Royally Crushed: A Crazy Royal Love, Book 1

by Summers, Melanie

  She rushes toward me, holding out her free hand. “There he is—the star of the soon-to-be most popular nature-slash-adventure docu-series in the entire universe! I’m Dylan Sinclair, the starmaker.” She gives my hand two firm pumps, lets go, and sucks back a few more gulps of her drink. “Oh, and your new showrunner-slash-director.”

  I stand in place, completely frozen as my brain slowly processes what she's just said. Glancing up and down her navy-blue high-powered suit and stiletto-clad feet, I try to imagine her jumping out of a helicopter into the Amazon River. Nope. Can’t picture it. “You're Dylan Sinclair.”

  “I certainly am.” Slamming back the remainder of her can, she tosses it with an impressive overhand shot into the garbage bin, then immediately produces another one from the side pocket of her suit jacket. “Red Bull?”

  “Thanks, but my mind is already racing fast enough.”

  Snapping her fingers, Dylan shouts, “Let's get this meeting started, shall we, people?” She walks over to the head of the table and starts fiddling with an iPad as the rest of us take our seats.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and send a group text to Tosh and Mac. WTF?

  Tosh glances at his smart watch, then looks at me and shrugs.

  “You are probably thinking to yourself ‘what the farts,’” Dylan says, giving me a knowing look.

  My face heats up and I suddenly panic that she might have somehow seen what I typed.

  “First off, let me say I was up literally all night watching every episode of your show, plus all of the extras, and every interview you've ever given. And not to gush, but I loved every second of it. Love, love, loved it all!”

  Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad after all. “Well, thank you. I really feel like we've got a winning formula here,” I say. “With a solid marketing push, we should be able to up our ratings.”

  “Yes. Yes!” Dylan yells, startling everyone at the table. She points at me. “This is the enthusiasm I'm looking for! This is exactly what is going to make you a star, mister! We take your natural rugged good looks and your penchant for adventure, and we revamp everything—except the beard. The beard stays, but everything else goes. And I mean everything.”

  “Excuse me?” I ask. “But if you love it so much, why would we have to change everything?”

  “Excellent question! It’s because what you’ve been doing has been done, William. People have already seen Bear Grylls and … and Jacques Cousteau … and that Jane Goodall woman doing what you do.”

  “Jane Goodall didn’t have a show. She studied chimps.”

  “But some of it was filmed,” she says dismissively. “Here’s the thing, and I really need you to hear me now, Will. We are not in a world where people watch what they’ve already seen. They want new. They want sexy. They want exciting. And that is exactly what we are going to give them.”

  My Spidey senses are tingling. I do not like the sound of this. “Umm, sorry, Dylan, I don’t want to come off as rude here. It’s just that, I only met you a few minutes ago, and you’re already talking about reinventing our entire show.”

  “Oh God. I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” She laughs, looking at Victor and Kira. “I have a tendency to jump in with both feet and forget I need to give other people time to catch up with me.” She finally sits down. “Let me give you a bit of background about me. I’m what you call a ‘fixer,’ which means when something is broken beyond what any other human considers repairable, they bring me in. I've made a career out of turning the biggest stink bombs in the U.K. into rose bushes. I can’t tell you about most of my clients because of confidentiality, but I can say I singlehandedly restored the reputation of a certain consort to a certain crown prince of a certain kingdom that we happen to be in at the moment. And that was after she kicked a one-legged man off a bar-top, causing him to need hundreds of stitches.” Lowering her voice to a whisper, she adds, “Hundreds. And now, she’s known across the land as the People’s Princess. It’s true. I’m that good.”

  Dylan stands suddenly. “More recently, I zipped over to the US to help a certain celebrity couple after the husband was photographed holding hands with his beautiful co-star at a restaurant in New Orleans. When I got back, I was offered Prince Andrew, but I said no way, too easy. I need a real challenge. I'm going to resurrect the career of a hot, young, adventurous TV host who has an ocean full of potential but doesn't have the first clue what to do with it.”

  “So, I’m more broken than Prince Andrew?”

  “No! That’s not what I meant!” She says with a laugh.

  “But you said I was a tougher challenge than—”

  She waves off my words. “Forget all that. Not important. What’s important is sling-shotting you to the top of non-scripted television.”

  “Have you directed a documentary before?”

  “Nah-uh.”

  “A reality show?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Sitcom?”

  Dylan shakes her head.

  “Newscast?”

  “I see where you’re going with this.”

  I should hope so.

  Dylan sits sideways on the table. “Listen, William. Wills. No, let’s go with Will. That works best. Anyway, I get it. You’re worried that I can’t pull this off, or that I’ll somehow get in the way. But I won’t. I’ve been taking Ron Howard’s Master Class online. And guess what? Directing could not be easier!”

  I turn to Kira, expecting her to come to the same conclusion I've already reached—that this woman is completely unsuitable as a director for our series, or any series for that matter. But instead of looking horrified, Kira's smiling at Dylan and nodding. What the …?

  “Oh, I get it,” I say, chuckling. “You guys are pranking me.” I stand and start examining the walls.

  “What are you doing?” Victor asks.

  “I’m looking for the hidden cameras, but I don't see any.” I turn to Tosh. “You’re getting good at this. Where’d you put them?”

  “There's no camera,” Tosh murmurs, shaking his head.

  I stand, staring back between him and Mac, but neither of them are smiling.

  Dylan springs out of her chair and walks over to me, looping her arm through mine and leading me back to the table like I'm a confused child. “Okay, let’s talk about the elephant in the room.”

  Is she the elephant in the room or am I?

  She pats the back of my chair. I sit and try to calm down while she returns to the head of the table. “This is hard. I get it. I mean we all only just found out about Alex—”

  “Allan,” I say.

  “Right … Allan. It’s been what? Less than a week? I’m sure you’re at least as shocked as I was, but let's see this for what it is—an opportunity. This is your chance to turn things around and make this show what it really should be—the most widely watched and heavily syndicated television series on the planet. Think bigger than Survivor. Bigger than Clash of Clans. Hotter than The Thorn Birds—oh, you're probably too young to know that one. Whatever, think Lost meets Survivor meets Big Brother meets Temptation Island. Total show makeover—new name, new format.”

  Dylan taps on her iPad causing Madonna’s “Justify My Love” to start up. On the screen behind her, a video starts with photos and video clips of me—mostly shirtless—interspersed with videos of bikini-clad young women.

  I sit with my mouth hanging open as I watch the women slide down ropes, splash in the ocean, and stare seductively at the camera while their hair blows in the wind. Dylan dances along with her shoulders and mouths the words. The video ends with Madonna’s voice saying, “Are you scared?”

  Yes, Madonna, I am really fucking scared.

  Beaming around the room, Dylan says, “Yes? Yes, right? This is it. The secret sauce.”

  I shake my head. “No, sorry, but I don’t do reality porn. I do adventures in nature. It’s about survival and pushing the limits of what a human can do—”

  “Not anymore, Will. Now it’s about se
x. And sex sells,” she says. “Consider this—we bring on ten to fifteen women who all want nothing more than to marry you. We make them do all kinds of terrifying and disgusting survival things to win the chance at a proposal.”

  I glance at Dwight who is quietly sucking on a Tums, then say, “I’m not … there’s absolutely no possible way in hell I’m doing that.”

  Dylan nods quickly. “It’s okay. I figured you might be resistant to this idea at first glance, but trust me, you’ll warm up to it when you see these numbers.”

  She taps her iPad again, and a chart appears on the large screen. Standing, she walks over to the wall. “We showed a thousand women ages nineteen to thirty-four photos and video of you, and asked them to rate you on scales of how interesting and exciting they found you, hotness, and marriageability, etc.”

  I hold up one hand. “This is ridiculous. I’m not interested—”

  “Sixty-eight percent of them considered you equal to or hotter than Henry Cavill. Eighty-two percent considered you highly desirable for a one-night-stand, and twenty-six percent considered you marriage material.”

  Well that’s a little insulting. “Why only twenty-six?”

  “Mainly because of your risky lifestyle. A few said you don’t look all that bright, but forget about that because they were basing it on your physique, which ninety-eight said was as good as Alexander Skarsgård in Tarzan.”

  “Really? Huh,” I smile for a second, then shake my head. “It doesn’t matter because I’m not doing this to be sexy. I’m doing it because I want to showcase parts of the planet most people will never see, and to inspire others to get out there and test their limits.”

  “You can still do all that and add the sex factor.” Clapping her hands, Dylan shouts, “Winning combination!”

  I look at Tosh and Mac. “Guys? Do you want to help me out here?”

  Mac tilts his head. “Not really. To be honest, I wouldn’t hate being stuck out in the jungle with fifteen hotties.”

  “Yeah, Mac and I would be there to comfort them when they get rejected by you,” Tosh says with a half-grin.

  The two of them fist-pump while I scowl.

  Turning to Kira and Victor, I say, “Is this really the kind of show ABN wants to produce?”

  “You mean one that people watch?” Victor lets out a high-pitched giggle.

  “It’s a terrific format,” Kira adds. “And it’s exactly what our division needs—a massive hit.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “So, what happens after the first season, when I’ve picked a wife? Is my career finished?”

  Dylan empties her can of Red Bull. “Of course not! You and your wife become hosts of the show and we have new contestants on every season.”

  “Nope. Sorry. I know you’ve put a lot of work into this … research and everything … but I can’t do it.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing,” Victor says, scratching his head. “According to your contract, you will do it or you’ll get fired and we’ll sue you for breach of contract.”

  Kira makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “Oooh, that would bad.”

  I turn and glare at Dwight, waiting for him to say something, but he’s fully engrossed in opening a new package of antacids. I clear my throat and stare at him until he finally makes eye contact.

  “Uh, okay,” he says finally. “What if we tweak it a bit? Have one female co-host and go for the ‘will they or won’t they’ vibe?”

  Dylan slams her hand on the table and shouts, “Yes! That! Love it! Love the creative flow in the room right now. We pick one gorgeous woman and set you two loose in the forest … or wherever.”

  Victor nods enthusiastically. “I’ve never met anyone as positive as you, Dylan. You say yes to everything.”

  “Thanks,” she says with a wink. “That’s my motto, actually.”

  Kira looks down the table at me. “You should really take a page out of her book, Will. Be a little more open to new ideas.”

  “Take some risks in your young life!” Dylan says with a grin.

  I stare at her for a moment, trying to process what is happening. I’m totally fucked. That’s what’s happening. “I don’t want to sound difficult here, but what I do is legitimately dangerous. You can’t just bring in someone with no survival experience and no … physical strength or stamina. It would be extremely reckless.”

  “Of course we would never risk anyone’s life,” Kira adds. “We’ll make sure everything is completely safe.”

  “Absolutely!” Dylan adds. “Safety first. That’s my motto.”

  “I thought it was …” I start, then give up.

  “I can make this work,” she says. “Trust me. I’ll find the perfect woman and the perfect situation to put you two in. It’s going to be epic. The build-up to the show will be beyond incredible. By the time it airs, Will Banks will grace the cover of People Magazine on their Sexiest Man Alive edition.”

  Dwight nods. “I think I speak for both Will and myself when I say how exciting this is. Truly a great opportunity for him.”

  “Right?” Dylan asks. “Isn’t this what he deserves? To be at the top of the unscripted heap for years to come?”

  “He certainly does.”

  “He’s got what it takes.”

  “But, I don’t—”

  “Now, don’t you dare be modest, young man!” Dylan clap her hands along with her words, shouting, “You. Are. A. Star.” She holds her hands together and says, “You just don’t know it yet.”

  5

  Whiny Princesses and the People Who Love Them…

  Arabella

  “Oh, bugger,” I say, staring at my mobile phone screen at a Google alert concerning me. It’s an article about the eerie resemblance I bear to my dead mother, Queen Cecily. “I should've known they wouldn't let this anniversary pass us by without pouring salt on the wound.”

  Arthur, who clearly just got the same alert as me, says, “Bastards.”

  “I'm sorry, hon,” Tessa says, patting me on the knee.

  We’re in the back of the limo, waiting for Gran, who, in spite of being in her eighties, insists on wearing high heels to every event. I swear she does this just to get the bodyguards to hold her arm wherever she goes. Gran has a thing for strapping younger men with guns. Anyway, we’re on our way to the wedding of the season at which I’m supposed to be hunting down the dull men from the dossiers so I can be the bride at the biggest wedding next season. Spoiler alert: I’m not going to look for any of them, and if one of them does somehow approach me, I’m going to brush him off like a piece of lint on a pair of black pants. I’m not in the mood for love.

  The truth is, I was already fuming before this article came out. I’m still raw about not being allowed to become the ambassador for the Equal Everywhere campaign. Also, now that I’ve been told I can’t wear my non-existent red dress, it’s all I want to wear. Instead, I’m in a chiffon robin’s egg blue gown with a modest (read boring) boat neck. I’ve paired it with extremely dull two-inch beige heels. Oooh, beige. Who’s the sex cat now?

  But it honestly won’t matter what I’m wearing because all that will matter is this stupid article. “Why couldn't they have released this a few hours from now?” I sigh. “Now all I'm going to hear about for the rest of the day is how I'm the reincarnation of my mother. As if I don't get that enough.”

  Gran slides into the limo wearing a sparkling gold Dior dress. She's so tiny that if she wears anything drab, people barely know she's there and if there's one thing Gran likes, it's for people to know when she's arrived. She settles herself in, then looks at me and narrows her eyes. “What's up your royal tush today?”

  “Nothing. I'm absolutely thrilled to be attending yet another function with my foulmouthed, feisty grandmother as my plus one.”

  “You should be thanking me. I turned down several offers just so you wouldn’t have to go alone,” she says.

  “Of course you did,” I say, feeling like even more of a loser than I did when
I woke up this morning.

  “Go easy on her, Gran. The media is making quite a fuss about what would've been our mother's fiftieth birthday.” Arthur shoots her a look that says our little Arabella can't handle any type of criticism. I know he's doing it to be nice, but it irritates the living shit out of me.

  “Don't patronize her,” Gran says. “It's the last thing she needs.”

  I'm about to thank her when she adds this little gem. “She'll always be a baby if you treat her like one.”

  “Thanks for that,” I say.

  “You're most welcome.”

  “I was being sarcastic. Just because I resemble her, everyone assumes I can't handle more than some weak tea and light conversation.”

  “Oh, sweetie,” Gran says, patting me on the hand. “Is that what you believe?”

  “Yes. And to be honest, I'm sick to death of being ordered around and underestimated by everyone.” I give Arthur a dirty look. “Including you.”

  “Arabella,” Gran begins in a tone that says I'm about to be subjected to her off-the-cuff wisdom. “If you don't like being ordered around, underestimated, and compared to your mother, do something about it.”

  “And exactly what am I supposed to do? Die my hair black or get a ‘Not Cecily’ tattoo on my face?”

  “You needn't go to that much trouble,” she says. “You only need to stop being so very unremarkable.”

  I slump down in my seat, and turn to face the window, blinking the tears back.

  “Gran, that was offside, even for you,” Arthur says quietly. “You should apologize.”

  “And you should not make a habit of telling me what to do,” Gran answers.

  An uncomfortable silence fills the limo as we cross the river to the city. In a few minutes, we’ll reach the church, where I’ll be repeatedly asked if I've seen the article and told how the resemblance between my mother and I is absolutely uncanny—spooky even. They’ll stare at me, leaning in with wide eyes and shaking their heads in disbelief. “I’ve never noticed.” “Oh, I have. I’ve always thought she looks exactly like her mother.” Perhaps I should get my own booth at a freak show.