Page 2 of Royal Charmer
She bobs a curtsy and leaves. I open the door and step out into a sunny June day with clear blue skies and white fluffy clouds. I feel better already. I head to the center of the courtyard, throw my head back, spread my arms wide, and close my eyes. The sun warms my face. I don’t need a groom to enjoy this. In fact, Mason would’ve probably preferred we spend our time cycling around the island. He was big into cycling. I could never get comfortable on that tiny bicycle seat. Welp, now I don’t have to do what he wants to do. I’m a free woman. I straighten, a heaviness sinking into my limbs.
My phone rings, and I snatch it from my pocket, thankful for the distraction. My editor’s name pops up on the screen.Yes!I punch the button. “I’ve got my next book.”
“Let’s hear it,” Quinn says. She’s a New Yorker—direct and to the point.
I take a seat on a nearby stone bench. “We’ve only seen glimpses of William before this in the other two books, so I’m going to give him a dark past. He’s a scoundrel.”
“Like it so far.”
“It’ll be a love triangle. A scoundrel and a slick gentleman both want the heroine. Her name will be Sigourney, which means victorious conqueror.” I rush on because we both know Sigourney is not a Regency-era name, but I love that she’s so kickass. “It’s the slick gentleman she will make pay and use the scoundrel to ruin him. In the end, both men will be ruined.” My heart beats a little faster, excited at the idea of crushing two men.
Silence.
“Quinn? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she says quietly. “How’re you feeling?”
“I’m fine. What’s wrong? You don’t like it? It’s exciting. She’ll bring them to their knees.”
“Maybe you’re too bitter to write this story.”
“I’m not too bitter!” My voice rises to an alarming pitch, and I lower it, working hard for a reasonable tone. “I’m fine. I have the story.”
“This doesn’t sound like an Alice Segal story. It’s tragic.”
My life is tragic.I swipe at an annoying tear and say urgently and loudly in an effort to convince her, “Dealing with a love triangle could be—”
“Give yourself a little more time to grieve,” she says gently. “Send me something next week. Not ideas, an actual chapter. Better make it three, okay?” She mutters a quick goodbye and hangs up.
I stare at the phone in shock for a full minute. She didn’t like my idea. That was my only idea. Three chapters by next week is generous. I should be turning in much more, but still.
Who am I kidding? I can’t write romance when I don’t believe in it. I’mfinished. Career over.
I pull my knees up under my long dress like a turtle pulling into her shell. Then I wrap my arms around my knees, bury my head in my arms, and let the tears fall. I don’t want to lose this author gig. I’m completely unemployable as a history major with no job experience. I went straight from college into writing. Maybe I’ll end up teaching history to high school students, who don’t give a crap about the past because they’re too muddled with hormones and angst about where to sit in the lunchroom and who is their true friend and who is secretly talking about them behind their back. Not that I know anything about that.
This su-u-u-ucks donkey balls!
“Are you okay?” a deep male voice asks.
My head jerks up, and I stare in utter shock, the breath whooshing from my lungs.Is it really him?I take off my tear-splotched glasses, clean them with the end of my dress, and shove them back on for a better look. It is. Prince Lucas Rourke—the world’s most eligible royal bachelor, the man who dates movie stars and models—is standing in front of me, asking if I’m okay. I suck in air. He’s like a romance-novel cover. Truly. I wouldn’t even need to write a story if I had him on the cover. People would buy my grocery list repeated a thousand times just to have his gorgeous self to gaze upon. His aquamarine eyes are a sharp contrast to his thick dark hair and neatly trimmed beard. If he were a hero in one of my stories, I’d describe him as six feet of broad-shouldered muscular perfection with a proud regal bearing. Maybe throw something in there about the snug fit of his breeches. Ahem. He’s wearing a short-sleeved black button-down shirt, and his forearms are tanned and muscular. I’m a bit of a connoisseur of forearms, and his are particularly sexy. I can’t help but notice this kind of thing. It’s in my job description and doesnotmean I’m actually going to do anything about my appreciative admiration. My blackened heart prevents any blood flow south of the belly button.
I attempt a smile and manage to say, “I’m fine,” which sounds unconvincing even to my ears. It was kind of him to check on me, but I’m not about to unload on a total stranger.
He shocks me further by taking a seat next to me on the bench. “I couldn’t help but overhear about the love triangle. That sounds rough.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry because I was describing my story, and just now I realize I was describing my life. Duh. No wonder Quinn hated it. My life is far from a romance.
His aquamarine eyes are sympathetic. “You don’t have to talk about it. I’ll just keep you company for a bit.” And he stays put.
He’s being there for me, a total stranger in the midst of a breakdown. I didn’t even know he spent any time at the palace. I’ve seen pictures of him all over the world with many, many glamorous people, especially women. So many women. None of whom would ever be described as a curvy girl. What in the world is he doing here?
I risk a sideways glance at him without turning my head.
He offers a small smile. “I’m Lucas.”
I snort. “I know who you are. You’re the world’s most eligible royal bachelor.” His lips curve into a sexy crooked smile. “I’m Alice. I’m here on my honeymoon.”
“Oh.” He looks all around, probably wondering where the groom went. “I misunderstood. I thought you were a guest of my sister-in-law with your American accent.” He looks back to me. “You must be in the honeymoon suite.” At my nod, he lowers his voice. “Did you have a fight with your husband?”
