Page 16 of Royal Darling
“Also, the sounds of the car—the tires, the motor, the wind.”
I have no idea what to say. That wasn’t a real lesson. She looks at me expectantly.
“Brilliant,” I say, and she beams an incandescent smile at me. Warmth steals through my chest. I don’t deserve that smile. Truth is, despite my fame, she’s slumming it with me. My family would be the servants polishing her shoes. My father left when I was two, and we were on welfare, even with my mum working a crap housekeeping job. I was expelled from grammar school for fighting, embarrassing my shy mum. People say I take after my shit of a father, which is why I never wanted a wife or kids. No reason to pass that along. My older brother was the star student, the favorite. Once I discovered the guitar, I calmed down with the fighting for the most part.
But Emma here is part of the elite. If I never hit it big with Ignite, we never would’ve met. She wouldn’t havewantedto meet me. But then I remember Emma doesn’t like my music. She couldn’t care less that I’m part of Ignite. She doesn’t want anything from me besides guitar lessons. That makes me relax a little.
The driver turns to us. “Would you like to wait for Jackson’s luggage on the jet or inside the terminal, Your Highness?”
“We’ll wait on the jet,” Emma says. She turns to me. “The terminal is very small, just a few rows of vinyl seats. I think the jet would be more comfortable. Or we could wait outside if you prefer.”
“I’d like to stretch my legs,” I say.
She nods once. “Then I will do the same.”
She says a cordial thank-you and goodbye to the driver and Oliver before stepping out of the car. I join her, and Viktor appears at her other side.
The car heads back the way it came. I’m really doing this. Oliver will return with my stuff and then I’ll be off to live with a princess for a week. I glance at Emma. She’s huddled against the cold, her arms crossed tightly across her middle. She ran away from her wedding without stopping for a coat, probably in a complete panic. I’m sure she’ll have hell to pay when she returns home. I’m about to offer my hoodie when Viktor takes off his black blazer and settles it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she says, pulling it close around her.
Viktor looks impervious to the cold in a black T-shirt with black jeans. “You’re welcome, ma’am. There’s a small service road over there for your walk.”
“Sounds good,” she says, and the three of us head over to the narrow road.
Viktor is a silent presence, and Emma has gone uncharacteristically quiet. I have no interest in small talk, so I just walk. Surprisingly, it’s a comfortable silence, and the view of an empty field actually feels peaceful.
After our walk, we return and board the jet to wait for my luggage. I let Emma go ahead of me as we climb the stairs to the jet’s open door.
Emma stops short just as we step inside and mutters, “Lucas,” like a curse.
I take off my shades and stick them in the collar of my shirt. A tall bloke in his twenties with dark brown hair and a matching beard lifts a hand in greeting from one of the seating areas farther back with tables. Prince Lucas Rourke.
He grins. “I volunteered for Emma duty since it was my friend’s villa. And I believe the proper greeting is hello, wonderful brother of mine, thank you for saving my ass and giving me this wonderful escape from my personal catastrophe.”
Emma marches forward, and they have a heated discussion. I glance around, no other royal family here. Just the pilot and a flight attendant at the front of the jet, both of them smiling, seeming entertained by the Rourke siblings.
There’s four rows of wide reclining seats up front. I take off my hoodie and cap before taking a seat by a window in the second row. Viktor is already sitting in the first row.
“Can I get you a drink, sir?” the flight attendant, a voluptuous brunette in her twenties, asks.
“Water, please.” It arrives a moment later. “Thanks.”
She lingers and says in a low husky voice, “I’m a big fan.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you meet Emma, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I do mind, actually.”
She bobs her head, turns, and goes back to her post near the cockpit.
I unscrew the cap of my bottled water and lift it to my lips when Emma plops down next to me, bumping my arm. Water spills onto my beard and shirt.
“Sorry!” she exclaims, wiping my beard with her fingers. “Soft,” she says in a breathy voice. “So wet.”
I’m both turned on and amused. “Could I get a napkin?”
