Chapter One
Sierra
You’d think the reason I’m sitting on a small charcoal sofa in this tiny room with no windows is because I have some fascination with fairy tales. But that theory would have been proven wrong the minute I came out of my mom’s womb with fire-engine-red hair because hello, how many princesses with red hair had their own movie when I was growing up? Yep, one. And she’s a mermaid. Mermaids are about as real as a red-haired princess would be. That and the actual natural blondes in this world.
Now that I’m older, my crazy red hair has toned down to a more auburn color, and I’m proud to be in the one-percent minority of red-haired people in the world. It makes me unique.
But as with most things, when people are different, there are stereotypes. I can’t deny that I can be fiery at times and my temper can get the best of me. But I’m not loose like the high school football team believed. I had four years of “does the carpet match the drapes” jokes to contend with while their gazes zeroed in between my thighs.
That experience, along with a lot of others, made me tough.
But before I head off on some tangent and raise my “I’m a carrot-top and proud” flag, let’s get back to where I am and how I got here.
Win a date with Prince Adrian Marx
That was all I read on the charity website, and I knew I’d do whatever I had to in order to make it happen. Even pay the high entry fee to enter the contest.
Do I love the prince because he’s a prince? Not exactly, though I’ve always been into keeping tabs on the monarchy. From the first magazine cover I saw him on, I was enthralled.
The guy is gorgeous. Which is why he’s in so many magazines. And why every time he steps out of his sprawling mansion into his grand courtyard in Sandsal, photographers snap a picture. Needless to say, thanks to their hard work, I already know what the prince looks like under his clothes—except for whatever he’s hiding in his boxer briefs.
Based on what I’ve seen on social media and in the press, he seems like he doesn’t quite fit the mold as far as how one might think a member of the royal family would behave, which is what makes him so intriguing. I want to know more about him.
A short knock sounds on the same door I used to come into this room a half hour ago, then it opens. A tall man with a brown flat-top pokes his head in but doesn’t release the knob. “The prince will be ready for you in five minutes. The cameras are setting up now. Have you already signed the release so we can get some pictures?”
I nod.
He nods, snorts, and shuts the door.
Nice guy. Not.
You’d think sparing a bottle of water wouldn’t be a big deal for the royal family, but there’s nothing in this room except me, a loveseat, a coffee table, some old magazines, and a potted plant that’s seen better days. I’m in a fancy hotel in Manhattan, and though I’m not sure exactly what this room is for, I think maybe at one point it was an employee break room.
I stand from the couch, antsy now that the time to meet the prince is almost here. I’m rarely ever nervous—except for when I walk into my dad’s house, and that’s mostly because the silence inside makes me crazy with anxiety.
My phone dings in my purse, so I pull it out, happy for the distraction from my nerves.
Mick: You’re never going to believe this!
Mick is my work BFF at the TV station, but he’s always dramatic, so I don’t get too excited over his text.
Me: What’s up?
Mick: I just overheard Georgia in Jack’s office saying she’s going to be retiring.
Holy shit! For once in his life, Mick wasn’t being overly dramatic.
Me: No way!
Mick: This is your chance to move into the anchor position. You got this!
Me: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure it won’t just be me who wants that job.
Mick: Yeah but you’d be the best at it. Where you at, girl? Let’s go celebrate.
Guilt floods me. I didn’t tell him I’d won a date with Prince Adrian. I will, but Mick’s as into Adrian as I am, and all his questions and predictions of how the night would go would have made me more nervous than I already am. I’ll tell him after it’s all said and done.
Me: Sorry, I’m just in the city visiting my dad. He needed me for something.
Mick: Yuck. Well I’d say have fun, but I know you won’t.
Me: You can fill me in on the details on Monday.
Mick: You know it. I got your back.
Me: Thanks, Mick! Chat soon!
The John Cena lookalike opens the door without a knock.
“Ever heard of knocking?” I snipe, pushing my phone into my purse.
He narrows his eyes as though we speak two different languages and he doesn’t get my point. Technically his accent suggests that maybe English isn’t his first language, but he doesn’t stumble over his words. “The prince is ready.”
My stomach knots and I grab my purse off the couch. “Do you have to call him the prince? Is that an official thing you have to do?”
He glances over his broad shoulder without amusement. Nor does he answer me.
Silent treatment. Cool. Mature. Not.
We walk out of the room and down the hallway of the boutique hotel, then up in a private elevator that requires a key and a password. JC, as I think of him since he reminds me of John Cena, looks over his shoulder while he punches in the code as if I’m trying to spy on him.
“You can relax. I’m not one of those crazy girls who stalk the prince.”
He grunts.
If he saw the stack of magazines featuring the prince in the corner of my room, I’m not sure he’d believe me.
The elevator doors open, and I move to step out first, but his arm lands across my stomach like a steel rod and I rear back, almost falling to the floor of the elevator.
“Hold up.” He looks to the right then to the left then back to the right.
He releases his mom-style seatbelt and I step out into a part of the hotel the average person can’t get a room in. Elaborate doesn’t describe it. There’s nothing modern about this space—it’s stately and worldly, very European. Intricately designed carpets lay below my feet while dark wood frames the doors and ceiling. Splotches of dark green paint can be seen behind the framed artwork that looks as if I stepped into a Catholic church.
We’re halfway down the hall when JC says something, so I turn back, but he’s talking into his jacket.
Security mic. Of course.
“The door is straight ahead. You may enter.”
My final footsteps take me to a set of double wooden doors with luxury fixtures.
He’s behind there.
Prince Adrian Marx.
JC clears his throat like I’m taking too long after I’ve waited for what feels like forever.
I glare back at him. “I’m just making sure I’m presentable.”
Running my hands down my conservative dress, I wish I had worn what I really wanted to, something that made me more comfortable. That ship has sailed though, so my hand twists the doorknob and I open the door.
I hold the door open for JC, but he shakes his head and turns his back so he faces the hallway.