Royally Crushed: A Crazy Royal Love, Book 1

by Summers, Melanie

  I jump up, screaming. “Get them off me! Get them off me!!!!” while I run to Will.

  He stops me with both hands, then brushes the ant off me while I continue to scream.

  “It's okay. It’s gone now.”

  “No, it's not okay,” I say, shaking my head wildly. “Just call them. Call them and get me out of here now! This is over. You were right. I was wrong. I can admit it, okay. I’ll go home and go back to giving tours to those hateful nonagenarians. It’s not that bad.”

  He stares down at me, his face softening. “This is the worst moment. I promise it gets better from here.”

  “No, it won’t.” I hear the sound of loud sobs and it takes a moment before I realize they're coming from me. Taking a deep breath, I say, “I thought this was like Survivor—if something goes wrong, they always have people nearby to rescue them.”

  “Survivor’s a game show. Have you not watched The Wild World?”

  “I assumed you didn’t show the safety people,” I say, sniffling in a most undignified way.

  “That’s because there aren't any safety people,” he says, shaking his head. “What did you think the danger bonus was for?”

  “I don’t know, to make the whole thing more dramatic?” Desperation overtakes me. I close my eyes and start clicking my hiking boots together at the heels, saying, “There's no place like home. There's no place like home.”

  After a few moments, I open my left eye first, only to find Will staring at me, his mouth agape.

  “Oh, dear,” he says, his expression somewhere between pity and fear.

  “I'm sorry I did this. I never should've applied. I think maybe I’m having some sort of quarter-life crisis or something,” I say as I pace back and forth in front of him. “I’ve just turned twenty-nine … which would mean I’m planning to live to be almost one-hundred and twenty. Maybe it’s a third-life crisis. Is that a thing?”

  “Not sure, but the math sounds solid.”

  “Okay, at least that’s something, right? The thing is, I’m under a tremendous amount of pressure to find a husband before I turn thirty. Only all the men I know are complete wankers and I could never be attracted to any of them. They want to set me up with the future Earl of Wimberly, and do you know what his nickname is? Hal, as in halitosis! Yeah, imagine kissing that until death do us part. No, thank you.

  “Then I drank too much champagne at your sister’s stupid wedding. Who has a champagne fountain? I mean really! How irresponsible can you be?! After my third glass, I met you and I thought, ‘Yes!’”

  His eyes grow wide and I realize what he thinks I just said.

  “No, not like that. I don’t want to marry you. God, no. You’re a total prick. I wanted your life for a while. The way you were bragging about it, you made it sound so free and easy and wonderful—all lies, by the way—but I thought to myself, ‘If I could just be him, even for a few short days, it will all be okay.’

  “I just needed a break from constantly being told what to do and how to do it and what to wear and what I can't wear and what to eat and what I can't eat. Did you know we’re not even allowed to eat garlic if we’re going to see the Queen of England any time in the next month?” I ask, stopping and nodding my head. “Yeah, no garlic! And I'm not allowed to wear heels taller than two inches or miniskirts. In fact, I can't even wear anything that cuts off above the knee, as if my bare knees are so scandalous. I’ve had to dress like I'm some woman in late menopause since I was … well … born, I guess. And honestly, that makes it really hard to attract a man.”

  I step closer to him and put my hands on his upper arms. Oh, God, those are muscly. Never mind that. “You know when I got to wear those shorts earlier? That is probably the most free I've felt in my entire life. But then you said I had to change, and it was over, like that.” I snap my fingers in his face. “And now, here we are. I’m in my baggy, ugly communist-chic outfit, and I'm going to get us both killed. I am, Will. We are going to die out here. Possibly today, maybe tomorrow, but most certainly before the end of the week. I'm not going to see my niece and nephew grow up. I mean, they're so cute and cuddly, and they adore their Auntie Arabella.” I start to cry, my voice going up two octaves as I start to pace again. “And what about Gran? She seems as tough as nails, but honestly, she's been through so much and now with her heart condition. I don't think she could take if something happened to me. I'm her favorite person.”

  I stop pacing and stand in front of him, then burst into uncontrollable sobs until tears are pouring down my cheeks. I cover my face with my hands and cry into my palms, feeling like Anne of Green Gables when she’s in the depths of despair. I feel Will’s arms wrap around me and he shushes me while holding the back of my head gently.

  “And I've had to use the loo for hours now and I'm afraid to ask how that even works because I hate you so much and I just know it's going to be horrifyingly embarrassing and likely you'll have to stand guard while I squat somewhere only to end up wiping my arse with some sort of plant that will cause a horrible rash!” I sob into his shirt. “An itchy, painful rash. And I’m not allowed to scratch anything, let alone my bottom. It’s going to be excruciating!”

  “Oh, wow,” Will says, letting out a long breath. “When you fall apart, you really go for it.”

  I nod, pulling back a little, then my face crumples and I wail, “I’m not allowed to fall apart!”

  “Okay, Arabella,” he says, lowering his face to mine and maintaining direct eye contact. “Let’s deal with one problem at a time. Using the loo is pretty simple, really. I'll find some moss for you, then dig a little hole near a log—one without fire ants—then I’ll walk away to give you some privacy. You do what you need to do, then you cover the hole and we don't ever have to talk about it again.”

  I nod and sniffle. “That sounds dreadful.”

  “It’s not all bad. Once we’ve dealt with that, I’ll set up the camp and feed you. I promise, you’ll feel a thousand times better once we do those things, okay?”

  I sniff again and nod. “Okay.”

  Wiping my cheeks, I feel my despair give way to shame. I stare at the ground, trying to compose myself. “Sorry. I don’t normally fall apart like that.”

  When I finally look up at him, his face is filled with compassion. “Can I tell you something?”

  I nod and dab daintily at my eyes.

  “The first night is always the worst. I promise. And it really will get better from here.”

  “Not if we die.”

  “We’re not going to die. I won't let that happen,” he says, putting both hands on my shoulders. “Now, look around you. We are surrounded by not only one of the most beautiful and untouched places on Earth, we’re also surrounded by an abundance of food and water. You’re going to be fine, I promise.” He rubs my arms up and down reassuringly. Hmm, well that feels rather nice, actually.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to get you set up to use the loo. Then, start the fire. Then all you need to do is sit here and keep it going while I get us food. But first, let’s get you some fresh water. I’m pretty sure you’re dehydrated.” With that, he walks over a tall stalk of bamboo and with one quick slice of his machete, cuts it, then holds it sideways while he walks over to me. “Here, open your mouth.”

  I do as he says, and a second later feel cool refreshing liquid pouring into my mouth. I gulp down as much as I can before I feel like I'm going to choke, then hold my hand up to let him know I need a break. He drinks some, then offers me more, which feels oddly intimate. Once the entire bamboo shoot is emptied of water, he sets it down.

  “Thank you. That tasted kind of like carrots.”

  He grins. “I've never noticed that. But now that you say it, I think you're right.”

  Twenty minutes later, I've taken care of my biological needs, and am sitting on a rock in front of the fire, watching Will turn the bamboo stick into a spear. He describes what he's doing into the camera while he works quickly. My stomach growls and I feel
weak and hungry and tired. But he was right because somehow, sitting here feels infinitely better. He disappears into the bushes for a few minutes, then comes back with the bottom of his shirt flipped up, carrying some fruit. “I thought you could use a little amuse-bouche while I make dinner.”

  He crouches and unpacks the load onto the ground next to me. Holding up one of the oranges, he says, “These are monkey oranges. They have a tough outer shell, but they’re very juicy and full of vitamins. Eat up. Oh, but not the seeds. The seeds’ll kill you. I’ll see if I can get us a catfish.”

  When I look up into his eyes, gone is the smug, angry attitude, and in its place is kindness. Something about it makes me feel much worse about my tirade. And about giving him a hard time in the first place when, in reality, I’m making his life much harder. “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Reaching out, I touch his hand, which is resting on his knee. “No, really. Thank you. I’m sorry I imposed myself on you like this.”

  “That’s okay. If you hadn’t applied, it could have been someone much worse.”

  “Like that woman who stalks you online?”

  His head snaps back. “Who?”

  “She has a website dedicated to you. She and your fellow groupies call themselves Will’s Wild Fangirls.”

  A look of understanding crosses his face. “Oh, right. Them.”

  Nodding, I say, “The head super fan applied for the show.”

  He smiles at me. “I suppose I should be happy I’m not stuck out here with her.”

  “Yes, she seems like the type to go total Fatal Attraction on you.”

  “Good thing I don’t have a pet bunny.” He chuckles and stands. “Will you be okay for a bit while I go down to the river?”

  I nod, and for the first time since this morning, I believe I will be.

  Maybe.

  * * *

  It's dark by the time we eat, which I don't think is necessarily a bad thing. Dinner is wild yam tubulars and bony white fish. We’re using banana leaves as plates and our table is the tops of our knees. The outside flesh of the yams are charred black and they smell of coals, but at least they’re warm and soft enough to scoop with our sporks. There’s plenty for both of us, and with every bite, I feel more like myself again. Instead of feeling angry, I feel grateful for this simple meal. There’s a shift in the feeling between us. It’s no longer a tension-filled hatefest, but a calm, tentative truce, which feels infinitely better.

  “Will, I want you to know I’m sorry about all the awful things I said earlier. It was uncalled for.”

  “Me too,” Will answers, glancing up at me. “I was being a judgmental prick, and I didn’t mean any of it. Especially not the bit about leaving you here to get eaten by leopards. I’d never do that to anyone.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot,” I say. “And you’re not more smug than Kanye.” I grin a little, hoping he’ll know I’m joking.

  He offers me a half-smile in return. “Thanks, that’s very kind of you.”

  I give him a teasing look. “It’s close, but he really is more arrogant than you. By a narrow margin, but still…”

  We both laugh, and it feels like we’re starting over. Relief fills my body as we sit in a comfortable silence watching the fire.

  Adding another piece of wood, Will says, “I cried the first time I spent the night out in the wilderness.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  He clearly wants to make me feel better about my meltdown earlier. Huh, that’s sort of nice of him. “That surprises me.”

  “Well, it's true.” He gives a little half grin. “Mind you, I was seven at the time.”

  I roll my eyes and chuckle a little. “Of course you were.”

  “My parents had died a few months earlier and our uncle took us in. He moved us all the way from Valcourt to the Caribbean—talk about culture shock. He was a real outdoorsman—I think he assumed everybody lived that way—snorkeling, scuba diving, surfing, sailing.”

  I stare at him, my heart tugging a little at the image of him as a young boy with no parents. I say nothing because I know from experience, there’s really nothing to say.

  Will continues, shifting his gaze to the fire. “There was this little uninhabited island that we went to one night, not that long after we moved there. He thought it would be a great adventure for us kids, but I was terrified. I’d never slept out under the stars before, and I kept thinking I was going to get eaten by a crocodile, even though he kept telling me there were no crocodiles there. Only iguanas and birds.”

  He pauses and smiles, seeming to be far away in his mind. “Every little noise woke me for the first part of the night, but then I must have gotten so exhausted, I finally fell asleep, tucked in between my sister and brother, with our uncle sitting by the fire, keeping an eye out for crocs for me. The next morning, we hiked all the way to an amazing waterfall with a lagoon that was like something out of a movie.” Will grins at the memory. “We had the greatest time swinging into the pool from vines and splashing around. As an adult, I understood what he was trying to do for us. He wanted to help us return to our roots. Our long-forgotten, cave-person roots. Humans are animals and we’re meant to be outside—even the royal ones.”

  14

  Eighties Popstars, Soothing Tree Sap, and the Night Sky

  Will

  “Even the royal ones?” she asks. “I find that hard to believe.”

  She smiles at me and even though her face is only lit by the light of the campfire, it's like the whole jungle has suddenly become brighter. Oh, that thought has no business in my mind. Not with her. Not here. And certainly not now. I clear my throat, then say the least romantic thing I can think of. “We should check your feet for infection.”

  Her head snaps back and her nose wrinkles up in disgust. “Is that a possibility? I've been wearing my boots all day, and believe me, my personal hygiene is generally quite excellent.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you,” I say. “What I meant was, we need to let our feet dry and check them over.”

  I dig around in the backpack and grab the headlamps, then slide one on, and hand the other one to Arabella. I unlace my boots and take them off, then remove my damp socks. Switching the lamp on, I then set up one of the cameras to point at my feet. “When you're in an extremely humid climate like this one, you need to make sure you allow ample time for the insides of your boots to dry, but also your feet as well. You should carefully check for blisters or sores, and, as gross as this sounds, ensure your skin isn't starting to peel off, because if it is, you’re in a lot more trouble than you might think.”

  “With moves like these, it's a wonder you're single,” Arabella says.

  I chuckle a little, then watch her remove her boots. Uh-oh. She winced. Once her socks are off, my eyes land on open sores on either side of her ankles. “Shit. Did that just happen today?”

  “It's nothing.” She gives a quick shake of her head. “You know, breaking in new footwear.”

  I dig around in my bag and grab out the sap I collected earlier. Pointing the GoPro at my face, I say, “Princess Arabella has got open sores on her ankles from wearing new boots—and in her case, it’s not her fault. Her wardrobe was provided by the network, but normally before embarking on a trek like the one we’re on, you'll want to break in whatever footwear you have, to avoid these types of blisters. I'm going to pop down to the river, wash this pot out, then boil some water and this bag of sap so I can make the perfect soothing balm to heal those sores in no time.”

  “Could we not talk about my sores?” she whispers.

  “It's an excellent opportunity for learning survival skills.”

  “That may be, but I prefer not to make a public spectacle of my feet, certainly not when they're in this condition.”

  I tilt my head. “You have really lovely feet. Those are world-class cute toes.”

  Feeling silly, I toss two more pieces of dead bamboo on the fire
to keep it going. “You relax and let the heat dry your skin. I'll be right back.”

  * * *

  Once the sap has melted, I take the pot off the fire. “You can see the consistency of the salve is a nice thick liquid so it’ll glide on smoothly. We’ll let it cool for a while before I apply it, but in the interest of allowing my co-host some privacy, I shall now bid you good night and turn off the cameras until morning so the batteries can charge up while we charge our own batteries.” I shut off the camera, then mutter, “That was cheesy.”

  “Just a bit.” Arabella removes the holster her GoPro is attached to and hands it, along with the camera to me. “There. Much better.”

  “Yes, we’re alone now.”

  She nods. “Children behave, that's what they'll say when we're together.”

  I narrow my eyes in confusion.

  “We should probably watch how we play,” she adds. “But they don’t understand.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Will,” she says with a grin. “You know the words.”

  “Oh, this is a song?” I shake my head even though I know exactly what song it is. “I have absolutely no idea what song that is.”

  “You are such a liar. Everybody knows Tiffany.”

  “Not me.” I scratch my chin thoughtfully. “But I do have one question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are we running just as fast as we can? Holding onto one another's hands?”

  Arabella bursts out laughing, then sings, “Trying to get away into the night ...”

  I join in, unable to resist. We belt out the song together, and I interrupt, only to say things like, “I should put the camera back on. Dylan would call this solid gold television.”

  Arabella shakes her head while she sings, “… the beating of our hearts is the only sound.”

  I pick up the camera and she grabs for it, her delicate skin waking me up. “Don't you dare. I'll stop singing.”