The truth is that one day I’d like to settle down, eventually moving my wife into the royal apartments at Sainthall Palace to live out my days with her. I’ve long since accepted that most of my life will be dedicated to honorably playing my role as the spare prince, but I’m not willing to give up everything.
For one thing, I’m not willing to be trotted out like some kind of royal whore so that my father and brother can make connections. This isn’t the goddamn Middle Ages.
The greatest fear I have, the one I keep buried so deeply that it will never, ever see the light of day, is the possibility of falling for someone on one of these sham dates.
What the hell do I do then? Cave to my father and Marcus and marry whoever it is, playing right into their hands? God only knows what they’re thinking. Maybe this is some ploy to turn me into a permanent bachelor, someone who they can send out to restaurants across Saintland and the rest of Europe to make “political connections” whenever it suits them.
Not a fucking chance.
This time, goddamn it, we’re reaching beyond the limits of propriety, and my father is surely running out of time before his next meeting.
I want to keep shouting, keep fighting, slam my own fist in to the table, but my years of royal upbringing are kicking in, much to my disgust. In spite of myself, I’m taking in calming breaths, running through their arguments in my mind.
I don’t want to understand their point of view, but I can’t help it.
Saintland resulted from a tense civil standoff, and its position will forever be precarious. My father needs to use every avenue at his disposal to make allies in the surrounding countries, even though it’s the year 2016 and we should be past that shit by now. The fact that we have a functioning monarchy is still a bit of a miracle, although with the current climate among superpowers like the United States, is it any wonder?
What I see, and what they apparently do not, is that this romantic strategy is almost sure to backfire. It’s one-and-done. Once my reputation as a playboy gets out to the other countries in Europe, that’s it.
As much as I hate it, the easiest way to end this argument is to agree.
This time.
I’ll have to come back to this issue soon, when I can present myself calmly and rationally, to deal with it once and for all.
I blow a harsh breath out through my lips. “Fine. I’ll take the girl out. For one date.”
My father’s shoulders drop a couple of inches with relief, and Marcus smiles at me indulgently. In response, I roll my eyes.
“I don’t consider this matter settled,” I say.
“We’ll revisit it at a later time,” my father says dismissively, already returning his attention to the papers on the desk, my brother turning away from me.
That’s my cue that we’re done, at least for now.
What I don’t say, as I turn on my heel and head for the door, is that this shit is driving me mad. I don’t say I need a goddamned vacation. And I don’t say I’m already making plans to get the hell out of here for a week, maybe two, and there’s nothing they can do to stop me.
Chapter 3
Jessica
My ass has hardly met the fabric of my chair at the office when my boss materializes behind me, nearly scaring the shit out of me and delivering news nobody wants to hear on a Friday.
“Jessica, you’re here,” she says. “A last-minute thing came up, and I need you to stay until 5:00.”
I refrain from slumping my shoulders, but barely. Meghan is a no-bullshit kind of boss who, more often than not, wears her hair fixed in a tight bun on top of her head, a trait I consider to be an accurate reflection of her uptight nature. There are worse bosses in the world—I’ve had a few of them—but working for her is not my dream job by any means.
I should be more generous. It’s not Meghan’s fault that my job at Colton-Hayes, one of New York’s premier ad agencies—if you believe their own marketing message—isn’t what you would call low-stress.
“Okay,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as I watch my afternoon plans disappear like a panhandler when the police make their rounds. Poof. There they go. “What’s up?” I ask, shifting my attention back to my boss.
Meghan launches into a long-winded spiel about the so-called emergency that landed in her inbox late last night. The client is a major fast-food chain that can’t be ignored, otherwise—I see a flicker of irritation in her eyes when she says it—“they might just go with another agency.” She doesn’t have to say that both my job and hers are on the line with this one.
As soon as she left my office, the day devolved into an endless cycle of emails and phone calls as I tried frantically to wrestle last-minute creative concepts out of various designers, copywriters and graphic artists.
Even while I called in every last favor from my colleagues and pleaded with them to please just do one more thing instead of heading out at noon—summer Fridays could be so good when we actually got to use them—my mind strayed miles away.