Argh, this is not going to work.
“So you’d do it?” Benedict asks.
I start to shrug, and stop myself. Geez, faking all this poise makes me feel like a mannequin. “I feel responsible for some of this mess.”
“It’s hardly your fault.”
“I know. But getting caught on camera on your porch hardly helped.”
Benedict takes my hand. Little tingles run up my arm. “If we do this, I’ll be able to shield you better. The paparazzi can be vicious, but I can call on my connections, make it clear that, as my fiancée, you’re off limits.”
I stare at our interlaced fingers. My insides are shifting, rearranging.
“I will take care of it, Frankie. I promise.” He squeezes my hand. “I will take care of you.”
My last bit of backbone melts. Those long eyelashes, his strong hand squeezing mine, his sincere tone—there’s no way I can say no now. I lick my lips, and his gaze falls to my mouth.
“What about… a trial run? See if I can do it?” I say.
“I know you can.” Again, the instant vote of confidence. I have definitely fallen into some sort of fairytale. Guys who are this perfect do not exist.
I squeeze the duke’s hand. He definitely exists. And he’s not totally perfect. He’s as arrogant as they come—I stand by my first assessment. But in the past half hour, he’s been kind. I’ve been on my own so long, I can’t resist the chance to have someone care for me.
“All right,” I whisper. “I’ll do it. I’ll try.”
“Are you sure?” Benedict’s face is very close to mine. Beyond him, I see Daniel waiting in the doorway, watching us intently.
I nod. “I want to help. I’ll do my best.”
“Excellent,” Daniel says, coming into the room. Benedict and I break apart but keep holding hands as Daniel rubs his palms together. “Operation Fake Fiancée Phase One is a go.”
Frankie
“So you’re actually going to do it?” my friend Mina asks via our web chat.
I lean back in the black leather recliner. In front of me, a black and white movie plays with the sound off. Katherine Hepburn strides in front of the camera, arguing with Jimmy Stuart and Cary Grant. Elvis sits on a special perch beside me, shifting from claw to claw, doing a little birdy dance. When the camera zooms in on Cary Grant, the bird fluffs his feathers and dances faster.
“I don't know, Mina,” I say. “I feel like it’s my fault.”
A cascade of clacking computer keys is the background music to Mina’s snort. “No way is it your fault. These celebrity types make their own beds.”
“He’s not a celebrity. He’s a duke. I looked it up—he’s in line to be a prince. Like, runner up to king.”
“Whatever.” Mina’s tone is flat, unimpressed. “I’m American.”
“So am I! It’s just… being around him, I can tell he’s… different. Used to being in charge.” I press my hands to my face. I’m a mess.
“Silver spoon stuck up his ass?” Once again, Mina is a mood I wish I could channel.
It’s my turn to snort. “I may have said something to that effect.”
“Whoa, Frankie. Good for you.” Only Mina would be so admiring of downright rudeness.
“It was in the heat of the moment,” I mumble. “I thought he was annoying.” I'm out of my head around him. Considering I live most of my life in my head, this is new territory.
“So he’s annoying, stuck up, bossy, and you still want to marry him?”
“I’m going to pose as his fiancée. Totally different.”
“If you say so.” More typing on Mina’s end. I’ve never had a conversation with her that wasn’t accompanied by constant typing. Total code-addict, but she always keeps up her end of the conversation. “Knowing these royals, there’ll be all sorts of hoops you’ll have to jump through.”
“Yeah, I’ll have to have lessons. It’ll make Grandmère’s finishing classes look like a cakewalk.”
“Not a carrot walk?” Mina asks in a sly tone.
“Har. Har.” I rub my face and push back my thick mass of hair. “I never should’ve told you about that particular incident.”
A chuckle, and the typing reaches epic speeds. “I assume it’ll come out to your new fiancé.”
“Ugh. yes. They’re going to vet me tomorrow. They need to know everything. By the way,” I add, “this conversation is completely confidential. You can’t tell anyone about this. They’ll have me sign an NDA… I just needed to run this by someone.”
“And you know I’d never talk. I never talk to anyone if I can help it. There are only like three people in this world I can stand. Maybe four.”
I roll my eyes, but I know she’s serious. “Yeah, well, me too.”
“Figured. Why else would you have moved to another country to live in a giant empty house with only a parrot to talk to?”
I forgot I didn’t really tell Mina why I left my hometown. Why I ran so far away. I swallow, and try to keep my tone light. “Don’t forget the creepy artwork.”
The typing stops. “Is that why you’re doing it?”
“What do you mean?” I rub my forehead. It’s weird to talk to Mina when her keyboard is silent.
“You’re agreeing to become someone’s fake fiancée. Why?” Like a shark scenting blood in the water. I should have known better than to hide from my best friend. My only friend. The only reason Mina doesn’t run the world is because ‘adulting’, as she calls it, makes her bored.
“The money, obviously.” I stick with the most likely explanation. “It’s enough to pay for me to go to college. You know I always wanted to do that, but my parents could never afford it. And the duke offered me citizenship. On top of making the paparazzi pictures go away.” I shudder. I’d hate for Grandmère to hear the story of how I ended up cornered—naked—on a duke’s porch. Not that Grandmère pays attention to foreign news, but I’m from a small town. Someone would forward it to someone, and within hours, everyone would know.
“But won’t this put you even more in the spotlight?” Mina continues. “I can’t imagine what it would be like, being the American wife of a crown prince. Possibly future king. Is it even legal?”
I’ve twined my hair on my finger so tightly, it’s stuck. I tug it free, frowning at the sting. “We’re not actually getting married. I think a future king actually marrying an immigrant is frowned upon. Benedict would never let anything keep him from the line of succession.”
“Oh, Benedict, is it?” Mina’s tone switches from intense to an unsubtle purr. “On a first name basis, are we?”
“He told me his name, but I’m supposed to call him ‘Your Grace’.”
“Even in bed?”
“Mina!” I snap upright so fast, Elvis nearly falls off his perch. “It’s not going to get that far.” I cup the phone and whisper as if Elvis is eavesdropping, “I’m not going to sleep with him.”