Page 10 of Royal Secret

“Indeed,” he replies, his cap nodding in agreement as he steps a bit closer. “Bergovia has many stories to tell.”

“Looks like I picked the right place to listen,” I say, meeting his hidden gaze with renewed confidence.

His lips quirk into a smile. “Would you… mind if I join you? I see that you are by yourself, as am I, and I would…” He trails off, some pink coloring his cheeks.

I bite into my own smile. “I would love it if you joined me.”

This, here, is exactly what I hoped to find: connection, mystery, a hint of adventure.

And perhaps, just maybe, a touch of romance.

CHAPTER 6

JAKOB

Iedge closer to the marble statue that dominates the room, pretending to admire its contours, but my focus is on Courtney. She’s peering intently at an oil painting, her brow furrowed in concentration. The museum buzzes with the soft murmur of visitors, but I only have eyes and ears for one of them.

She’s even more beautiful in person than in her pictures, if that’s possible. Softly waved hair falls against her shoulders, and her chin has a subtle upturn to it, her lips rosy pink and pursed in focused study.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” I say, nodding toward the canvas she’s eyeing. My voice is casual, the timbre designed to soothe and engage.

Courtney looks over, and her eyes, a vivid shade of green, meet mine. There’s still no flicker of recognition, just a polite curiosity. Either my disguise is working well, or she has no clue who I am.

“It really is,” she agrees, tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “The play of light and shadow is incredible.”

“Jakob,” I introduce myself, extending a hand. It’s a common name here in Bergovia, unremarkable enough to blend into the background. Giving her my actual name will do nothing to suggest that I’m a prince — or that I work for the security department.

“Courtney,” she replies with a smile, her handshake firm yet gentle.

We talk about the painting, how the artist has captured the essence of Bergovian landscapes, and I find myself genuinely enjoying the conversation. Her insights are thoughtful and she speaks with a passion that’s infectious.

We drift through the gallery, pausing before each piece that catches our interest. The more we discuss — from the impressionistic brushstrokes of one painting to the bold colors of another — the more I sense a connection forming between us. It’s effortless, this dance of dialogue and shared admiration for the art around us.

As we stand before a sculpture depicting an ancient Bergovian legend, I find myself wanting to tell her everything: my royal lineage, my role as head of national security, the weight of my responsibilities. But duty silences those confessions, and instead, I ask her about her favorite exhibition piece.

She points to a small, intricate landscape painting tucked away in a corner. “That one,” Courtney says. “There’s something about it that feels like home, even though I’ve never been to this part of the world before.”

“Ah, it’s an underrated piece,” I reply, admiring her taste. “The artist spent his life capturing the essence of our countryside. You have a good eye.”

“Thank you,” she beams, her cheeks flushing with pleasure.

As we continue our tour, I still wonder if she’s as genuine as she appears. Could she be playing me? Does she know exactly who I am and why I’m here? If so, what are her plans? Why did she enter Bergovia? Does it have anything to do with the political discord between our families decades ago?

The questions linger, but the warmth in her laughter and the sparkle in her gaze make it hard to believe she’s anything but sincere.

Courtney may not know who I am, but in this moment, surrounded by art and history, I realize that I’m relishing the anonymity. It’s rare that I take time for myself away from my career or royal duties, and even though I feel silly hiding behind sunglasses, I’m enjoying what feels like a mini vacation.

In too little time, we’re finished with the whole museum. It’s too soon to let Courtney out of my sight, though; I need to be absolutely sure she isn’t a threat to Bergovia.

“There’s a lovely little café near here,” I say. “Would you like to join me there?”

“Sure.” Her smile lights up the room. “I would love to.”

I guide Courtney out of the museum, across the street, and down a narrow cobblestone alley, where the chatter of tourists fades into a quiet hush. The scent of freshly ground coffee beans grows stronger as we approach a nondescript door, half-hidden by ivy.

“This place,” I murmur, “is a local secret.”

“Looks cozy,” she says, the smile alive in her eyes.

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