Page 13 of The Problem with Princes
We shuffle forward into a sunlit living room.
Stepping into the room, I sink into the plushest carpet I have ever felt. It overlaps the sides of my flip-flops and caresses my feet. It is like stepping onto a cashmere goat. I have a strong temptation to lay down and make a cashmere angel right then and there. But I refrain. Cheese and rice, how was I to ever be happy with a standard room again? I now know how the other half lives.
A woman, about the age of my mother, sits on the couch, while an older man with his back to me, paces at the far end of the room. He turns and I instinctively smile. It’s what I do when I’m nervous. And the nervous meter is quickly moving into the red zone.
The man looks like a hotter version of Victor Kiriakis, fromDays of Our Lives.Victor is a terrible person on the show, so it seems weird that I feel more at ease when I see this stranger. It must be because I grew up watchingDayswith my Aunt Shirlee, unbeknownst to my mother. It is a safe memory. Surely, Victor means me no harm.
I squint at him as the memory shifts to theYouTubevideos I watched while researching our trip. My brows rise on my head. Wait a minute. This guy isn’t just Victor Kiriakis’ doppelganger. He looks just like the King of Atraxia.
I elbow Texie and motion to him with my head. “I think that is the King,” I whisper through clenched, smiling teeth.
Her brow creases, and she gives her head a small shake. “Yeah, right. The king and queen asked us up for tea.” Her lips barely move, unlike her rolling eyeballs.
The whole conversation reminds me of the scene inFriendswhen Chandler gets locked in the vestibule with Jill Goodacre. I nearly laugh, but I’m just so utterly confused about what is happening.
“Never mind.” I mutter.
The older woman waves us forward. “Please, have a seat.”
We move farther into the room. A tall, vaulted ceiling reaches at least two stories high, with gold and crystal chandeliers glittering in the sunlight. My mouth hangs open as my head drops back to look up.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today, Miss Martindale.” The woman on the couch stands.
I snort-laugh. Ugh. That is the worst thing I can do right now. “Uh, we weren’t given much of a choice.”
She nods. “Yes, well, I am sorry about the highhanded measures we took. But security has been tightened recently.”
Highhanded measures? Where am I? In a Jane Austen book?
A throat clears and I glance to the other side of the room. Modern Ares sits in a chair beside a large desk.
My breath hitches and my skin itches.
Without sunglasses covering his altogether too handsome face, it is more than obvious who he is. Perhaps Superman should have worn sunglasses to hide his identity rather than just regular old glasses.
I have seen this man’s picture in the newspaper more times than I can remember—every time with one model or another hanging on his well-defined arm. Modern Ares is none other than Prince Tyrone.
He quirks up one brow and gives me a slow, appraising look.My stomach does a little flip-flop at his attentions. And I thought the attraction was strong before. Wow. He is even hotter in person. But then his eyes move to Texie, and a small smile plays at his lips. I bristle slightly.
What else is new?
Why do I even care? So what if this guy is a prince. He’s also a complete jerk. Texie can have him, for all I care.
I scold my traitorous insides and clasp my hands in front of me. “So did you bring me here to get the rest of the money for your shoes?” I swallow. My mother would be appalled at the way I just spoke to him. And not because he’s a prince. But because my tone is beyond rude.
Besides, I doubt I have enough money in savings to pay for his shoes. From the look of all this luxury surrounding me, I’m guessing they aren’t fromRoss Dress for Less.
The woman looks to Modern Ares—or I guess I have to call him the prince now. “What is she speaking of? Why is she paying for your shoes, Tyrone?”
He stands and shakes his head. “Pay it no mind, Mother. It is what Americans call an inside joke, is it not, Miss Martindale or is it Miss Kelly?” He comes closer and motions to a large man I had not noticed earlier. It’s Mr. In-Charge. “Are you sure this is the same woman, Sander? She looks…different.” He turns his head to the side. “This one is much prettier.”
I step away from him. What does that mean? I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended. I put my hand to my forehead and shade my eyes, like I’m wearing a hat. “Is this better? Now do I look familiar?”
“Ah,” he nods. “Yes, actually, that does help.” He squints at me. “You really do not have a face for hats.”
I open my mouth and snap it shut, my hand fisting at my side. As if I didn’t already know that. But how dare he say something like that and make it sound as if he is doing me a favor by informing me? If I didn’t think it would land me in some Atraxian prison, I might just slap this guy.
The woman shakes her head. “Really, Tyrone, your manners.” It seems a half-hearted reprimand at best. My mom would have sent me to my room for that kind of comment. But not before the lecture of if I couldn’t say something nice, then I should just keep my mouth shut.
