Page 77 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

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Rory

Tea can cure anything, Roland once told me. He was naked, we were postcoital sore, and his lion’s den of a room engulfed us. Ben had brought in scones and a pot of tea, and we all sat up, enjoying breakfast in the prince’s bed. War, sickness, a prolonged eternity of boredom, Roland continued. Fix a cuppa, turn that frown uppa.

I’m not sure if it can cure heartbreak, but I figure it’s worth a shot. My eyelids are swollen, my wound is throbbing, and I feel hungover. Ben isn’t in bed when I wake up, and his gun is gone, but his duffle bag is still tucked under the mattress, so I know he hasn’t run off on me. I rummage through my own bag to pick out some clothes.

Nearly everyone has already left for the day. The Korean girl in the far end of the room sits on her cot, headphones in ears. She shoots me a glare when she sees I’m up.

Oops. I’m normally a better suitemate. I try an apologetic smile and a cheery, “Good morning!”

She doesn’t even respond; she turns back to her device. Well, I deserved that one.

As I pull clean clothes out, a folded-up map pops out of my bag. I unroll it out onto my lap. It’s my old bus map, most of the routes to Scotland already circled. A tremor of excitement runs through me. This is what I’m good at. I fish a pen out of my bag, open up my phone, and start looking up flight schedules. I jot down a couple of times on the corner of my map, along with the corresponding flight numbers. Then I hunt down bus schedules, hostels, and price match. I’ve got the process down to a science, and it’s not long before I have a couple of options mapped out.

I’m already feeling more like myself when I put my work down to freshen up. The bathroom is bustling now with morning activity, and I manage to snag a sink to wash up. I shimmy into a stall and maneuver out of my sleepwear and into a clean, dark pair of jeans and an oversized band shirt.

No more Principessa Rory, thank you very much. I’m back to plain old Rory March for a while. And honestly? It feels good.

I’ve reached phase two of the breakup: the angry, indignant phase. Screw Roland. Screw Roland, screw his martyrdom, screw his self-importance, and screw his stupidly handsome face and soul-crushing blue eyes.

Now for that cuppa.

I pack everything up back in the room, except for the map, my wallet, and Oscar. Those, I tuck in a lumpy purse that I hang over my shoulder. I shove the rest of my stuff in my locker along the far wall and head downstairs to the common area. There are a couple people up and about, working on their laptops, reading, or chatting over breakfast. I find the beverage station. I fill the electric teapot with water, stick it in, and pick out a tea bag as it boils.

“Make me a cuppa while you’re at it.”

I glance over my shoulder and see Ben sitting alone at a circular table. I don’t know how I didn’t notice him before—maybe it’s because he doesn’t look quite as out of place as he did the first time we had tea together here. He’s dressed down in loose jeans and a soft coal-gray shirt that cuts off around his bulging biceps.

Ben has an assortment of papers scattered in front of him. As he studies them, he scratches the side of his face absently. He hasn’t shaved yet. He’s got morning stubble. It looks really good on him. Really, really good. I’d-like-to-feel-that-bristle-against-my-inner-thighs good. My sex pulses and my legs squeeze together at the thought.

Dear God, Rory! Focus!

“Yes, sir.” I wink and make a second cup.

I expect one of his small amused smiles or that smoldering you’re being a naughty girl look from his dark eyes. Instead, he barely looks up when I set the cup down in front of him. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

I take the seat across from him and wrap my hands around my mug. I try another tactic to get his attention. I unzip my purse, pick the map out, and spread it out across the table. “I found a couple cheap flights to Edinburgh,” I inform him. “Most of them are about sixty euros one way, but if we take the red-eye, it’s practically half the price. Most of the buses are shut down at that point, but there’s a shuttle that’ll take us into the city—”

“That’s great,” Ben says. His tone is curt, distracted, and his eyes flicker up to me. “You should book it.”

I should. I try not to flinch. My heart drops like a stone into my stomach. I try to remain upbeat and tuck my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I mean… I can. No problem. But am I booking for one or two? Because… last night you were pretty clear about the whole where you go, I go thing, but now I feel like I’m talking to Frosty the Snowman here…”

Ben’s lips thin and he finally diverts all of his attention to me. “I found something last night,” he tells me. His voice is all official. Bodyguard Ben mode.

Okay. I can deal with this. He’s not mad at me; he’s just locked up in his head. I relax my stance and nod. “What kind of thing?”

“I couldn’t fall asleep, so I started watching your March On videos.”

A grin lifts the corners of my mouth. “You were watching my videos?”

“Yes.” Plain. Simple. As though that’s the obvious answer. It’s such a small, sweet gesture, and I feel my heart grow wings again. “I found the video you took the night of the masquerade ball.”

I sip on my tea and sigh at that. “I could barely use any of the footage I got from that. You bodyguards are a piece of work.”

“The man who kidnapped you—he was there. At the masquerade.”

Chills run up my spine, and I feel goose bumps tighten the flesh on my arms. The thought of him there, only a couple of feet away from me while I danced and laughed with Roland… it makes me queasy. “Are you sure?” I chirp.

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