Page 3 of Royal Catch
Now Polly is waiting for her court date. She could face a year of jail time in Florida (there’s no diplomatic agreement with her country that could send her home to serve jail time). Her identity will be revealed with a conviction, exposing her. She fears her family will disown her. The other inmates and guards will give her a doubly hard time for being a princess. She needs a kick-ass lawyer to straighten it all out.
Neither of us has the money for a lawyer. She spent it all on the apartment building, and I can’t sell the building or even get a line of credit because the deed transfer may not be valid. It wasn’t her legal name on the deed. That building mess is on hold until the trial too. If I do get the building back with a primo lawyer’s help, it would be such a relief knowing I could pay for my foster dad’s care. It’s been a struggle on my hairdresser’s salary.
So here I am, claiming her inheritance to pay a shark lawyer to save the princess. (She has to stay in Florida while waiting for her trial; otherwise, she could’ve just gotten the inheritance herself.) I’m practically a knight-ess in shining armor.
Only it’s not all that glam. Polly kept a stiff upper lip, but she was clearly scared. If I fail, she’s only got a public defender for her trial. She’ll likely be convicted and suffer through a whole year of prison, a life she’s completely unprepared for after being so sheltered. She’s not tough like me. I learned from an early age to fight to keep what’s mine and how to defend myself from the scary-ass girls I lived with in foster homes. I fear it’ll break her.
Failing at my mission is no picnic for me either. If I get caught impersonating a princess, I’ll be wearing orange in a cinder-block cell faster than you can say fraud. I have too many people depending on me back home to let that happen.
I take in the two-story white marble entrance hall of Amalie Palace, with its gilded mirrors and silk damask wallpaper the color of the sea with gold-leaf pattern, and try not to gawk. I’m sure it gets more luxurious the further you get into the palace. Despite the risk, I’m actually excited to get the whole royal experience. It’s so far from my reality I imagine it’ll be pure bliss—the best, most luxurious of everything all set at my feet. A fairy-tale life. Magical.
Butler Phillip is speaking in a gruff and growly voice to some of the servants, gesturing like he’s giving orders. He’s the only one in a tux, which is how I knew he was the butler. Hey, I’ve seen enough BBC shows to recognize a butler. Plus he spoke very proper English with a slight lilt, maybe hints of French to it, which makes sense because Villroy Island is a two-hour ferry ride from southwestern France. The other servants wear white shirts with black pants. I guess Phillip is the boss man.
I give Phillip a once-over and conclude he’s too perfect. He’s six feet and change with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, narrow waist and hips wrapped in a tux custom fit to his frame. His eyes are a stunning aquamarine blue, sharp high cheekbones with hollows under them like you see on male models in cologne ads, five-o’clock shadow on a square jaw, and full lips. Add in his stiff formal posture and dour expression and it’s no wonder I was flustered. Something is off between the butler thing and the hot thing. Not that he’s my type. I like men from the real world who are fun. Like me.
A servant approaches, a thin man in his fifties with a neat comb-over. “Your Highness, I’ve been instructed to see you to your room.”
A small snort escapes at theYour Highness, and then I remember I’m supposed to be a princess. “Please call me Polly. What’s your name?”
“William, ma’am.”
“Nice to meet you, William. Just give me a minute.” I grab my wheeled suitcase from where I left it by the palace doors, turn, and nearly run into William. He reaches for my suitcase handle, and I jerk it toward me. “I can do it myself.”
He holds out a palm. “If I may, ma’am? I am here to serve.”
The butler stares from across the entrance hall, watching my every move.Is he judging me? Does he suspect I’m an imposter princess?I probably should’ve gotten more of a princess tutorial before arriving, but the real Polly was so stressed all she gave me was an urgent plea to get the inheritance as quickly as possible and hightail it back to Florida. “Dress in your best outfits and smile demurely” was the extent of her advice. Oh, and always call the king and queen Your Majesty; everyone else is Your Highness.
I wiggle my fingers at the dour butler and give him what I hope is a demure smile, turning my head slightly away, though I can’t manage to break eye contact because his eyes have me in their judgey tractor beam.
He turns away.
Okay…I guess demure is tough to pull off.
I turn to William, who’s still waiting patiently for permission to take my suitcase. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head and takes the suitcase.
I follow behind him through the entrance hall, turning the corner to a long hallway. I throw a last glance over my shoulder at Phillip in profile.
He rakes a hand through his thick hair, his expression grim. He seems overwhelmed, probably because he was so surprised by my arrival.
I stop walking and hurry back to reassure him. “Relax, Butler Phillip. You won’t even know I’m here.”
His expression remains grim, his voice gruff and tired. “I sincerely doubt that.”
I give his arm a reassuring squeeze and meet granite. He’s that tense. And muscled.What exactly do butlers do to get this buff? Powerlifting the throne for dusting? Maybe he lifts the royal dining room table with one hand while he vacuums under it.I stifle a laugh at the thought. “Try to sneak in a nap. It’ll make all the difference in the world.”
He stares at my hand on his arm and then lifts his head. His aquamarine eyes are glittering and hard.
I gulp, my heart pounding. I can’t help it. He’s incredibly intimidating. Like I’m a hair’s breadth away from bolting kind of intimidating. And I’m no shrinking violet.I thought servants were supposed to be more…deferential or something.
I drop my hand and try again. “Anything I can do to make things easier on you, let me know. I’m very handy.”
Butler Phillip’s lip curls. “Royals don’t serve staff. I am here for your needs.”
I smile demurely at him, just a small lift of the lips. I should probably practice in the mirror to make sure I’m not looking psycho. Or constipated. “Of course. Thank you, Phillip, and have a good day.”
He looks down his nose at me.
