Apparently, my soon-to-be fake-boyfriend thinks I’m a shitty dresser.
But so what?
I do not and never will care about fashion.
That’s Lizzy’s thing and, to a lesser extent, Sabrina’s. I was the triplet most likely to shred her clothes zipping through the Marine-inspired obstacle course I built by the vegetable patch or stain her dress crawling through the grass to spy on my nanny while she was on the phone with her boyfriend.
I do, however, care that I’ll be walking into an enclave of well-armed criminals without a gun. Nine times out of ten, I’m able to escape conflict using my wits or martial arts skills, but Stefano’s men are always packing.
Always.
If our cover is blown, the chances that we’ll end up under fire are better than good.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m suffering from serious pre-mission jitters. I don’t like Nick calling the shots. I don’t like that someone with less experience is steering this ship, and I really don’t like that I’m going to be sharing a bed with that man for a week and a half.
Mostly because the stupid tingling nonsense isn’t improving with prolonged exposure.
If anything, it’s getting worse.
But I’m not going to let Blaire or Neville or anyone else—especially Nick— know that. I’m going to prove to the higher-ups that I can work well with others in an intimate setting, I’ll land the promotion to Southwest Regional Director, and I’ll move forward in my career without Nickolas Von Bergen casting his smug, entitled shadow all over it.
All I have to do is play nice for two more weeks.
I can do anything for two weeks. And once we board the Von Bergen’s private jet the day after tomorrow, “anything” will no longer include my insane parents, our exuberant siblings, or the paparazzi stalking our every move.
Our visit to the veteran’s home yesterday—a trip estimated at an hour, tops—clocked in at nearly four. We were ambushed by reporters on our way out and forced to pose for pictures in front of the outdoor Christmas tree while answering an endless barrage of inane questions. By the time we finally loaded into our caravan of black SUVs to head back to the castle, my feet were so frozen I vowed never to leave my room in heels again.
The extra inches aren’t worth losing a toe to frostbite.
The torture continued this morning over a ceremonial Christmas Eve breakfast, during which the press was invited to the castle to snap photos of the royal family dining with the recipients of this year’s Extraordinary Community Service Awards. Afterward, we spent hours handing out presents to needy children bussed in for a cookie-making party.
I respect people who give back to their communities, and all children—especially the needy ones—deserve a bright and festive holiday, but I hate the spotlight. I always have, long before my cousin Beatrice was mortified in the tabloids for her many romantic mistakes, or Sabrina was called a “lying hussy” for tricking Andrew into thinking she was Lizzy when they first re-met. It’s the reason I pestered my parents to send me to boarding school when I was barely out of diapers. I did nothing to deserve all this attention, and I’d rather be invisible than rewarded for nothing more than the circumstances of my birth.
Though, honestly, the “rewards” of being royal often feel like punishments.
Like now, for instance…
I would never choose to sing in public, not even to celebrate the merriest night of the year.
“Am I mad, or were you just mouthing the words to ‘Joy to the World’?” Nick asks as we tromp through the lightly falling snow to the next mansion on the historic city block, trailed by photographers and royal security and a crowd of curious onlookers who are unfortunately not joining in the caroling.
If they did, it would be easier to hide the fact that my voice isn’t raised in song.
“I can’t speak to your mental state,” I mutter, “but yes.”
“Why? Don’t you want to wish the world a joyful Christmas Eve?”
“The world is happier without my voice in it. Believe me.”
Sabrina stops beneath a sprig of mistletoe tied to an antique lamppost, and I hang back as Andrew goes in for a kiss that has every camera in the vicinity flashing and the crowd cooing with approval.
Ugh. So gross.
I love my sister desperately, but her penchant for public displays of affection is troubling. Seeing her make out with her boyfriend at a bar in our village when we were teenagers was bad enough, and it’s not any better watching her suck face in front of people who will send pictures of the tongue-tangling to gossip sites all around the world.
“I doubt that. Every voice has its own unique beauty,” Nick says, so close that when I turn to face him, his breath warms my forehead.
Ignoring the way my nose prickles at his clove and cedar scent, I grunt, “I’m tone-deaf.”
He drives me crazy, but he really does smell incredible. More often than I’d like, I fantasize about resting my cheek on his chest and enjoying a long, lingering encounter with his Nick scent.
But I’m not that girl—never have been.
Those few months with Gerg, when snuggling was a thing I actually enjoyed, were an anomaly. One that ended in betrayal. And I don’t need to learn a hard lesson more than once.
From now on, my guard is staying up.
I’ll whisk a man back to my apartment for a quickie, but no spooning after. No reading the paper in bed together the next morning. No sitting on his lap after dinner, watching a movie while he rubs my back until my perpetually knotted muscles finally relax.
Relaxing is no longer on my agenda.
I shift my weight to my back foot, casually putting more distance between myself and this divine-smelling human, and add, “So, it’s in everyone’s best interest if I keep my song to myself.”
Nick smiles, a gentle curve of his full lips that emphasizes the symmetry of his features. Even his dimples match, for God’s sake. It’s obnoxious. “No way. I don’t believe it.”
“Believe it. I made my nanny’s parrot weep during music class.”
“I didn’t realize parrots could cry.”
“Only in the most horrific auditory circumstances.”
“Aw, you’re too hard on yourself, I bet.” He nudges my shoulder with his as we begin walking again. Lizzy and Jeffrey, thankfully, give the mistletoe lamp a wide berth, as do Nick and I. “I like your speaking voice. Quite a lot, actually.”
I frown up at him.
“I do,” he says, seeming sincere. “When you’re with someone you care for, it’s very sweet and gentle. Same with children. You were good with the kids this morning.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I was,” he says, still with that warm grin. “Pleasantly so. Probably a good thing we’re off in two days. If we spend much more time around your sisters and needy children, your secret will be out.”
I huff. “What secret is that? That I’m not a monster?”
“That you’re actually a kind and generous soul. And that you secretly wish people would hug you more often.”
My upper lip curls. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, yes, you do. I saw the way you melted when that little girl threw her arms around you today. And the twenty dollars you slipped into her pocket.”