Disappointment creeps up from my toes to my throat. “You’re right. I’ll call them and cancel it.”
“Good girl. We’ll think of a more suitable opportunity for you to test yourself. Something that doesn’t involve eating bugs or getting killed.”
* * *
I stare at my phone, dreading what I’m about to do. I have to call Dylan Sinclair, one of the most awful human beings on the planet. She worked for my family for a time, making Tessa’s life a living hell before moving on to torture her next victim. Somehow, she must have squirmed her way in at ABN and managed to get herself hired as a showrunner.
If I had known she was on this project, I never would have agreed to it. When I called Kira to say I needed to get out of the contract, she told me I’d have to deal with Dylan directly. So that’s what I guess I’ll do. Misery weighs me down until even the tiny act of pressing send on my mobile feels difficult.
“This is Dylan. How can I improve your day?”
Blech. “Dylan, hello. It’s Princess Arabella.”
“Your Highness, hello! I was just about to call you. Everything is on schedule for us to leave Thursday morning,” she says, speaking so fast I can barely process her words. “I was absolutely thrilled to discover you were going to be our co-host. Beyond thrilled actually. I literally jumped for joy and spilled my energy drink all over myself.” She laughs, then quickly continues. “This is going to be epic. No, bigger than epic. I don’t even have a word for it.”
“Yes, here’s the thing—”
“—You were always one of my favourite royals when I worked for your family. You’re just so lovely—you’re like if Grace Kelly and your mother had a child.”
“Thank you.” I think. “But—”
“You are the perfect foil for Will. Elegant and refined princess meets wild, ruggedly handsome outdoorsman. It’ll be the greatest ‘will they or won’t they’ of all time!”
“About that. As it turns out, they won’t be.”
She laughs. “Yes! Perfect. The more you try to resist, the more the delicious sexual tension is going to build!”
“That’s not what I meant. I meant I won’t be able to co-host the show after all. I’m extremely sorry, but after some thought, I realize I’ll never be given permission to do—”
“Do not finish that sentence. No need. Who’s the fly in the ointment, Your Highness? It’s that Phillip Crawford, your father’s senior advisor, isn’t it? He’s such a stick in the mud. Let me talk to the king. Winston loves me. I can get him to say yes to anything.”
I don’t even want to know what that means. “It’s … well … I’m afraid it’s not going to happen, and you won’t be able to convince him. Again, I apologize for wasting your time.”
“You haven’t wasted my time,” she says in an airy voice.
“I haven’t?”
“No, my dear, of course not. Because you’re doing the show and it’ll turn out beautifully.”
“It will?”
“Yes, of course. Much better than if you try to back out, and your family’s sued for millions of dollars, and your People for Animals foundation loses out on all that sweet network cash.”
Bollocks.
“I know they’ll be reluctant to let you go, but there’s an easy way around it. Instead of asking for permission, you just go, then later, when you’ve made all that money for your charity, proved yourself to be a fierce and amazing nature-lover, and made your family proud, they’ll forgive all.”
“I don’t think they’ll see it like that.”
“Of course they will! Think of how you’ll raise your family’s profile! They’ll be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled. This will be the best thing to happen to the Langdons since the birth of those adorable babies,” she says. “So much better than being sued. Your family has been scandal-free for nearly two years, and I know you do not want to be the one to break that streak. Especially since the last time you made headlines it was for kicking a one-legged man off a bar and causing him massive injuries.”
“I’m not actually the one who—”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that people remember you were involved and that you nearly caused a trade war between Spain and Avonia. Don’t be the royal nightmare. It’ll do irreparable harm to your family.”
My entire body feels heavy with despair. “I would never want to hurt my family.”
“Exactly. And as much doing the show will create quite a stir, it’ll be infinitely better than backing out and hurting the good people of the Avonian Broadcast Network, which, incidentally, is the largest news and entertainment company in the kingdom.”
“Right.”
“Right. So, all you have to do is find a way to sneak out and get to the airport where a private jet will be waiting. Easy peasy lemon squeezy!”
* * *
I’m now in my apartment. It's late on Wednesday night, and I've been writing notes to my family and staff to say goodbye, just in case I don't make it back. The hardest letters were for the babies. It would absolutely gut me if I didn’t get to watch them grow up. Although if I’m dead, I suppose I won’t know I’m missing out. Not that I want to die.
Why did I do this?! Stupid, Arabella. Stupid. If I get out of this alive, I promise to never have another sip of champagne ever again. In fact, no more weddings either. And no baths. And … and … no talking to Gran. And no shameless flirting with adventurous men.
Oh God, I’m going to die out there in the wilderness, aren’t I?
I spent a few hours looking up the most dangerous places on the planet, and it turns out, there’s danger everywhere. Everywhere. Even the crime rate in the mountains of Tibet where those Buddhist monks live is up. Petty theft. Can you imagine? What would they even steal? One of those bells they use to end a meditation session? I doubt they’re worth much. Certainly not enough to hike up a bloody mountain and snatch one, then run back down.
Anyway, it turns out the only truly safe place is here in my apartment with my guards posted outside the door and the sprinkler system to protect me from fires.
Why did I ever want to leave? It must be because I’m utterly insane. Yes, that’s the answer, isn’t it? Instead of sneaking off into the wild, I should be starting intensive work with a therapist to uncover why I have a death wish.
I've been crying and writing letters for over three hours now, but I'm finally finished. The only thing left to do is get some sleep, then shower. Oh, and take out my earrings because I've been instructed to leave all jewelry at home. No jewelry. Can you imagine?
Tomorrow morning, I’ll get up at five a.m. and sneak down to the garage where Tony, one of the mechanics Gran plays poker with, will help me make my escape in the boot of his car. The boot! Where’s the dignity in that? I might as well become a pole dancer. Well, not really, obviously pole dancing would be much worse. First of all, I’d be crap at it on account of having no upper body strength. Second … oh my God! Why am I actually thinking about that? Pole dancing’s got nothing to do with this!
In a few short hours, I’m going to ride in the pitch darkness along with an old dirty spare tire and some of those electric cables they use to fix a dead car while Tony drives me to a private hanger at the Valcourt Airport. I approached him this morning and offered him a cool five hundred bucks to help me out, no questions asked. Since he’s in deep to Gran for a round of Texas Hold ‘Em that went sour, he agreed to my terms.
I stare at the letters on the table, knowing Yvonne will find them when she brings in my breakfast tray. My heart squeezes with sentiment and trepidation.
Oh, Arabella, you dumb twat. What have you done?
10
Private Jets, Defiantly Smooth Skin, and Friends Who Think This is Funny …
Will
Friday Morning 6:18 a.m.
Valcourt Airport, Valcourt, Avonia
I have never been so miserable about getting on a private jet in my life. Normally, I’d be taking the stairs two at a time, adrenaline pu
mping through my veins at what lies ahead, knowing I’m doing exactly what I was put on this planet to do. Usually, I’m over-prepared, having memorized every possible detail about the terrain, the climate, the flora, and fauna of the area. But not this time. This time, I’m dragging my feet like a surly teenager on the first day of school—powerless and clueless. This time, I have to hope I can remember all the details from the last time I was wherever I’m going now.
When I get aboard, I see Tosh and Mac sitting at the table for four. Mac looks like he just rolled out of bed—his red hair sticking up in the back and his beard smooshed in on the right side of his face, whereas Tosh looks like he just stepped out of a GAP ad.
Tosh squints his eyes. “Your beard is gone. I thought you were supposed to keep it.”
“This smooth shave is an act of defiance,” I say, flopping down onto the white leather seat next to Mac.
Tosh gives me a concerned look. “I was about to ask how you’re doing with all of this, but I have a feeling I know.”
I nod. “Yup, I’m sure you do. I’m pissed. Really fucking pissed. They’re turning our show into some reality bullshit. We had a perfect formula. Why would we add some hot airhead to it?”
“I’m pretty sure you just answered your own question,” Tosh says.
I glare at him, then roll my eyes.
“She might not be an airhead, you know. What if she’s a super hot sporty scientist?” Mac asks.
“Do you think that combination exists? Really?” I ask.
“In my dreams, she does.” Mac smiles wistfully. “She wears glasses and a lab coat all day, but then after work, when she takes both off and lets her hair down … it’s on.”
“Okay, that just doesn’t help me at all, but good luck finding her,” I say, rubbing my chin. “How are you guys not upset about this? Dylan has cut you out of the show.”
Mac shakes his head. “That’s not how I see it. We’re getting paid full salary to do a few minutes of filming when we touch down, then hang around drinking by the hotel pool and sleeping in a real bed while you fight your way out of whatever mess they put you in.”
I glance at Tosh. “Can you believe this guy?”
Tosh shrugs and gives me an apologetic look. “Truthfully, it sounds a hell of a lot better than sleeping on the forest floor wrapped up in mosquito netting.”
“The forest? Is that where we’re going?” I ask.
“I have no idea. It was just an example.”
“Damn. I hoped you might have some clue as to what I’m about to walk into.”
“Well, we do know it’s somewhere we’ve been, so at least there’s that,” Mac says.
“Oh! I hope we’re going to Iceland.” Tosh’s eyes light up. “I love Icelandic women.”
“As hot as they are, I’m hoping for Brazil.” Mac grins. “Nothing beats Brazil for women.”
“Yes, they’re so spicy.”
“Well, I’m glad you two are enjoying this!” I snap.
The flight attendant, a tall woman with long black hair and a name tag that reads Lamai, walks up to us. “Good morning, gentlemen. Breakfast will be served shortly after takeoff. In the meantime, I’m supposed to give you this video to watch.”
She sets down a tablet on the table and walks away. On the screen is Dylan’s smiling face. Tosh pushes play, and her piercing voice fills the cabin.
“Who’s ready for an epic adventure? YOU are!” she yells with an open-mouthed smile. “William, make sure you get some sleep because you’re not only about to go on the adventure of a lifetime, but you’re about to start a whole new chapter of your life—one filled with fortune and fame like nothing you've ever imagined.
Now, I know you're probably dying to find out where you're going and with whom you're going to be spending the next however many days, but I’m not giving any hints. You’ll find out everything during the big reveal.
“And don’t bother asking the flight crew where you’re going. They’re under strict instructions not to answer any questions. When you land, Tosh and Mac will be exiting the plane first and setting up audio and video while you spend your last few minutes relaxing and making yourself look ruggedly handsome.” Dylan winks into the camera.
“Once we're all set to go, you'll be allowed off, and we’ll bring out our mystery co-host. I cannot wait for you to meet her. You are going to love her. Or hate her. One of the two. She’s your perfect foil. Or your perfect match. We’ll see!”
She claps her hands a few times, then says, “Try to fuel up and get some sleep because as soon as you step off that plane there will be no stopping—possibly for several years as you ride the fame dragon. See you on the other side. Ciao!”
The video ends, but I continue to glare at the black screen.
“Do you think it’s just the Red Bull or is she maybe taking Ritalin without a prescription?” Mac asks.
“Oh, she’s taking something,” I say. “And whatever she’s on, she’s clearly dealing it to Victor and Kira for them to go along with this insanity.”
“This thing’s got you rattled,” Tosh says. “I've never seen you like this before, even when we were cage diving with great whites and your cage opened.”
“Sharks are like dogs of the sea,” I say with a shrug. “Humans are the most dangerous animal, and Dylan is the worst of them all. I used to be the master of my fate, but she’s turned me into a pawn. A pawn, Tosh! I’m just going along for the ride like some schmuck.”
“You mean like us?” Mac asks.
“That’s not what I meant.” I shake my head, desperate for a way out of this. “I meant that this …” I point to the screen. “Isn’t my show. It’s embarrassing, phony trash. I might as well see if I can guest star on Real Housewives.”
“It’s not that bad,” Tosh says. “At least you’ll be out doing what you love.”
“I'm about to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere trying to drag around some woman who likely has no clue what she's doing and will end up getting us both killed. To be totally honest, I spent the last few days feeling very sure I should just quit.”
“What if it turns out they’re pairing you up with someone really qualified?” Tosh asks. “She could be a former Navy SEAL who was raised in a cabin in the woods and can whittle utensils out of Birchwood.”
“Yeah, put everything you just said together with the word sexy, and see if it fits to you.”
“Good point,” Tosh says. “Now I can see why you're panicking.”
“Damn right I’m panicking. What if she turns out to be some kind of psycho like that woman in Single White Female or that one from The Hand That Rocks the Cradle? Women can be scary, you know. Have you met my sister?”
The jet starts to back out of its stall and makes a slow, wide turn onto the runway.
“You're in it now,” Mac says. “I think you pretty much have to see it through.”
“No, I won't,” I say. “If I don't think she can handle it, I'm pulling the plug on the whole thing.”
* * *
Seven hours of me nervously bouncing my leg later, the plane finally lands. I watch as Mac and Tosh fling their backpacks over their shoulders, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from hugging them each goodbye.
“See you out there, man,” Tosh says, giving me a thumbs up.
“You’ll be fine, Sally,” Mac says with a wink.
The door opens and they disappear down the steps, leaving me with my heart pounding so hard, I can hear my pulse in my ears. The second I get off this jet, I’ll have a life-changing decision to make. Either go along and humiliate myself—and possibly die—or quit, which not only will end my dream career, but it’ll mean I can forget ever getting Matilda back.
Oh, and I’ll get sued. Let’s not forget that.
I rub my face with both hands, then sigh. I’ll have to quit. If the mystery guest doesn’t seem one hundred percent up to the task, I’ll just say no. I’m not putting someone else's life at risk just for some ad revenue.
&
nbsp; I hear Dylan calling my name and I stand, forcing my lead feet to make the twenty steps to the door of the plane. I’m instantly hit with the humidity and heat only found in a jungle region. The flight was too short to be South America, so I’m guessing I’m somewhere in Africa.
The afternoon sun blinds me, and I shield my eyes, waiting for them to adjust. As I stand at the top of the steps, I see Dylan and the guys on the tarmac. Dylan has the last thing she needs in one hand—a megaphone. Oh, please do not lift that thing to your mouth.
Forcing a relaxed smile, I jog down the metal steps into the searing heat. By the time my hiking boots touch the steamy asphalt, my grey T-shirt is already sticking to my chest. Dylan is facing away from me, talking into the camera so I can’t hear what she’s saying. Not that I want to.
She turns to me, holds her arms out to the sides and shouts, “Welcome to Zamunda! Are you ready to meet your mystery co-host?”
Plastering a grin on my face, I say through gritted teeth, “Am I?”
Picking up the bullhorn, she yells, “Come on out, mystery guest!”
I look to my left in time to see a woman in very short khaki shorts, hiking boots, and a white tank top stepping out of a luggage carrier. I’m torn—my body very much wants to say yes to spending a few nights alone with her, but my sense of logic is screaming at me to say ‘no way.’ Her face is shadowed by the bright sun behind her, and her blonde ponytail swings as she walks closer.
It takes a few more seconds before I realize who she is.
“Hi, Will,” Princess Arabella says with a small wave.
No fucking way.
11
Royally Crushed: A Crazy Royal Love, Book 1 Page 7
