Page 5 of Royal Darling
I slowly wake to a warm press of something against my lips. A kiss. I’m Sleeping Beauty awakened with a kiss by my handsome prince. How lovely. Wait! It’s not Abdul here to drag me back to the altar, is it? My eyes fly open in alarm, and I jerk upright, pulling the covers up to my chin, my head spinning with the sudden movement.
There’s a blond man sitting on the bed next to my hip. Not Abdul. His features swim in front of my eyes, and I blink him into focus. He doesn’t look like someone’s father. He’s maybe thirty with shaggy blond hair, blue eyes, a straight nose, and a beard in need of a trim. His long-sleeved gray thermal shirt pulls tight across wide shoulders and curving biceps. There’s a bit of an edge to him, a tightly coiled power that seems a little dangerous. Though he did kiss me. I think. Something touched my lips. Maybe he was checking if I was breathing with his fingertips.
“I’m alive,” I say, forcing my voice to sound confident and sure. “Hello.”
“Hello, luv, get off my boat.” His accent is British. His voice is deep, gravelly, and somehow strangely familiar.
My mind does a crazy whirl through the fuzziness of sleep and tequila, trying to remember the details between running from my own wedding to how I got here in this stranger’s bed.
He reaches out one big hand and yanks the blankets out of my grip. A flash of a tattooed eagle on the inside of his wrist catches my eye. I glance down at myself. I’m in the servant’s uniform. The details come flooding back. I made an escape worthy of a first-class spy, donning a maid’s uniform, pedaling to the port, and hiding out on a family’s houseboat. No, apparently, it’shishouseboat.
He stands and hitches his thumb toward the door. He’s not much for manners, though, to be fair, I am a stowaway. He’s tall, more than six feet, sinewy with muscle, his long legs in black jeans with scuffed black boots.
I scramble for a suitable reason for being here as I swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. I manage to stand upright with minimal room spin, but then my gut churns horrifically, bile rising in my throat. “Excuse me.”
I race to the tiny bathroom just outside the room and make it in time to toss my Cocoa Puffs.Gross.My misdeeds are in full evidence. Not my finest hour. Tequila was a terrible idea. I heave again and again.
“Are you okay?” he asks from the doorway.
Gah! No witnesses!I crawl over, slam the door, lock it, and hurry back to puke up the rest of my stomach.
Once I finish, I feel well enough to freshen up, helping myself to the sparse items I find in a small cabinet. I get a shock, seeing myself in the mirror in a brown curly wig. I’d forgotten about it. It’s slightly askew, so I fix it. Then I brush my teeth with my finger and swish with mouthwash.
I open the door and find him sitting in the living room. The table is now cleared of dishes, and he’s watching something on his laptop. His gaze snaps to mine, and it hits me why he sounded familiar. It’s Jackson Walker. He’s the guitarist and lead singer of Ignite. They played at the Cancer Research Foundation charity event I emceed in London. His raucous music jangled my nerves. His performance was wild, sweaty, and animal, which both appalled and fascinated me. He was unlike any man I’d ever seen before and never thought I’d see again. A rock god. A legendary bad boy.
My complete opposite.
He crooks his finger at me, and I approach, careful not to move my throbbing head too much.
I attempt a smile, hoping he’s not about to kick me off the boat. I just need some time to think. I made an epic mess of everything and I’m not ready to face Abdul, my family, and his family until I have a clear plan on how to handle things. “Yes?”
He doesn’t smile back. “You chundered in the loo and mucked up the kitchen. Well done. Piss off now.” He jerks his head toward the door.
I slowly turn to peek at the kitchen and turn back to him. “The kitchen is clean.”
“I swept up the Cocoa Puffs. Did you get any in the bowl?” He sounds extremely aggrieved.
I keep my straight-from-the-box-cereal-eating method to myself. “You’ll be happy to know I left the bathroom just as I found it. Less a little of your toothpaste and mouthwash.” I take a seat across from him, pleased that my brain is functioning again.
He looks less than pleased as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table in front of me. His sleeves are pushed up, revealing muscular tanned forearms. His voice is sharp, his gaze direct. “I don’t do groupies anymore.”
I can’t help my smile. He thinks I’m a groupie. I must really be blending in already, no more proper princess image. I force myself to stop smiling, smashing my lips together. I don’t want to look like an idiot.
He stares at my mouth and then jerks his gaze up to my eyes. “I’m going on a long trip, solo, yeah? So again, get off my boat. How did you even get in here? I locked it.”
I bite my bottom lip, a plan formulating in my mind. “For how long?”
His brows shoot up. “How long do I want you gone? Forever.”
Rude.I suppose I can put up with a lack of manners since he’s ideal in other ways. “I meant how long is your trip?”
His eyes go half-mast. “For as long as I feel like.”
“Where are you going?”
He exhales sharply. “If I tell you, will you leave?”
I nod and instantly regret it, wincing.
