Introduction
Good people of Ledonia! I’m excited to be back in Tleurbonne, capital city of Malveaux, for The Games, the scintillating annual competition between our two countries. Who can forget what happened last year when the then single Prince Alexander, aka Europe’s most eligible bachelor, chose the newly minted Princess Madeline to be his partner in the Wife Race? Of course, the two then fell in love and got married, and the country fell into depression until the once drab Princess Sofia emerged from her chrysalis as a dazzling heir to the throne on the arm of the delectable Marco Rivera.
With the two older royal siblings married off within a year, that leaves only two from the House of Canossa left: tomboy Princess Amelia, and Prince Alexander’s successor in the McHottie stakes, Prince Maximilien, now training with the Royal Ledonian Air Force.
Shall we all take a moment to reflect on how very well our Max has grown up?
So very well.
Now, where was I?
Oh, yes. Princess Amelia.
My sources at the palace tell me that she’s leaving for India for a silent meditation retreat. Yes, you read that correctly. Our vivacious, never-stops-talking, full of the joys of life Princess Amelia—who once challenged three diplomats to a tree-climbing contest during a state dinner, much to her parents’ horror—is going to spend a full month in complete silence.
Silent meditation? Our Amelia? I’d sooner expect our King to take up breakdancing.
I’m sure I’m not the only one who finds this a little hard to believe, so I have devised a list of more likely possibilities:
- She’s secretly training to become the world’s first royal astronaut for Ledonia’s ambitious, but previously unheard-of, space program.
- She’s running away to join the circus as a blindfolded knife-thrower to learn how to slice an apple off the head of some poor volunteer.
- She’s apprenticing with a team of professional tree surgeons (and knowing our princess’s propensity to climb trees, this seems the most likely).
Whatever she’s doing for the next month, you can be sure I will get to the bottom of it.
But really, isn’t it time she fell in love and gave us all something to enjoy?
Yours breathlessly awaiting the next royal love story,
Fabiana Fontaine xx
#NamasteYourHighness
#MeditatingPrincess
#TimeForAnotherRoyalLoveStory
Chapter 1
Amelia
I live my life by a set of unflinching rules of things a Ledonian princess is forbidden to do. And today, I can add another one to the ever-growing catalog. Rule number 1,247: A princess may not escape her royal duties by faking attendance at a silent meditation retreat.
Well, I’m about to break that one somewhat spectacularly.
I’ve always kept my list of rules in a leather-bound journal, carefully hidden behind one of the many artworks in my rooms—an attempt by Father to make me appreciate the history of my country. Which of course I do, and I don’t need some painting of a bunch of wilting flowers and a moldy old orange by some dead guy hanging on my wall to make me appreciate where I live.
I get it. I’m a princess of Ledonia, and that means I’ve got certain privileges—and certain expectations.
The privileges I’m down with. Who wouldn’t be? But the expectations? They’re a bit of a sticking point for me. Hence my journal is rather full of things I’m not allowed to do.
Things like:
- Rule number 124: No climbing trees. In my defense, those diplomats were totally up for it.
- Rule number 657: No wearing jeans to official events. Which is utterly ridiculous because, as I pointed out to Mummy, half the population wears trousers. To which she replied, “Quite, dear. The men.”
- Rule number 908: Never wear orange fingernail polish covered in little spiders, even if it is Halloween. Can’t a girl have some harmless holiday-themed fun? Not if she’s a Ledonian princess, it would seem.
So, yes, there are way too many rules for a princess like me. In fact, there are rules for every aspect of my life. From what to wear to how to wave to what shade of lipstick one should wear to a ball.
And you know what? I’m looking forward to breaking each and every one.
All of these silly rules come so naturally to my sister, Sofia. Seriously, I think she swallowed the rulebook as a baby and has followed every single rule contained in that book ever since.
Well, not every rule. She did leave the palace grounds without an official escort when she and her now husband, Marco, took a trip to a village in the mountains and kissed under the light of a hundred lanterns, breaking Rule number 511: Never, ever leave the palace grounds without security detail.
If Sofia and Marco’s little adventure has taught me anything it’s that if you’re going to break the rules, you must make it thoroughly worth your while.
Go big, or go home.
That’s the way I see it.
As I wrote a new entry last night in the room I always stay in when we visit the Tleurbonne Palace in Malveaux—Rule number 1,246: Don’t snort laugh and then slap your thigh when talking with a member of the public, no matter how funny they might be—I could almost see Father pursing his lips at my penmanship, even now that I’m twenty-four and three quarters.
Not that I’d ever let him read what I write in my book.
And anyway, these days, he’s more focused on my social media presence than my penmanship, which he says should be impeccably elegant and regal. He clearly doesn’t know that all I want to do is post funny memes of cats as well as photos of me with Max or Alex or Maddie, having a great time, like any normal person would.
“Such images are not becoming of a princess, Amelia,” Father decreed. “And don’t even get me started on those videos you made last week. Thank goodness our PR team managed to take them down from Tickery Tockery before too many people saw them.”
“It’s TikTok, Father,” I corrected, but of course it fell on deaf ears. Father is about as interested in my opinion as anyone else in this palace, aka Amelia is talking but no one is listening. It goes with the territory when you’re the third-born child whose role in life is to look regal and not a lot else.
Today, my journal is safely tucked away in my handbag at my feet as we sit in the royal Ledonian enclosure to watch The Games, the annual competition between our two countries, Ledonia and Malveaux. They involve everything from archery and polo to large, burly men picking up things like logs and hurling them across lawns in a show of strength.
Soon, the real fun will start when we royals compete in the more lighthearted activities. One such activity is Cheese Rolling, in which we nudge wheels of cheese with a stick down a gentle slope. It’s always fun, but my absolute favorite is the Wife Race, which isn’t quite as old fashioned and sexist as it sounds. Well, it was until Alex insisted last year that we could all compete in the event, married or not, at which point I chose the largest, most strapping chap I could find—a rather easy-on-the-eye rugby player called Liam Cartwright—and successfully crossed the line first.
I plan on doing exactly the same at this year’s event.
“What are you smiling at?” my younger brother, Max, asks as we applaud the winners and prepare to compete ourselves.
“Nothing,” I reply evasively.
“I assumed you were making eyes at Liam Cartwright. He’s going to be your partner again in the Wife Race, isn’t he?”
“Of course he is. I have every intention of winning this year.”
“I’m not sure you did a whole lot to win last year, dear sister, what with the fact the women get carried.”
I rise from my seat and adjust the ridiculous hat I’ve been sweltering under for the past few hours, an elaborate thing involving pheasant feathers. “It’s all in the technique, you know, Max.”
“And I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s got nothing to do with the fact that Liam Cartwright is six foot five and built like a—”
“Do not finish that sentence!” Mummy’s voice sounds out in warning.
“All I was going to say was he’s built like a jolly sturdy building that may or may not house a toilet,” Max replies with a mock innocent look on his face that absolutely no one believes.
“My dear boy, you can speak like that with your compatriots in the Royal Air Force, but not in mixed company,” Father scolds.
“Of course, Father,” Max replies.
“Come on, you two. We’ve all got to get ready for the Cheese Rolling and the Wife Race,” Mummy says to Sofia and Marco, who have spent half the morning gazing at one another like a couple of lovesick puppies.
You know there’s a certain irony in the fact that Sofia once planned on marrying somebody she felt no attraction to whatsoever, and now she’s married to a man she clearly has major sizzle for.
I take it as a personal success. It was me who told her that using a series of boxes to be checked off on a spreadsheet was a terrible way to find a husband.
I was right.
Now, I want it to be my turn to find the sizzle with a dashingly handsome, totally dreamy man.
Which is exactly what I plan on doing after The Games finish tonight.
Before you go thinking I’m going to do something reckless, I have it all planned out. I have the perfect alibi. According to the official line, once The Games are over here in Malveaux, I’m travelling to India with my cousin, Stefania, where we’re going to enter a month-long silent meditation retreat.
I know what you’re thinking. Me, silent? But for reasons yet unknown but nevertheless rather convenient, everyone seems to believe my story.
And as for Stefania, even if she wanted to tell my family that I’m not on the retreat she won’t be able to without breaking her silence, which I know she takes awfully seriously because she’s one of those rule-following oldest siblings who suck the joy out of everything.
Really, it’s the perfect cover! I can have a grand adventure all of my own, with nobody breathing down my neck and telling me to follow the rules and all the other things I hate about being a princess.
I’ll be free.
Free to do what I want when I want. I’m going to break every rule that’s kept me trapped in this gilded fishbowl, especially the climbing trees rule.
The very thought makes me giddy.
A short while later, with my strapping, oversized rugby player at my side, we wait at the starting line, ready to head across the grass in the Wife Race.
“I warn you, Ami, I’ve been working out harder than usual in preparation for this,” Alex tells me.
I raise my eyebrows at Maddie, his wife.
“It’s true. He’s been training for weeks,” she says, with that goofy loved-up look on her face as she smiles up at my brother.
“So has Marco,” Sofia says, and she and Marco share just as much of a goofy loved-up look as the other two.
Me? As strapping and altogether manly as Liam Cartwright might be—and he is awfully strapping and altogether manly—I don’t have the urge to look at him with anything other than “let’s win this thing” eyes. And besides, Liam told me he’s met someone and fallen in love, so even if I did look at him in that way, it would not be reciprocated.
It needs to be my turn. I’m the one who wants a grand love affair. I’m the one who wants to be swept off her feet by an impossibly wonderful man whose eyes light up when he looks at me, just the way my brother’s and sister’s do when they gaze at their loves.
You see, I’ve not once been in love. Not even a little bit. Sure, I may have had short lived relationships with a few men and have fancied the pants off some others, but I’ve never felt that deep sense that I know beyond a whisper of doubt that this is my person. That he and I are better together than when we’re apart. That the world is somehow so much more wonderful because he’s in it.
Not to mention the sizzle.
Oh, how I want that sizzle! Feeling that hot, all-consuming electricity searing through me, consuming my every thought?
Bring.
It.
On.
That’s why I’m not going to India to stay mute for a month. That’s why I’m escaping this royal prison. To experience life. To lap it all up. To meet the man of my dreams and—hopefully, hopefully—to fall in love, sizzle and all.
And it’s not just anyone I want to meet. On, no. I know exactly who.
Greg Smith, the man I’ve been talking with for the last couple of months. The man whose dark eyes make my breath hitch. The man whose jaw is razor sharp and stubbled, whose lips curve into the most delicious of smiles, whose broad shoulders fill out his shirt to perfection.
I let out a sigh.
I might not have met Greg Smith in person yet, but with everything we’ve shared over the last two months, I just know he’s the man for me. Yes, he’s utterly gorgeous, but more than that, he’s sweet and thoughtful and knows exactly what to say and when to say it.
He’s my fantasy man.
To meet him in real life, I need to get to the Côte-des-Papillons, aka the Butterfly Coast, where we’ll meet at a bar overlooking the sea. He’ll be holding a single red rose—clichéd but nevertheless romantic—and then our adventure will begin.
“Ready, Princess Amelia?” Liam asks, his arms outstretched to pick me up.
“Let’s win this thing,” I tell him.
He flashes me his smile. “Is that a royal commandment, Your Royal Highness?”
“Would it help you go faster if it was?” I ask and he nods. “In that case, I command you to run like the wind, Liam!”
“As you wish, ma’am,” he replies, as though he’s Wesley from The Princess Bride.
But I’m not his princess. I’m Greg’s princess.
Or at least I hope I am.
I leap into his arms, the horn blares, and Liam takes off, each of his footsteps reverberating through me as he pounds across the field. In only a few short strides we’ve left everyone for dust: Alex and Maddie, Sofia and Marco, Max and the teeny tiny girl he chose for the event, slung over his shoulder, and Mummy in Father’s arms, whose face has gone bright red from exertion.
Our family is nothing if not competitive, and we are all giving it our absolute best as we aim for the finish line.
“We’re gonna beat you this year!” Maddie calls out from her position in my brother’s arms, her words coming out in short bursts with each step Alex takes.
“No, we are!” yells Sofia from her position atop Marco, who, I admit, is alarmingly close to us.
Max doesn’t say a word. He’s too busy giving it his all, his face a study in determined concentration.
“Have … you … not … seen … Liam?” My words come out as though I’m trying to yell while jumping on a trampoline. “Legs … like … tree … trunks!”
And within a few more bounds, with my internal organs now feeling like they’re playing a game of musical chairs, Liam strides across the finish line ahead of the others, and we are the victors for the second year running.
Hazar!
Panting hard, he lowers me to the ground, his face shining red. “We did it,” he says between heaving breaths.
“The dream team!” I raise my hand and we high five.
I can feel Father’s judgement without even looking at him. Another rule to add to the journal. Rule number 1,248: No high fiving rugby players in public, even if you have just won the Wife Race for the second year running.
But I don’t care one bit. Not only did we win, but I’m about to throw that rule book and all of its silly, nonsense princess rules right out the window.
My family congratulates me—Alex, Max, and Sofia somewhat begrudgingly—and after the evening celebrations finally begin to wind down, I’m itching to go.
I find Max and pull him away from the girl he’s flirting with, much to his annoyance.
“This had better be important. Claudette was just telling me how bendy she is.”
“How fun for Claudette, and yes, it’s important.” I glance around to make sure that we’re totally out of earshot. “I’m going to tell you something, but you have to promise not to tell a soul,” I begin in a low tone.
“Is it something worth knowing?”
“Trust me, it is.”
“Go on, then.”
“Promise?” I offer him my hand.
“We’re not kids anymore, you know.”
“Promise.”
“Okay. Promise.” He takes my hand, and we do our special handshake, the one we devised when we were eight and six respectively.
“I’m not going on the meditation retreat,” I say, a grin claiming my face.
“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re not built for silence, Ami.”
“I’m going on an adventure instead.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m leaving tonight for a grand adventure!”
“You can’t do that. Father will kill you. And so will Mummy.”
“But don’t you see? They’ll never know, and I’ll return to the palace after the retreat is done and no one will be the wiser.”
He shoots me a dubious look. “It will never work.”
“It will. You’ll see.”
“Father will have you followed, that Fabiana Fontaine woman will track you like a bloodhound, and you’ll get recognized the moment you set foot outside the palace.”
I shake my head at him, counting them off on my fingers. “Father won’t have me followed because he thinks I’m going to India. Fabiana Fontaine will have no clue I’m even gone. And I’ll wear non-princess clothes so no one will recognize me.”
“You wear non-princess clothes half the time anyway, unless you count jeans and high tops as princess-wear.”
“But only when I’m off duty and no one sees me. Can’t you see? It’s the perfect plan.”
He pulls his brows together. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”
“One hundred thousand billion per cent. I need to break free of this life I lead. I need to see what else is out there.”
He studies my face for a beat. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Promise,” I tell him with a quick arm squeeze.
“There she is,” Mummy says as she and the rest of the family crowd Max and me. “Have the most wonderful but silent time, darling,” she says as she pulls me into a hug. “Make sure you look after her, Stefania.”
“I will,” my cousin replies.
“I still can’t imagine you not talking for an entire month,” Alex says with a light punch to my arm.
“I’d reply but I’m already practicing for the not talking part of the retreat,” I say, and Alex raises his brows at me as though I’ve just proved his point.
Which I have.
Dang it.
“And it’s only twenty-eight days,” Stefania corrects.
“Oh, I’m sure those last two days will make all the difference to Ami,” Max replies, and receives a rapid shove from me.
Sofia pulls me into a hug, “Take care of yourself.”
“Try not to get Delhi belly,” Marco adds. “It’s not pretty. I’ve been there, literally in Delhi.”
I scrunch up my nose. “TMI, Marco,” I reply, but he just grins.
It’s Alex’s turn to hug me goodbye. “Why are you doing this again?”
“Can’t you see? It’s because she wants to find herself, like Julia Roberts in that movie. Ami’s pulling an Eat, Pray, Love,” Maddie replies for me.
Pulling an Eat, Pray, Love? Sure, let’s run with that. After all, I may not be heading to India on a silent meditation retreat—yawn—but I am hoping that meeting Greg might at least cover the love part.
“The car is here, your Royal Highness,” Cooper, one of the footmen, says.
“Thanks a lot, Coops.” Beaming at my family, I say, “Well, this is it. See you all in a month.”
They encircle Stefania and me, hugging us and telling us they love us, and to take good care of ourselves while not speaking.
“Remember, you won’t hear from me for the full twenty-eight days. I’m starting my silent meditation from the moment we land in India,” I say.
“Good luck with that,” Alex says.
As I turn and wave at them all one last time before I climb into the car, my heart feels like a snow globe someone’s shaken right up. It’s time to embrace the terror of what I’m about to do and lap up every last second of my adventure. After all, the royal family of Ledonia might be expected to find their spouses through arranged marriages and royal balls, but this princess? She’s going rogue.
Rule number 1,249: A princess must never, ever feel giddy about breaking the rules.
Well, there goes another one.
Chapter 2
Ethan
“Do something sexy.”
Seriously? That’s the seventh time I’ve been told that tonight, and I still have no idea what it means. Give a smoldering look? Flex? Pretend I’m interested in whatever inane question is about to follow?
“Ethan Roberts! Ethan!”
“Hey, Ethan! Over here!”
“We love you, Rowan Thornheart! ‘Learn to wield the winter’s curse!’”
I blink at the crowd like a clichéd deer in headlights, hearing my name, and my character’s name and his famous line hurled at me from the sea of photographers and journalists. I take a breath, my chest tight as I glance down at my black lace-up shoes, so shiny I can almost see my reflection in them, dark against the red of the carpet.
I take a breath. I’ve got this.
You can’t be the lead in the smash hit Netflix show, It Came One Winter, without getting this kind of attention on awards night, particularly when the show has a bunch of nominations.
Only this year it all seems so much more intense.
Sure, Season 3 has been a huge success, even rivalling Bridgerton in the ratings—but for a type of audience who’s less into love and more into blood, death, and mindless violence.
You know how these fantasy shows go.
But the thing is, I’ve never liked these events. The posing, the frivolous questions, the having to be on show.
The being judged.
My date for the evening is no help. Well, I say “date” but even that’s just for show. Chelsea Hutchinson, my co-star. On screen, we have a love-hate thing going on, alternating between raging war on one another and hooking up in random places like fur-lined, candle-lit caves and castle turrets during dramatic snow storms while our armies battle it out below.
You know, just your regular relationship stuff.
The network’s publicity team tells me the audience laps up our “relationship,” assuming our on-screen chemistry is replicated in real life.
It’s not.
Chelsea is beautiful, but she’s so much more interested in Chelsea than anyone else, me included.
The next twenty minutes become a blur of microphones and less than genuine smiles. A journalist, who introduces herself as Karina Wallace, asks about my nomination.
“I’m honored to be in such talented company,” I say.
“Who are you wearing?”
“A suit by Jonathan Lunsford.”
“Oh, look, Ethan. Here’s Pageant Morris. She’s your ex, right?” Karina says, already knowing the answer.
I lift my chin at Pageant. “Hi,” I murmur.
Seeing an ex is always awkward, but on a red carpet? Criminally so. And it’s all documented by eager photographers and journalists.
“Ethan Roberts, you look delectable,” she purrs as she air kisses me, her dress almost painted on it’s so tight. “Why did I ever give you up?” she says softly in my ear.
“I think it had more to do with the fact you started sleeping with your co-star than you ‘gave me up’ exactly,” I say under my breath, the banal smile on my face at odds with my words.
“What can I say? You just weren’t ambitious enough for me, even though you and I would have had such totally hot babies together,” she replies before she blows me a kiss over her shoulder and shimmies away.
Hot babies?
Paige and Hollywood are made for one another.
I endure the SlowCam, being asked once more to “do something sexy,” before a journalist so skinny her head looks like a lollipop asks, “How amazing is your life now that you’re dating your co-star, Chelsea Hutchinson?”
Yeah, a fake relationship Chelsea’s and my agent has orchestrated is just amazing.
“It’s amazing, as you say,” I reply, moving along the carpet.
But no sooner have I escaped one journalist, when I’m accosted by another—this time a guy in a perfectly cut white suit, pink hair, and no shirt—or chest hair, for that matter. He introduces himself as Timothay and then asks, “What tips did your brother, Dan Roberts, famous NHL player, give you about fame?”
A conversation we had back home in Maple Falls, Washington state, flashes into my mind. It was the month the first series was released, and my fame had gone from “total obscurity” to “the hottest name in Hollywood” overnight. I was reeling.
Dan sat me down on our parents’ sofa and told me that all I had to do was be myself and trust that people will like who I am, no matter what character I play on screen.
I know he was trying to help me, but I had no clue what fame was really like. Dan’s the kind of guy who signs autographs with a genuine smile. Me? I’m counting the seconds until I can escape.
“With Dan now retired from the NHL, you’re the only currently famous one left in your family. How does that make you feel?” He thrusts his microphone in my face with an expectant look.
How do I answer that?
I’m struggling on with the help of my fake girlfriend?
I must carry on in the name of fame?
In the end, I go with something sarcastic and entirely made up.
“Actually, my mom just went viral on TikTok with her sourdough bread making, so I’m pretty sure I’m like second famous in the family now? Third, if you count my parents’ cat, who keeps photobombing her videos.”
Timothay blinks at me, thrown.
“Cleo really is a very special cat,” I explain.
Landing this role has been the highlight of my career, a career punctuated only occasionally with small roles and ads, bit parts on established TV shows, stage productions so off-Broadway they’re practically in New Jersey. Or literally, as the case was for one of the plays I did a couple years back.
But the thing is—and I know I’m going to sound ungrateful when I say this, but that doesn’t make it any less true—all I ever wanted to do was act. I wanted to be involved in a cast with talented people who loved doing what they do. I wanted to create something incredible for an audience, embodying my role, giving it all I’ve got.
It’s my passion. My reason for being.
Not this.
Not the personal questions and endless photographers and questions as you pose like an idiot on a red carpet, flashing bulbs blinding you as you sweat through the suit a designer lent you so you could help them sell more suits.
Don’t get me wrong. Being a part of this show is amazing. I feel like I’ve grown so much as an actor, and I can honestly say I love what I do. But for every positive there’s always a negative, and that negative for me is right here, right now, at an awards show in Hollywood, surrounded by people wanting you to be something you’re not.
Finally, I make it into the auditorium.
I’ve been hit with more camera flashes than this carpet has faced stilettos, and I’ve acknowledged my fans, posing for a few selfies. And now I sit through the awards show along with the rest of the team. We get up on stage when the show wins, and I make sure to express the appropriate level of humility when another hot young actor wins my category.
As I’m heading toward the exit after the ceremony, hoping to slip away before the after-party madness begins, a firm hand clamps down on my shoulder.
“There he is,” Dion Chambers, my agent, materializes beside me in one of his trademark suits. His smile is all perfect white teeth, but his eyes are calculating behind designer frames.
“Hey, Dion. Just heading home.”
“To the after-party,” he corrects, steering me toward a quiet corner. “But first, excellent work with the meeting today. Crystal Clear Productions is going to take you places, kid.”
I resist the urge to point out that at twenty-eight I’m hardly a kid. “About that—”
He lowers his voice, his smile never leaving his face. “I’ve already got the ball rolling on this. Big things, Ethan. This is going to change the game for you. You’re hot right now. You need to milk it for all it’s worth.”
“What if I don’t want to milk it for all it’s worth? What if all I want to do is my job?”
He laughs as though I’ve said something funny. “Trust me, Ethan, you’re gonna need this. Your show is hot right now, but if you don’t ride that wave, you’re gonna be forgotten once this show is done. I would say you’re not exactly in a position to be picky right now.”
Fear grips my belly. “What do you mean? The show’s doing great—”
“Shows end, Ethan. Then what?” His phone buzzes and he checks it, his smile widening. “Interesting. We’re tracking your social media mentions right now, and they’re through the freaking roof.”
“You’re tracking how many people are talking about me?”
He gives me a look like I’ve asked whether he breathes oxygen. “Now, listen. This is about building your brand beyond Rowan Thornheart.” He glances over my shoulder, his attention already elsewhere. “We’ll talk more next week.” He slaps my back.
As he strides away, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve just been managed rather than heard. I’ve learned it’s a familiar sensation with Dion.
I make my way from the auditorium and when I climb into the sleek black car, I let out a relieved breath of air.
I always thought of myself as sitting somewhere close to the extrovert end of the spectrum before I began working in Hollywood. But, man, these people are “on” all the time. I seriously don’t know how they do it. Maybe it’s because I grew up in a small town where I was on a first name basis with all the kids in my high school, and the fall festival was the biggest thing to happen each year. I don’t know. What I do know is this adulation, this infamy, this whole circus, has never been what I wanted.
Just as I’m closing my eyes, the door flies open, the car instantly filling with people’s chatter, as Chelsea slides in beside me.
“That was amazing!” she exclaims, her eyes bright as she leans back in her seat in a cloud of perfume and pulls a mirror from her clutch. She peers at her reflection. “Oh, my hair! Why didn’t you say something.”
I flip my gaze to her. She looks just as perfectly put together as she always does. “Your hair looks great to me.”
She bats my upper arm. “You’re a guy. What would you know about hair? It’s a mess. Oh, no!”
“What?”
“My aura has faded.”
“That’s… bad?”
“Ethan, it’s a disaster! I need to see Daphne, like, now.” She taps at her phone. “Daph. Crisis. Come meet me in the car? We’re on our way to the party now.”
“How do you fix an aura?” I ask.
“You’ll see. Did you talk to Dion?”
“I listened to him.”
“He’s working on this new project for us and he’s super excited about it.”
“What is it? Did he tell you? All I got was banal platitudes.”
She waves my comment away with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t know. Something amazing. He’s really got his finger on the pulse.”
I harrumph. “Sure.”
As the car begins to crawl away from the curb, joining the stream of silver vehicles, Chelsea chats about all the people she’s seen, being her usual hyper self. Only after talking for at least ten minutes does she actually notice I’m not exactly engaged in the conversation.
“You seem a little glum, Eth. Is it because you didn’t win? Because you know you usually have to be nominated a bunch of times before you win these things. And you look hot. That’s what really matters.”
Sure.
“Nah, I’m just a little tired,” I reply.
“I know what you need.”
I arch a brow. It’s not likely someone like Chelsea would know what I need.
“You need champagne.”
And there it is.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
Ignoring me, she pulls a bottle from the icebox and hands it to me to open. I dutifully do, the pop of the cork punctuating her pearls of wisdom on how to stay relevant even if you don’t win an award.
“I’ve been in the industry much longer than you,” she says, as though the extra six months more than me make all the difference.
I pour out a couple of glasses, although I’m not in the mood for champagne. Despite the 90° outside, I’m in the mood for a cup of hot cocoa in front of a fire at my family’s home in Maple Falls.
Man, does that life feel far away right now.
She takes a sip of her champagne and then sizes me up. “You’re no fun tonight, Eth.”
“Sorry about that, Chels,” I reply.
“Do you know what you need?”
I hold up my untouched glass. “Champagne. You already told me.”
“What else you need. You need a vacation. Somewhere fabulous where you can relax and forget about all of this for a while. Then, you can return and be hotter than ever.”
I turn to her, surprised by her uncharacteristically astute observation. “You know you might be right?”
“Of course I am. So go take one. We’re not due back on set for a month.”
“I guess I could head home. See my folks. My brother and his wife have just had their first child, who I’ve not seen a lot of.” The tightness in my chest loosens for the first time this evening.
But then it tightens right back up when I picture having to be locked away inside as paparazzi wait for me or any member of my family to emerge.
I won’t do that to them.
Chelsea makes a face. “Yawn. You could do something way more exciting than that. I’ve got an idea.” She starts tapping at her phone again and then turns the screen around, showing me a world map.
I raise my eyebrows at her in question.
“Pick a place. Which continent?”
“You want me to just randomly pick a place to go on vacation for a month?”
“Why not? You need your glow back. I don’t want some half-baked version of Rowan Thornheart when we start filming again.” I begin to think she’s generally concerned about me when she adds, “It’ll make me look bad. Like I can’t get a hotter version of you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “I don’t know. Europe? I’ve never been.”
“Good start. Now, close your eyes and choose a place.”
“Why?”
“So you can choose a country free from your conscious self, instead tapping into your deeper, spiritual being and allowing it to guide you to where you’re meant to be.”
Oh, good grief.
“Trust me, Eth. You need this, like, so bad. Dion told me so.”
“He did?”
“Mm-hm. Just before, at the ceremony.”
Is it weird that he told Chelsea I should take a break and not me?
I close my eyes. I like the idea of escaping to Europe for a while, and Chelsea’s way of choosing where I go could be as effective as any other.
“I’m placing the phone in front of you and all you have to do is point your finger.”
I do as she says, jabbing my finger at the screen. I open my eyes to see the spot I’ve chosen is in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. “Does this mean my spiritual self wants to go for a swim?” I ask with a smile.
“Duh. It means your aim is off. Here. Take the phone in your other hand, then close your eyes and point.”
I do as she says and when I point, my finger lands on southern France. “France. I could eat French bread and cheese for a while.”
She takes the phone back. “Actually, you chose a small country next to France. Malveaux,” she says, pronouncing it as “Mal-vox.” I might not have been to Europe, but I remember how to pronounce that small country’s name from a news article a while back. A Texan became the queen of the country, I think. Or princess. Something like that.
I don’t exactly follow royalty.
“So, I’m heading to Malveaux?”
She clicks her phone off. “Of course you are. Go. Have an adventure. Do something fun. Your soul will thank you, you know.”
I have no clue how my soul will thank me. Maybe send me an ecard? A fruit basket?
But I do like the idea of going to a small country on the Mediterranean. I can breathe in the sea air, feel the sand between my toes, the sun on my face—and forget about what’s become of my life for a while.
As the car comes to a stop outside the party venue, the hairdresser-slash-aura-fixer Daphne climbs inside, acknowledging me with a nod before she gets to work on Chelsea. She waves her hands like an enthusiastic air traffic controller directing invisible planes, and I get lost in thought.
The idea of escaping solidifies in my brain. Malveaux. A place where the media won’t find me, where nobody will ask me to “do something sexy” or care “who” I’m wearing.
A place where I can breathe again.
My mind is made up. By this time tomorrow, I’ll be gone from all of this. Anonymous. Free. Just a guy on vacation figuring out what matters to him.
For the first time all night, I feel something like hope.
Preorder your copy of The Royal Runaway! Out May 1st.
