillian will indeed be my fashion Yoda.
“I used to be an interior designer,” she says. “I love art and fashion, and even though I’m ancient, I still keep up with what is going on in the fashion world. In fact, there’s a boutique I love because they have a section of up-and-coming British designers. I know we will find the perfect dress there, along with shoes and an utterly brilliant hat.”
Relief sweeps through me. “You’re my fairy godmother. Thank you. Thank you. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for your kindness.”
“You don’t know it, but you already have,” she says softly. I’m about to ask what she means when she clears her throat. “Now go on and finish that butty. We have a lot of shopping to do today.”
I’m in a remake of My Fair Lady.
Not the whole correcting Eliza’s speech part, but the transforming for Ascot bit.
After breakfast, Jillian dashed us off in her Jaguar to a boutique housed inside an old Georgian townhome. Christian alerted palace staff to expect a call from the boutique and to pay the bill from his account. Once we discreetly had the boutique manager take my passport and call Windsor Palace, we became a blur of activity. Jillian and a sales
woman named Bridget began grabbing dresses and holding them against me, discussing the strap width—one-inch minimum, no spaghetti straps in the Royal Enclosure—and length, which must be at or below the knee. The dress couldn’t be off the shoulder, strapless, or halter neck, and the midriff must be covered.
Yet, the dress was still supposed to be fresh, fun, English-designed, and keep me “me.”
Oh, and that was just for the Ascot portion of the day.
I study the stunning dresses hanging around the dressing room in awe. There are florals, stripes, ruffles, and long and mid-length hemlines. I pop open the door and look to Jillian, who is sitting on a luxurious velvet sofa, flicking through the latest copy of British Vogue. She glances up at me.
“Which one should I start with?” I ask.
Jillian appears thoughtful for a moment.
“The pink one.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
I slip back inside and shut the door. I kick off my Converse shoes, change out of my jeans, and tug my gray T-shirt over my head. Crap. I need better running around clothes for when the photogs start trailing me. I can’t be seen like this; that is for sure.
I reach for the padded, silk hanger of a pale-pink, sleeveless dress that hits right below the knee. It is a fabulous silk satin with a beautiful floral pattern reminiscent of a rose garden. A grosgrain, red ribbon belt adorns the waist, and there is a slight V in the neckline and gathering at the bust.
As soon as my fingertips touch the silk, I know it’s the finest fabric I have ever felt in my life. I look at the label: Emilia Wentworth-Hay. She was someone Bridget said was an up-andcoming designer in Britain, so Jillian made sure to grab one of her dresses.
I step into the fine fabric, careful not to step on it. I pull the dress up, loving the feel of the silk against my skin. I get the zip halfway up the back and pause to look in the full-length mirror. My eyes widen as I see myself.
I’ve never looked prettier.
Beads, strewn across the bodice, add sparkle. The waist is cinched with the ribbon and flares out in the skirt. It’s graceful and elegant but colorful, like me.
And perfect for Ascot.
