“Fantasizing about my boss. Nice.”
Ash tapped out. Where were you in this picture?
The reply was almost instant. Tree Hugger’s charity event. Schmoozing up some new clients.
He found himself smiling. Grinning, almost as if Bailey were with him.
Before he realized what he was doing, he began Googling the Tree Hugger Organics gala, tossing in Bailey Parker as the last two keywords.
Dozens of photos of Bailey filled the small screen on his phone, including a few taken from the back. If he’d thought Bailey looked amazing in the gown from the front, the back was even more incredible. The fabric had been cut out, exposing Bailey’s toned, olive skin. Stunning.
What was he doing? Ash could have any woman he wanted, at any time.
Yet he found himself eager for texts from his boss. He couldn’t stop staring at the pictures of her in the evening gown. It could’ve been because it was the only relaxed contact he’d had with anyone in months, but he was more inclined to think it had to do with Bailey herself. There was something about her that put him at ease.
But why, then, did he suddenly feel himself tangled in knots?
CHAPTER SEVEN
Bailey
Why had she felt the need to text that photo of her and Gary to Jenson? What if he got offended or viewed it as sexual harassment?
She skimmed her texts again, just to be on the safe side. No. There wasn’t anything inappropriate about anything she’d said. Even her dress in the photo was modest by most people’s standards. There were hundreds of women who didn’t think twice about exposing most or all of their skin in the name of fashion. Bailey wasn’t one of them.
Her phone dinged. Jenson. She swept up the phone to view his reply.
Beautiful dress, by the way.
A small thrill went through her. Her reaction didn’t make sense. She didn’t know this man, not really. He was definitely older than her, judging by his profile pic. He didn’t act older, though. He seemed like he was her age. Twenty-five or so.
Thanks. :) Don’t forget the Windsor spot is airing in the states tonight.
Cool. I’m not in the states, though. I’ll have to see if they have an international version.
Bailey frowned and brought up her paperwork for Jenson. It said he was in New York. She tapped out a quick response.
Thought you were in NYC?
His answer came back instantly. Florico.
She frowned. Had he put down the wrong information? Florico was a long way from New York. But, as though he’d read her mind, his reply came back.
I’m here on a working vacation.
Oh, that explained it. What was wrong with her? It didn’t matter where Jenson was. It wasn’t like she had to keep tabs on him. He was a freelancer. He owed her his designs—nothing more. Still, she found herself typing a response before she realized what she was doing.
That’s where I’m from! Say hello for me.
Like he’d needed that information. She turned on the TV to resist the temptation to text further.
A game show was in the process of wrapping up when the screen flickered to life. A man in a dinner jacket and pants stood beside a woman in a ball gown, clapping while the credits rolled. The whole design needed updating. Not just the sets and show, but the design of the credits. The eighties-flashback lime green and white text turned Bailey’s stomach.
The Windsor ad spot would come on any minute. She perched on the edge of the sofa while she waited.
Finally, the show ended and a man in a tux moved onto the screen. He gave a small, knowing sort of smile to his TV viewers.
“Don’t you ever want to get away? To be treated like the royal you truly are?” He spoke in a clipped, British accent, but he didn’t come across as uptight. Instead, he seemed to understand the audience. “At Windsor, you’ll be pampered from the instant you arrive until you depart for the airport and your return journey.” As he spoke, he walked the glorious Windsor grounds, paused by a gorgeous waterfall with a backdrop of the Arizona desert, and strolled past a couple receiving hot stone massages. “You’ll leave it all behind.”
Then the actor moved into another scene—one where a woman relaxed on a chaise, staring up at a starry sky, while a waiter brought her champagne.
“Windsor . . . channel your inner royal.”
And then the commercial ended, with Bailey’s design and Jenson’s perfect font.
“Oh my gosh! Awesome!” She clapped her hands together in rapid succession. Not only did the design look great, but they’d kept her idea for a tagline—channel your inner royal. “Yay! It looks wonderful!”
She threw her arms around Duncan, cuddling him close. He licked her cheek in response. His whole, heated body wiggled against her. “Champagne time!”
Bailey had gotten into the habit of keeping several mini bottles of pink champagne at the ready. Even if it was just she and Duncan, she needed to celebrate the good things. The Windsor project unequivocally fell into that category.
She was halfway through her first toast—she with some bubbly, Duncan with a fresh bowl of water—when her phone dinged. She glanced down. Mmm, Windsor.
Great work on this project. The spot just aired and we’ve already had 3000 website hits!
Bailey blinked. Wow, really? She fired off a quick response.
That’s incredible news. Now the world will know about Windsor. J
Yes, and it’s your design that did the job. Expect an extra bonus in your bank account for the work. Did you know the font is trending on Twitter?
“What?”
Duncan nudged Bailey’s knee as she opened Twitter and viewed the Trends For You section. There it was! #windsorfont sat at the bottom of the trending list. “No way, Duncan. It was mentioned by @badasstypophile! That dude never likes anything!”
She keyed a response to Windsor. Thank you so much for your generosity. I do subcontract out my font work, but I’ll be sure to share your praise and half of whatever’s deposited into my account.
It was generous of her. Probably more than a lot of other designers would do. But her dad always said an honest day’s work was the only kind of work worth doing. Jenson had designed something incredible on the Windsor project. He deserved to be compensated as much as Bailey did.
Then we’ll double the deposit. Our thanks to your subcontractor.
Wow. Bailey forced herself to take ten calming breaths, counting each in her head. Only when she’d finished did she allow herself to log on to her bank account. There it was. A pending four-thousand-dollar deposit. It might not seem like much to other people, but to Bailey, half of it was enough to cover her rent for a month and pay her utilities, too.
She tapped out a quick text. Thank you, again.
She skimmed Twitter for a moment, noting how #windsorfont had already climbed the trending ranks. Amazing how people spent time talking about a font. But there it was.
Bailey closed the app and decided to let Jenson know. She fired off one more text.
Great news! Windsor ad a success. I’ll be wiring $2k into your account tomorrow, courtesy of our happy client.
After sending the text, she set her phone down. She wanted to talk to someone about the ad and Windsor’s success, but she had no one—save Duncan, and he didn’t understand design. Or English. The funny thing was, she wished she could talk to Jenson.
Her phone dinged once more and she lunged for it. The text wasn’t from Jenson, but from Stan Steinhauer, the president of Windsor.
Ms. Parker, we’re being interviewed by the local paper regarding the ad you helped design for us. We’d like the name of the typeface designer. We plan to plug both of you.
Bailey bolted to an upright position in her bed. Yes! So much free publicity for Bailey Parker Designs. It was exactly what her business needed. The promo would probably set Jenson up with work for life. She typed a quick reply.
That’s wonderful. His name is Jenson Keats.
A ball of warmth formed i
n her stomach as she typed his name. What was wrong with her? Why was she spending so much time thinking about Jenson?
She was a professional and Jenson was an employee. She really needed to get a life which involved more than her computer and her dog.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Asher
Ash ended his morning jog when he reached the palace courtyard. As he leaned over to catch his breath, he noted how the wide, pale bricks tinted with gold rose up to form a smooth facade. Lions flanked the entryway on either side of the wide staircase of twenty steps, which led to the grand, oak front door. When Ash was younger, he’d been afraid of the lions. His mother had gripped his hand, telling him that it was quite all right for princes to be afraid, as long as they faced those fears in the end. Ash had wanted to ask when “the end” would happen, but he never had.
The end had come too soon for Mother and Father. Hopefully, they’d faced down their own fears.
He passed one of the penguins, on his way to the morning room and breakfast. He’d released fifty servants from their posts the previous week. Ash had hoped to release fifty more, but things got tricky when five generations of family members were involved. He wasn’t just ending someone’s job, but destroying a tradition.
His phone vibrated in his pocket as he walked. More texts from Bailey, most likely. They’d texted most of yesterday about the ad spot success and the two-thousand-dollar bonus from Windsor. Unfortunately, that amount was a drop in the bucket in his world, even with the favorable Florican exchange rate.
Right then, his work with Bailey and the revenue from some of the fonts he’d sold online were the only things keeping his home functioning and his servants paid. The Historical Society loomed even closer.
Inside the morning room, the queen sat behind a large desk made of bamboo. She’d had it commissioned on one of her many trips to Vietnam. Grandmother was well known for her love of travel. Since Ash’s Grandfather died, nearly ten years before, she’d stopped going on trips at all. Ash didn’t like that change. Yet, he couldn’t encourage her. Their combined finances wouldn’t permit it. He much preferred the notion of letting Grandmother live comfortably for the rest of her life.
“Grandmother.” Ash didn’t need to work to pull up a smile.
“Asher, darling.” She rounded the desk and moved to hug him. She must’ve realized how sweaty he’d become from his run, however, for she settled for a brief pat on the shoulder instead. “Let’s take a walk in the gardens, shall we? It’s such a fine day.”
“Of course.” He looped his arm through hers, noting how she leaned into him, ever so slightly. It’s wasn’t much, but it was different from before. The grandmother he’d always known—no, the queen he’d always known—had never allowed herself to rely on anyone. That was new and, if Ash was honest with himself, unsettling.
He led Grandmother through a set of double doors on their right and into the gardens. The queen’s guard followed silently. Too many of them, by his count, but then he supposed he couldn’t put a price on the queen’s safety
“Grandmother, I must speak with you about something.”
She smiled, patting his arm. “A happy coincidence, for I must speak with you, as well. I think these will do nicely for a conversation starter, don’t you think?” She gestured to one of the nearby tables, where seven tabloids had been spread. Ash scanned their headlines.
Florico’s Prince Works Hard for the Money
Prince “Ash” Gets a Job
A Match Made Online
Prince Ash’s Side Hustle
Is Florico in Financial Trouble?
The Prince and the Graphic Designer
The Prince Playboy at It Again
Ash’s stomach lurched. The last two featured a collage containing images of Ash and pics of Bailey. He should have known it would happen. It always did.
The press always found out.
CHAPTER NINE
Bailey
The loud pounding sound kept repeating over and over. Whoever it was needed to stop. It was too early. Bailey had no idea what time it was, but she’d just gone to bed, after all.
“Ms. Parker.” The rapping continued and Bailey’s foggy brain registered it was the door. Someone was knocking on her door. She had a visitor.
Duncan lifted his head, gave a single, deep woof, and went back to sleep.
“A lot of help you are,” she muttered.
More rapping. Louder that time. “Ms. Parker, please.”
“Coming.” Stifling a groan, she rolled out of bed and shrugged into her bathrobe. She checked the peephole. An older gentleman with sandy hair stood outside. Oh my God. Jenson. It was Jenson.
“Jenson? What are you doing here? How did you find me?” Bailey did her best to try to make her voice sound deeper and hopefully intimidating. Of course, since her voice was too high pitched most of the time, she failed. She managed to sound like a little kid playing grown-up.
“Forgive the intrusion. I know you think you know me. My name is Jenson Keats, but I am not the man you’ve been working with.”
She gripped the doorknob tighter. “What are you talking about?”
Jenson cleared his throat. “If you’ll permit me to slide an envelope under the door, you may see for yourself.”
Bailey stared through the peephole. He didn’t seem like he could hurt anything, but appearances could be deceiving. On the other hand, if she didn’t find out what he had in the envelope at least, she’d never know.
“Tell me who it’s from first.”
Jenson grimaced. “Perhaps you’d better just read it.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “Okay, fine. Send it over.”
There was the brief scratching sound of paper on tile before a cream envelope appeared at Bailey’s feet. Bending down, she snatched it up and opened the letter.
Dear Ms. Parker,
As you have been so inclined as to employ my grandson for such a time, I thought perhaps we might discuss recent events. My servant, Jenson Keats, will escort you to Florico via private plane. You would then, of course, be my guest at the Winter Palace for as long as you desire.
Sincerely,
HRM Queen Vanessa of Florico
Bailey stared at the letter, the wheels in her mind spinning. “Is this some kind of joke? I don’t know who you think you are—”
“Tell me you’ve checked your phone recently? Social media?” Jenson’s voice carried through the door.
“I’ve been sleeping. You woke me up.”
“I am very sorry, but perhaps you might check your phone. Hopefully, at that point, you’ll feel so inclined as to open your front door and invite me in.”
She grabbed her phone and pressed the power button. Several moments later, the dings began. Dozens of texts from Windsor, news hits, tweets, and more popped up in her notifications window. Then the emails began. Ding! Ding! Ding! The sounds fought with one another as her overloaded mailbox made itself known.
She bypassed all of it in favor of a Google Alert for Bailey Parker Designs. The headline read Bailey Parker and Her Secret Prince. Her finger poised in midair, she forced herself to move it forward and press the link.
The related article displayed in an instant.
Newswire—Florico City
June 15
When Stan Steinhauer, president of Windsor Spas, hired a graphic designer to redesign his logo and tagline, he never imagined the response he’d receive from the public. “We did what a lot of businesses do. We researched and hired a design firm.” In this case, the firm they chose was Bailey Parker Designs, a boutique graphic design firm based in New York and run by a creative of the same name.
“We never imagined that our new commercial would have the impact it has. Our entire business model has shifted. Our stock has quadrupled.”
The initial buzz was generated all because of the typeface used in the design. The “Royal” typeface became an instant hit with popular twitter account @BadAssTypophile and his 75k followers. These peop
le take love of type to a new level.
“But what really changed the game is when Bailey told us she subcontracted her font work. She provided us with the person’s name because we wanted to thank him or her, but she had no other information. Initially, we had no luck finding him, until everything came together. That’s when we learned that Bailey had been subcontracting her work to royalty!”
Many are speculating about why Asher Tarrington, the crown prince of Florico, would take a job in the first place. Is it finances? The need for distraction after his parents’ deaths? The only thing we all know for sure is that the world is going to be keeping a close eye on Prince Asher and his boss, Ms. Bailey Parker.
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“Oh my God,” Bailey said to the empty room. Her attention homed in on Prince Asher’s picture. That was the man she’d been employing for months?
“Look out your window.”
Bailey jumped when Jenson spoke from the other side of the door. She’d almost forgotten about him. With slow steps, she crossed the room and raised one corner of a single slat on the mini-blinds covering her living room window.
Dozens of people were in the street outside her building. They all had cameras and phones. There was even a police line.
She crossed the room, flicked all five deadbolts, and swung the door open. On the other side stood an older man, dressed in a navy suit. His sandy-blond hair had been cropped close and combed. His blue eyes twinkled as he held out his hand. “Jenson Keats, Ms. Parker.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bailey frowned. “Do I curtsy or something?”
Jenson laughed. “Not to me. I am only a servant. When you meet The Queen, however, a curtsy would be most appropriate.”
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