by Shéa MacLeod
To Kiss A Prince
Notting Hill Diaries 0.5
Shéa MacLeod
To Kiss a Prince
Notting Hill Diaries: Book 0.5
Text copyright © 2015 Shéa MacLeod
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Art by Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Designs
Editing by Theo Fenraven
Proof reading by Jenx Byron
Formatted by PyperPress
License Notes:
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Publisher's Note:
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Anna's life is falling apart. First she gets fired—totally not her fault!—and then she comes home to find her boyfriend in bed with the neighbor. But a job offer across the Pond gives her the perfect excuse to chuck it all and start again. As the nanny of adorable twins, she finds her new boss, Bella, cold and oh-so-proper, but Notting Hill is nothing short of magical. And as Valentine's Day approaches, Anna realizes anything is possible. Even capturing the heart of a prince.
Chapter 1
"I'm sorry, Anna, but we're going to have to let you go."
I blinked once. Twice. "You're firing me?" I couldn't help the slight edge of panic that crept into my voice. How could Mr. Bain be firing me?
Mr. Bain held out his pudgy hands in supplication. "Now, Anna. This isn't a firing exactly. It's just that with this economy… well, we don't have the budget to continue employing an art teacher. It's not… essential."
"The economy? Are you serious?" The economy was finally on the upswing. That's why they'd hired me in the first place. I'd only been here six months, and it was the first full-time job I'd managed to get since graduating.
"You'll get two weeks' severance pay, of course," he assured me. "And an excellent reference."
"Oh, gee, thanks." Because that would go so far.
"And I'm certain you can get unemployment."
"Fantastic." I jumped to my feet. "If that's all, I've got a class to teach."
Mr. Bain cleared his throat. "This is effective immediately, Anna. We'll be, ah, mailing your check."
I narrowed my eyes. "This is because of that nasty witch, Lala Yarrow, isn't it?" What the hell kind of name was "Lala" anyway?
Bain cleared his throat again and refused to meet my gaze. "I really can't say…."
"Oh, please," I snapped. "You and I both know she's had it in for me ever since that blasted husband of hers tried to grope me." Blake Yarrow had picked up their daughter, Emily, from school one day and caught me in the classroom alone. His so-called romantic advances had been clumsy and more than unwelcome, but ever since, Lala had been out for blood. I'd known she'd never be satisfied until she got me fired, and I was right. Of course, being right about that didn't exactly feel good. I would have been fine with being wrong for once.
"Anna, please," Bain said with a weak smile. "I don't have a choice."
I snorted. "Whatever. Have yourself a Merry freaking Christmas, Mr. Bain." And with that I stormed out of Mr. Bain's office and down the hall toward the art room. Six months. Six whole months at Portland Prep. I'd been so lucky to get the job. Teaching art to kids had been my dream since I was a kid myself, and to score a position at the prestigious prep school had been a dream come true. And now here I was again, jobless. I wasn't sure whether to be angry, humiliated, or scared.
I strode to the art closet and pulled out a paper grocery bag. They made such great drop cloths and could be used for a variety of interesting projects. This time they'd carry my belongings home with me.
Stomping over to my desk, I swept my few personal items into the sack. With a last look around, I heaved a sigh and slipped on my coat. Then I purposefully strode out the door, down the hall, and out into the weak winter sunshine. At least it wasn't raining.
I climbed into my car, a beat-up old Toyota Corolla from the previous decade, suddenly feeling lost. This job was everything I'd ever worked for, and they'd thrown me out because some jealous bitch couldn't deal with her philandering husband. I let out a frustrated scream and punched the steering wheel, which only left me with a bruised knuckle and a scratchy throat, and scared a woman who was walking her dog. I gave her an apologetic smile and wave, but she hurried on like I might hop out of my car and stab her to death.
With a shake of my head, I started the car and headed home. Home. I couldn't wait to get my pajamas on and curl up with a glass of wine. Forget this day ever happened. Tomorrow I would focus on finding a new job, but tonight, I'd wallow.
Halfway to my dinky apartment on the outskirts of the city, I realized home was the last place I wanted to go. I needed to talk this out. Get my frustrations off my chest. A quick glance at the dashboard clock (subtracting two hours and fifteen minutes, since the doohickey that changed the time had snapped off) told me it was just past noon. Good. My boyfriend, Neil, should still be home. He was a chef, and the restaurant he worked at was only open for dinner and special events.
Instead of getting on the freeway leading out of town, I turned toward North Portland. Neil lived in one of the adorable Portland-style homes in a neighborhood that had once been run down but was now getting gentrified. You could still get a house for a decent price, as long as you didn't mind putting some elbow grease into it. Neil had bought his house eight months ago after we started dating. He'd yet to put any elbow grease into it, but I could imagine how fabulous it would be when it was finished. I kept begging him to let me paint the interior. He'd promised I could in the New Year. I could hardly wait.
I wished he'd let me do it before Christmas. I imagined the entry hall painted in cranberry red with swags of evergreen garlands mixed with gold ribbon and twinkling lights wrapped around the bannister. There would be patchwork stockings hanging from the brick fireplace mantle and a perfect Christmas tree in the bay window. Maybe I'd paint a mural in the dining room or stick with an interesting shade of green. No dining room should be red, so cranberry there and green in the living room. Vintage posters of Santa would be perfect in the living room. Maybe something Victorian. Yes, it would be perfect.
I sighed. Instead it was a week until Christmas, and Neil's walls were still a dingy magnolia, the floorboards needed refinishing in the worst way, and he hadn't put up so much as a wreath. Meanwhile my dinky apartment looked like Christmas had thrown up inside. Between the tiny potted Christmas tree with the miniature handmade ornaments (created by yours truly) and the strings of Christmas cards (some vintage, some actually sent to me) across the doorways, it was a spot of cheer in the midst of what was turning out to be a dreary Yuletide.
Ah, well. Maybe Neil would let me decorate for Valentine's Day. He might be my prince charming, but lately we hadn't seen much of each other thanks to his busy schedule. We could both use a little more romance in our lives.
Neil's midnight blue BMW was parked in his cracked driveway. I made a mental note to add new driveway to his never-ending list of home repairs. I noticed the houses on either side of him sported Christmas lights and wreaths, and made another mental note to try to convince him to at least put up something in the spirit of the season.
The front steps creaked ominously under my booted feet and surprisingly, the door was unlocked. Neil never left the door unlocked. I stuck my key back in my purse, suddenly worried. Had something happened?
I pushed the door opened cautiously. No squeaks. He'd finally oiled the hin
ges. My boots echoed on the scarred hardwood floors as I entered the living room. There was no sign of my boyfriend.
"Neil?" No answer. That uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach intensified. Maybe he was sick or something? Had someone broken in? The door didn't look like it had been forced.
I made my way to the kitchen at the back of the house. There was an open bottle of wine on the counter, which was unusual seeing as it was the middle of the day, and he had to be at work in a couple hours, but there was still no sign of Neil.
I walked back through the living room and started up the stairs. I heard Neil's voice, a faint rumble, and let out a sigh of relief. He was okay. He must be in his office on the phone or something.
I took the stairs quickly and poked my head through the open doorway of his office. Empty. Bedroom then.
The door was closed, so I pushed it open and stepped inside. "Neil, you'll never…" My voice trailed off. I suddenly found myself unable to speak. All I could do was stare at the sight of Neil's bare ass pistoning in the air while a woman writhed below him. A very naked woman. A very naked woman who was not me.
I found my voice. "What the fuck, Neil?"
He froze. The woman opened her eyes and stared at me.
"Dios," she whispered. "I think it's your girlfriend."
Neil rolled off her so fast you'd have thought his butt was on fire. He clutched a pillow to his privates, for which I was grateful. Because right about then I wanted nothing more than to take a carving knife to them. No sense tempting fate.
"Anna," he gulped, his face almost as white as the pillow he was clutching. "Sweetheart. What are you doing here?"
"Oh, I don't know," I said with dripping sarcasm. "I had a bad day and wanted to talk to my boyfriend about it."
"Why didn't you call first?"
"You're seriously asking me this right now?"
"This isn't what it looks like," he said.
"It isn't? Oh, good. Because what it looks like is you're fucking your married neighbor."
He flushed scarlet, but I could tell the woman was trying to hold back a laugh. I shot her a glare.
"Sorry," she whispered. I wasn't sure if she was apologizing for laughing or for playing naked mambo with my boyfriend. "I think I'd better leave."
"Yeah, I think that's a good idea," I said. Neil didn't say anything.
The woman jumped out of bed and strode across the room, seemingly unworried about her state of undress. Couldn't say I blamed her. She was one hot tamale and clearly knew that. She was also clearly unbothered by the ring on her finger or the fact that the man she'd gotten naked with was involved with another woman. In this case, me. I felt like I should hate her, but I was still having visions of Neil's junk and sharp kitchen equipment.
Neil's neighbor, whose name I couldn't remember—Maria, Sofia, something like that—slipped on her jeans and sweater, snagged her ballet flats off the floor, and padded toward the door. She turned to give Neil a long, slow, sultry look. The slut.
"Later, Neil," she purred. Then she was gone. The front door slammed.
"I can explain."
I glared at him. "Why don't you explain how long this has been going on?"
"Uh, not long." He edged toward the pile of clothes on the floor.
"How long?"
"Um, since right after you started your job."
"Six months?" I all but screeched. "This has been going on for six months?"
He shrugged, which infuriated me even more. He wasn't sorry. Just sorry he'd gotten caught. I knew then without a doubt that Maria Sofia Whatsername probably wasn't the first. In fact, she probably wasn't the only. No doubt I was just one of many women. No wonder he'd kept putting me off about helping him decorate the place and why most of the time we got together at my place. Hell, the only reason I had a key was because he'd given me one so I could housesit while he was away over Thanksgiving, and I'd forgotten to give it back.
"You know what, Neil," I said, working his key off my keychain. "You are not worth my time." I tossed the key at him. It smacked his chest and fell to the floor. "Have a nice life."
I stormed out his bedroom door, down the stairs, and out of his life. I didn't let a single tear fall until I was safe inside my own apartment.
# # #
New Year's Eve sucks when you're alone. Seriously. Every other movie is about gorgeous couples having meet-cutes in the most unlikely circumstances and winding up together to toast in the New Year. Real life couples gush about parties and plans. Even the damn diamond industry has to get in on the deal, suggesting romantic propositions complete with their particular brand of jewelry.
I was supposed to be at a swanky party with Neil. Some rich guy from the West Hills had invited him. I was to be his plus one. Naturally, that was out of the question. My family wasn't big on partying for New Year's, and most of my friends were having a romantic night with their significant others or headed out to clubs. I supposed I could party crash or hit up a club, but I wasn't in the mood.
Instead, I sat alone like Bridget Jones with a bottle of cheap wine and the TV turned to Times Square. It was on mute, but I wanted to watch the ball drop, see those idiots kissing random strangers. Feel sorry for myself. I took another gulp of wine.
My laptop was open. I'd been giving my credit card a bit of a workout. Not that I could afford it, of course. But I needed some art supplies, and shopping made me feel better. It wasn't something I indulged in often, but this was an exceptional case.
A chime sounded. Email alert. With a sigh I picked up the laptop and clicked open the email.
"Dear Ms. Lucas," it began. "It has come to my attention you are seeking employment teaching art to young students." I frowned. How did this person know? I hadn't even signed up on any employment sites yet. Maybe somebody at Portland Prep had sent out queries for me? I couldn't imagine who, except Mr. Bain. Probably he felt guilty. I kept reading. "You have excellent credentials and come highly recommended. As such I would like to offer you a most highly coveted position as nanny…."
Nanny? I was an art teacher, not a nanny. Okay, granted, I did have a degree in early childhood education along with the art degree, as did most teachers. But a nanny?
I scanned the rest of the email and drew in a breath. London. The job was in London. Notting Hill, to be precise.
Suddenly my head filled with images of my favorite romantic comedy movies: Bridget Jones's Diary, The Holiday, and Love, Actually. London. A new job, a new country, a new start. My mother would freak.
I read the rest of the email, which spelled out a generous salary as well as a few other particulars. Frankly, I'd stopped paying attention after the word "London." The email was signed Sylvia Cobb of Notting Hill Au Pairs.
I quickly clicked "reply" and began typing. "Dear Ms. Cobb. When can I start?"
Chapter 2
I stared out the window of the town car and watched the houses of London drift by. Drops of rain streaked across the glass, pushed by the wind. Nerves were at war with excitement. This was the start of my new life, thanks to Sylvia.
I still couldn't believe I was doing this. Desperate, I guessed. Sylvia had guaranteed me placement, which was good enough for the British Home Office. So, visa in hand, I had arrived at Heathrow that morning and gone straight to Notting Hill Au Pairs.
My first question, naturally, had been to ask how she'd known I needed a job. She'd given me a sly look and said, "I have my ways." Obviously, someone must have told her. Maybe she found my resume online.
I smiled as I remembered Sylvia and her booming laugh. She'd told me I was going to work for an "interesting woman."
"That sounds suspicious," I'd said, watching her closely. "Interesting" usually meant "difficult" in my world.
"Her sister and brother-in-law died. Left her their children. Can you imagine? She's never been married nor had children of her own, so she's a bit lost. Plus she's quite a busy woman with a successful company, so she needs help."
"And there weren'
t any British nannies?"
"She was quite particular about the requirements. Not so easy to find, believe you me." Sylvia eyed me. "You were perfect."
"If you say so."
She smiled. "Here are the address and particulars." She thrust a sheet of paper across the desk. "I have a car outside. Don't keep Ms. Talbot waiting. It makes her testy."
Wonderful. So, here I was, not only about to go work for Ms. Testy, but live with her too. I must have been mad to consider the position. Still, it seemed an excellent chance for adventure. Anything to get away from the memories crowding me at home.
Maybe I was running away, but I was okay with that. Sometimes running away was the smart thing to do, or so I tried to convince myself.
At last the car slid to a stop in front a fancy wrought iron gate. "Are you sure this is it?" I asked the driver, frowning up at the monstrous building. Granted it was a townhome typical of Notting Hill, not a detached house, but the only word to describe the place was "mansion." With its white stone facade and thick Roman pillars, it looked like it belonged in a movie set. I was used to working with people who had money, but this was a whole different level of wealth.
"I'm sure," the driver said evenly. "This is the Talbot house."
I swallowed. "Okay, then. Thanks for the lift."
"You want help with your luggage, miss?"
I stared at the two bags sitting beside me. I hadn't even let him put them in the trunk of the car. "I can manage." They were, after all, no more than carry-ons. I'd been hauling them all over airports. I hadn't bothered packing anything but clothes and makeup. I figured I could get the rest of the essentials in London, and whatever else I needed from home, my mom could ship me. Everything else had gone into storage.
He seemed relieved not to have to get out in the rain. "Very well, miss."
I really wished he'd stop calling me "miss." With a nod, I stepped out of the car and into the downpour. Shouldering my large canvas tote and extending the handle of my rolling bag, I ducked my head and scurried across the pavement to the gate. It was locked. Of course it was. There was a button with an intercom next to it. I pressed the button and then waited for what seemed like ages while cold water slid under my collar and down my back.
