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ROYAL PLAYER
by
Katie McCoy
Charlie Davenport is the bad boy of British tennis - and third in line to the throne. He’s a beast on the courts, and a wild animal in bed (according to all the tabloids). Girls are lining up for chance at his crown jewels, and when I stumble into the wrong Wimbledon dressing room and catch a glimpse of his game, set, AND match, I can see why.
So what’s a little good luck kiss between f?r?i?e?n?d?s? strangers?
I know better than to get involved with a bad boy like Charlie. But now he’s on a winning streak, he thinks I’m his lucky charm - and you know what’s luckier than a kiss?
Everything.
Suddenly, I've got paparazzi on my trail, exes coming out of the woodwork — and you don’t know ‘cutthroat’ until you’ve seen a pack of hungry socialites set loose near the Royal Family.
I’m in way over my head, and even worse - I’m falling in love. Can this American girl win her Prince Charming? Or will we both crash out of the championships in flames?
Wimbledon-meets-The Prince and Me in this hilarious, sexy new romance from Katie McCoy!
AVAILABLE NOW!
Emmy
If you made a ranking of the world’s sexiest sports, I’d have bet my (empty) bank account that tennis wasn’t anywhere on the list. Believe me, I was the same. Give me a baseball player rounding third in his tight white pants, or a muscular quarterback any day. But stepping through the front gates at Wimbledon on Opening Day, I could see I’d gotten it all wrong.
There were hot guys. Everywhere.
It was like being a kid in a candy shop, if the candy was tall, muscular, well-groomed men. Guys with brown hair, blonde hair, even a few that had that scruffy Prince Harry redhead thing going for them. Guys with bashful dimples or badass beards; in dashing linen suits or strolling past in athletic clothes, their tanned, gorgeous bodies glistening with sweat.
I was pretty sure I was drooling.
I was also totally lost, jet-lagged, and exhausted after a cramped eleven-hour flight in coach from San Diego and a forty-minute tube ride to my Aunt Suze’s in King’s Cross to get here. But looking around at the manicured courts, the buzz of the crowds—and did I mention the guys?—I knew without a doubt that all my scrimping and saving to afford this summer after college in London was so. Freaking. Worth. It.
I pulled out my cellphone and called the reason I was here at all, my BFF, Paige.
“I’m here, and I’m lost,” I announced, looking around again. The crowds were surging around me, like this was the biggest sporting event of the year. Which, in England, I guess it was. “Where are you?”
“The refreshments tent,” Paige answered. “Do you see the clock tower thing?”
“Uh . . .” I squinted. “Nope?”
“Didn’t watch the Snapchat I sent?”
I laughed. “Which one?”
Paige had arrived the week before, and had not only given me detailed directions for how to get to the club from the station (hint: it required taking a shuttle set up just for the weeks of Wimbledon), but had also sent me no less than three Snapchats of herself on that same shuttle. There were also additional Snapchats of her getting from the shuttle to the tent where we’d be working. Apparently, since I had never been abroad, she thought I was incapable of using public transportation. It might have been annoying if she wasn’t so freaking funny in all the videos she sent me. Or if it hadn’t turned out she was right.
“Just do what I did.” Paige sounded smug. “Find the nearest hot guy and ask him for directions. Oh crap, they’re starting training. You better get here soon!”
She hung up, and I looked around for rescue. There were plenty of hot guys on offer, but I figured my travel aroma wouldn’t exactly be the best introduction, so I found a nice-looking older couple with backpacks, sunhats, and a cooler.
“Excuse me . . .” I approached them. They looked prepared, and sure enough, they gave me a spare map and pointed me on my way.
I hurried down the path. I was already late for the waitressing gig my Aunt Suze had set up for us. I’d barely had enough time to drop my bag and trade my comfy travel clothes for my uniform before I was out the door to the All England Tennis Club. Since my meager savings just about got me across the Atlantic, I would be spending the next couple of weeks working as a waitress serving cream teas during Wimbledon to fund the rest of my trip. As you do.
The refreshment stands were halfway across the grounds. I spotted Paige as soon as I approached the tent. It was hard not to spot Paige, even if you weren’t looking for her. Even though all of the waitresses had been told to wear all black and have our hair pulled back away from our faces, Paige had her bright red hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head and was wearing a short black skirt and low-cut black shirt, all in contrast to her pale and beautifully freckled skin. In true Paige fashion, she had managed to look classy instead of trashy, which probably had to do with the fact that she was tall and lean. If I had tried to wear what she was wearing, my big boobs and Kim K butt would have made the whole thing look obscene.
Which is why I was wearing a black shirt that I had altered myself. I had tailored it to fit my curves and managed to keep it from doing the usual D-cup drama of looking like I was about to bust the buttons open. My plain black pants were similarly adjusted. I had long learned that it was far easier to buy things in a bigger size and tailor them down than trying to find anything off the rack that would fit my rack. Because not only was I curvy, I was short. If I didn’t know how to sew, I’d probably have to make do with straining seams and trailing hems all the damn time.
When Paige spotted me, she let out a squeal loud enough to make everyone around her turn and stare. Then she was rushing through the tent, already in the middle of a sentence when she reached me, nearly tackling me to the ground.
“. . . all day, and I’ve been trying to focus but OH MY GOD, Emmy, they are all so freaking hot.”
I detangled myself from her grip.
“Stop, rewind, and start again,” I told her.
Instead she gave me another hug.
“I’m SO glad you’re here.” She let out another squeal, and then looped her arm around my shoulder. “Let me introduce you to everyone.”
But instead of introducing me to “everyone,” she propelled me toward the bar, where another girl a little older than both of us was standing, cleaning glasses. She had blonde hair with short bangs, cat-eyed glasses with rhinestones, and was wearing bright red lipstick, both of which added to her unique vintage-y look. I immediately liked her.