We met eyes across the table. My body hummed with energy. Anticipation. I couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad feeling.
“Nice place,” she said, glancing at the room around us.
“Nice dress,” I said.
Her mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
I ordered a bottle of Château Lafite Rothschild and waited until we were through our first glass to start feeling Emily out.
“So tell me about you,” I said. “What you’ve been up to since university.”
Emily tilted her head and peered at me from the corner of her eye. “Why do I get the feeling I’m being interviewed again?”
I’d forgotten how smart she was. Of course she’d see through this whole charade.
Still. I wasn’t ready to show her my cards just yet.
“You’re not.” I cleared my throat for the hundredth time. “It’s just been a while, that’s all. I read your résumé and went through your portfolio. Incredible work. You started your own firm?”
She looked at me for another beat. Then she leaned forward and settled her forearms on the table. She slid the stem of her glass between her first and middle fingers, giving it a quick twirl. I got the feeling she didn’t want to talk about her business. Why? She’d been so excited about it in class. So hungry for the chance to get out in the world and do something.
Emily sighed. “I did. I started it right after I graduated, as a matter of fact. Well, I started with a blog, really. And as luck would have it, 2007 turned out to be the beginning of a golden age for blogging. I got small projects at first. You know, readers hiring me to give their apartments some personality. But I worked hard to get my name out there—”
“Using the marketing strategies you learned in my class, obviously.”
“Obviously,” she said, the edges of her mouth curling upward. “And a few years later, business started to boom. I hired my first assistant, Aly. We got so busy I had to hire three more. Running your own business is hard, don’t get me wrong. But I loved every minute of it.”
I sipped my wine, meeting Emily’s eyes. “You said ‘loved’—past tense.”
She shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable. The weariness I’d seen in her eyes earlier was back. No, it wasn’t weariness—it was sadness.
It was a broken heart.
“My husband and I got divorced last year. Because we were married when I’d started EP Designs, he owned a fifty percent stake in the business.”
I already saw where this was going. “That’s a shit rule.”
“No kidding. But it’s the law, so...” Emily took a big gulp of wine. “Anyway. I tried to buy him out of his fifty percent—buy back his stake in the business. Luke wanted more, though.”
My heart throbbed, once, sending an almost audible rush of blood through my skin. “Is this the same Luke—”
“Yes.” She nodded, falling back into the booth. “He said he wouldn’t sell me his stake for less than one hundred and fifty percent of its value. Which of course was just the amount that would put us, as a business, on life support. But I had no choice. I wanted Luke out of the picture for good. So I paid his price. It broke me, and he knew it. He wanted EP Designs to limp and die a slow, painful death. And that is exactly what’s happened.”
I set down my glass and looked at her. I felt terribly for her. I did, truly. But that didn’t stop the triumph from blooming inside my chest.
I’d just found out how to get Emily to agree to my insane proposition. Knowing I’d help revive the firm she clearly loved also made me feel like slightly less of a dickwad for what I was about to ask. I wanted Emily to find success. She deserved it.
“EP Designs is going bankrupt?” I asked carefully.
“Yes, unfortunately.” She nodded again, blinking hard. “This trip is our last hurrah before our doors close for good. I tried everything I could to dig us out of the hole Luke put us in, but…” Her eyes flicked to meet mine. “It wasn’t enough.”
The waiter returned. I ordered some oysters and another bottle of wine.
“I’m curious,” I said when he left. “What would you need to get EP Designs back on its feet?”
Emily puckered her lips to the side side, shrugging. She looked down at her wine. “Right now? Probably close to two hundred grand. Something ridiculous like that.”
“Done.”
Her gaze darted to my face. “What?”
“I said it’s done.” I dabbed at my mouth with my napkin. “I’ll give you the two hundred k, plus the School for the Arts commission.”
Emily was staring at me like I’d just told her I was pregnant.
“That’s not very funny, Kit.”
I put my hands on the table. “I wasn’t joking, Emily.”
Her lips moved, like she was practicing what she was about to say in her head.
“So you’re just…you’re just going to swoop in and save my company. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“That’s what I hope to do, yes.”
I watched the long, elegant lines of her throat move as she swallowed. “What do you want in return?”
“I want you to marry me.”
Emily’s eyes bulged. “You’re still not joking, are you?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Oh my God,” she replied. She reached for her glass and drained it. Her cheeks had gone a vibrant shade of pink. “But…Jesus, where do I even start? I’m not princess material. I’m divorced. I have a job. Princesses don’t have jobs, Kit. How can you give me money so I can keep my business open—”
“We’re not talking about a real marriage, of course,” I said. That seemed to relax her. I leaned in and lowered my voice. “This engagement would be fake. A show. My family is in a bit of a bind. I don’t know if you’ve seen the headlines about my sister—”
“I’ve seen them.”
“So you know that Jane’s behavior is turning public opinion against us. And public opinion matters because it’s where we get our power, Emily. Our influence. My parents taught me to use that power and influence for good. I’d like to think I’ve done a lot of good over the years.”
“You have,” Emily said quietly. “Everyone I know loves you. Although that could have something to do with…well…” She shook her palm in my general direction.
I smirked. “With what?”
She smirked right back. “Your personality, of course.”
She was doing it again. Talking to me like I was a friend, not a future monarch. I felt my lips pulling into a grin.
“My personality? But I haven’t got one of those,” I teased. “At least according to the press. They call me the Ice Prince.”
Emily’s smirk faded. “It’s your eyes. I noticed they can be a little…cold sometimes. Closed off.”
Of course she’d noticed. But I wasn’t here to have that conversation. I was here to convince Emily Kilpatrick to be my fake fiancée.
Focus. I was focusing on the right thing.
So far, so good.
“We need a distraction. Something that will get us back in the public’s good graces so we can keep doing our work. We’ve learned from experience that a royal engagement does just the trick.”
Emily blinked. “That still doesn’t answer my question about having a job and being divorced. I’d make a terrible princess.”
“You’re looking at those things as weaknesses, Emily, when really they’re your strengths in this situation. So you work. You have a past. You’re lovely, but you’re not perfect. People can relate to that. And that’s exactly what we need—someone relatable and down to earth.”
Emily studied my face. “How are people supposed to feel about you, then?”
The waiter arrived with our wine. The air between Emily and I tightened as we watched him uncork the bottle and sample it. He seemed to be moving especially slow this evening. At last—thank Jesus—he left us alone.
I dove right back in. “What do you mean?”
“You
seem to be pretty damn near perfect,” she replied. “Perfect, hardworking prince. Perfect brother. Perfect heir.”
I looked down as I swirled the wine in my glass. “Believe me, I’m far from it.” I took a sip. “As to your question about the job situation—you are correct. If you and I were actually going to get married, you would need to give up your career. There’s not enough hours in the day to work a civilian job while also fulfilling your duties as a member of the royal family. People have tried to do both. But in the end, you’d need to be one-hundred-percent committed to the monarchy for this family to function and maintain our ability to do good work. We’re a fighting force, Emily. It’s all hands on deck, all the time.”
Emily nodded thoughtfully. “I get it. I could never give up my career, but I get why someone would do it.” She looked at me. “I can’t imagine what the pressure must be like.”
“You get used to it,” I replied. Another rote answer. Another half-lie.
“Do you ever get scared you’ll fuck it up? Not to imply you ever would. But sounds like you walk a thin line.”
I met her eyes. All the time, I wanted to say. I was scared out of my mind all the time I’d fuck up. I was up on a pedestal, all by myself. I dealt with competing objectives every day. Put on a smile while doing important but often tedious, dull work. Make my siblings happy while keeping them in line. Always put the prince above the person.
One wrong step, and the whole house of cards could tumble down.
“It is difficult,” I said. What a rubbish reply. But opening up to Emily—telling her how I really felt—seemed like a dangerous precedence to set. “So. What do you say? Will you play the part?”
Emily stared at me. “I don’t get any time to think it over?”
“You’ll get time if you want it.” I folded my napkin and set it back down on my lap. “But you know this is a good trade for you. Three months in exchange for your entire future. I’ll be by your side every step of the way. I’ll do everything in my power to protect you. I’ll make it worth your while, Emily. I promise.”
Her eyes, darker now, narrowed. I’d forgotten just how lovely she looked when she was thinking. It’d been an admittedly bold move to imply she already had her answer. But I knew Emily. At least I’d known her a while ago. Some things about her had changed. But that ambitious streak of hers—the one I’d known so well—I was betting that hadn’t.
Emily put a hand to her neck. “Will I have to live with you?”
“Yes.” She winced. “I know. It’s weird. But Primrose Palace is a fortress. You’ll be safe there. Part of the contract—”
“There’s a contract?”
“Of course. That way you know what to expect. I’ll email it to you when we’re done with dinner. Even if you verbally agree tonight, you won’t be legally bound to anything until you sign the contract. Fair enough?”
After a beat, Emily tipped her head. “Fair enough.”
“Is that a yes?”
Another beat passed. Then another. For half a second I worried I’d made a mistake. Maybe she’d burst into laughter and tell me to stick my inane proposal up my ass.
I didn’t want to do this any more than she did. But we both had our reasons. Good reasons. Reasons that mattered.
“It is.” She nodded. “Yes. Subject to review of the contract, I’ll be your pretend princess.”
I nearly choked on my mine. Holy fuck. This was actually happening.
I put the glass down. “Brilliant. Thank you.”
Was that relief I felt? Or anxiety? You’d think I’d be able to tell, considering the two were complete opposites.
“When do we start?” Emily asked.
Swallowing the thump of my heart, I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.
“Right now.”
Chapter Eight
Emily
A surge of panic tore through me as the dry warmth of Kit’s palm seeped into the back of my hand. I looked down at our hands; his was enormous, with well-made fingers and a network of sinewy veins popping up against the skin.
I didn’t mind being touched by guys, as long as it was 1) consensual, 2) shamelessly sexual, and 3) meaningless. In fact, I really liked to be touched in just the right place during a hookup. The curious fingers, the impatient hands, the hot squeeze—I loved it all.
But I absolutely, positively hated being touched like this—gently and sweetly. Ever since my divorce, this kind of relationship-y crap—especially hand holding—set my teeth on edge. It made me feel vulnerable. Foolish.
I was not going to let another guy make a fool of me.
Kit must’ve sensed my discomfort, because he pulled away, glancing around to make sure no one was watching. If people saw me clam up when we touched, our fake relationship would be over before it even started.
“I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if it was okay to touch you.” He furrowed his brow, clearly confused. “Are you all right?”
I knew that if we were going to sell this thing—if we were going to convince the world we’d fallen head over heels in love—Kit and I were going to have to touch each other in a lovey-dovey, committed-relationship kind of way. And with the future of EP Designs on the line, I had to get it done.
I reminded myself to keep breathing. It was all fake. All for show.
My heart drummed. Could I really do this?
I used to think that if my divorce hadn’t killed me, nothing could. The past two years had been absolute hell. I was proud that I’d made it to the other side. But I’d clearly not made it unscathed.
I hated that Luke still had sway over me like this. Could I ever get that part of myself back? The part that trusted people not to hurt me the way he had?
Looking into Kit’s eyes—the ice was still there, but it looked a little less sharp, a little less cold—I wondered what he’d done with his pain. Had he thoughtfully and deliberately processed it the way a healthy person would? Or had he swallowed it like me, allowing the hurt to eat away at him from the inside out?
I shoved the question aside. Kit’s personal life was none of my business. That was a line I would not—could not—cross.
“I’m fine,” I said, grabbing my menu. “Should we order something to eat? I’m starving.”
* * *
Later that night, I checked my inbox to see an email from Kit.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
SUBJECT: ENGAGEMENT CONTRACT (Marked Confidential)
FROM THE DESK OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE CHRISTOPHER
Emily—Thank you for joining me for dinner tonight. And for agreeing to my proposal, as ludicrous as it is. Desperate times call for fake engagements. At least in my family.
I am attaching the contract we discussed. Our lawyers asked that I highlight the following clauses:
The engagement shall last ninety days
Both parties are to appear genuinely in love at all royal appearances
Beyond required public displays of affection, there shall be no contact of any kind between the parties
The first half of your payment will be deposited into your account upon the signing of this contract. Be sure to note your ring size. We would like to make prompt delivery of the family emerald. The Queen and I thank you in advance for your discretion.
Cheers,
Kit
P.S.—Sorry to hear about your divorce. Your ex sounds like a proper knob head.
P.P.S—You looked stunning tonight.
I ignored the delicious little somersault my stomach did as I read that last part. Kit was just trying to charm me; I hadn’t signed anything.
Yet.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if his knob head reference was a throwback to the conversation we’d had that afternoon ten years ago. He’d made me laugh when I was hurting.
Just like he was making me smile now. What red-blooded woman didn’t like being complimented by a handsome guy? Even if that guy was total
ly, contractually off limits.
With a sigh, I clicked on the attachment to open it. I couldn’t forget this arrangement wasn’t about cutesy emails or compliments. It was about saving EP Designs. Saving my future, and Aly’s too.
* * *
The thin metal headband slid into place behind my ears. I shivered.
“All right. You can open your eyes now.”
I did as I was told, blinking at my reflection in the three way mirror. I took in the perfectly tailored day dress and coat, the shiny new pumps, the cheeky fascinator on my head.
For several beats I just stared, a startled smile playing at my lips.
It had been a week since I’d signed the contract. Before the ink was even dry, I was sent into an intensive royal-in-training program. I took classes on dinner conversation (really) and diplomacy. I met about a hundred secretaries. Press secretaries, private secretaries, secretaries whose entire job seemed to be overseeing Kit’s wardrobe.
But it was worth the trouble. The contract stipulated EP Designs would receive half the two-hundred-thousand dollar payout now, half when the engagement was over. The money had been deposited into our account two days ago. Which was huge. Already I was picking up where our business left off before things went south.
A few months back, Lord and Lady Pearce had tried to hire us to restore their family’s property, Stallings Castle. We hadn’t been able to afford to take it on then. With Kit’s big chunk of change in our account, however, we were back in business. I’d called Lord Pearce as soon as the transfer was complete. Luckily, he hired us on the spot.
Speaking of wardrobe. Today’s styling session at a posh department store in Kensington was definitely my favorite part of princess training. A clothing allowance that was three times my monthly rent back home—well. It did not suck, not one bit.
I bit my lip. “I look…”
Sloan, the stylist the palace had hired for me, grinned. “Like a princess?”
I glanced over my shoulder in the mirror. Aly sat on a bench in the corner of the dressing room. Arms and legs crossed, foot bobbing, gaze sharp with judgment—yeah, she was definitely not feeling this get-up.
Royal Ruin Page 6
