“What the hell is that?” I point an accusing finger at my vandalized parachute, now lying in a deflated puddle on the grass of the great lawn.
The antique statues at the edges of the grass stare down at it in judgment, as disgusted by the adolescent display as I am.
“It’s a nice gesture.” Nick straightens his tie as he strides past me toward the helipad, clearly intent on welcoming Elizabeth in person, as well as with his cringe-worthy parachute.
“You realize that’s going to be international news before sunset,” I demand, tearing at my harness with angry fingers.
“It’s already up on our PicsWithFriends page. I had Drake text me a picture from the chopper,” Nick says. Then he tosses over his shoulder, “You’re welcome.”
I’m continually nagging Nick and Jeffrey to help post content to the Royal Package page—I have a country to prepare to run and not nearly the time to devote to social media I once had—but I’d rather my baby brother have kept his meddling nose out of this one.
The more we play up the romance of the month-long engagement festivities, the greater the fallout when Lizzy calls it quits between us.
I have no doubt our eleven million followers are going to loathe her for kicking me to the curb, regardless of how our engagement comes to an end, but they’re really going to hate her guts if it seems I’ve been the perfect, romantic fiancé, and it wasn’t enough for the princess.
And I don’t want that for Lizzy.
I don’t want to give her the wrong idea, either, which this stupid parachute absolutely will.
Cursing, I toss the harness into the center of the chute and gather the entire mess into a ball to deal with later.
Mess. It’s all a mess, but I can still clean it up.
There’s no irreparable damage done.
“Breakfast is waiting for you in the rose garden, sir.” Greta, my personal assistant, and the reason my overbooked life functions smoothly, strides across the grass to collect the chute from my arms. “I’ve made sure both meals are strawberry and banana free for the princess. Just in case.”
“Thank you, Greta,” I reply automatically before I realize what she’s said. “In case of what?” I ask.
“In case you kiss her, sire,” Greta says, her lightly lined face as expressionless as ever. From the tidy knot of silver hair atop her head to her sensible gray shoes, Greta is all logic and efficiency, always prepared for any scenario.
Still, the fact that I might end up making out with my fiancée has made it onto her radar is disturbing for some reason.
I grunt beneath my breath. “I won’t be kissing her, Greta.”
Her shoulder lifts almost imperceptibly. “Better safe than sorry, sir.”
“No. Kissing Princess Elizabeth isn’t on the menu today. Or any day,” I snap, before backtracking quickly to add, “Not until we’re married. She’s old-fashioned and wants to wait.”
I can’t let anyone aside from my brothers in on my plan to escape this marriage, not even Greta. I’m ninety percent sure Greta is loyal to me and only me, but too many of the servants at this castle are my grandfather’s people and as determined as the rest of my family to see my romantic future play out the way Grandfather intended.
That includes my mother, from whom I honestly expected more sympathy. She’s a modern woman who married for love. Just because she made a bad call with dear old Dad doesn’t mean an arranged marriage is the best choice for me. And it doesn’t mean she shouldn’t make another choice for herself someday. She’s fifty-five, but she’s still a lovely, vibrant woman.
Though I wish she could be lovely and vibrant somewhere else at the moment.
But no, she and Jeffery are coming down the stairs beside the fountain, trailing Nick to the helipad. Elizabeth is going to be nestled in the family bosom, getting cozy before breakfast can play out the way I’ve planned.
Unless…
“Don’t tell my family where we are, Greta,” I say, trotting backward toward the tree line. “I want time alone with Elizabeth before she’s mobbed by crazy people.”
I spin, sprinting away as Greta calls after me, “Understood, sir. But be careful in the woods, the stinging nettles are large this year.”
I lift a hand in acknowledgment, but I don’t waste the precious seconds it would take to turn around. I sprint past the statues standing sentry at the edge of the lawn and then race through the trees, taking a short cut to the landing pad, determined to cut Elizabeth off from the warm family welcome.
She might find them endearing rather than overwhelming, and I can’t risk it. I have to keep Elizabeth un-endeared and undo the damage caused by the stupid parachute.
It’s not too late to get Operation Prince Charmless back on track.
It can’t be.
Pouring on the speed, I leap a particularly large patch of nettles and touch down unharmed on the other side, deciding to take that as a sign that luck is on my side.
Chapter Eight
Sabrina
I’ve barely passed the slowing blades of the helicopter and dared to stand up straight on the sun-warmed tarmac when Andrew races into view, bursting from the trees half a dozen yards away with a strained smile on his face.
“There you are!” he pants, so out of breath, he must have sprinted here from wherever he touched down. He thrusts an arm my way. “Come, then, breakfast awaits. I’m famished, aren’t you?”
He takes my hand, tugging me to the left, away from the broad paved pathway, which presumably leads to the castle and his family, who Lizzy assured me would be here to greet me when I touched down.
Apparently, she’s been in touch with Andrew’s mother via email. They’ve become friendly and made plans to sculpt together before the wedding.
Considering everything I sculpt ends up looking like an animal took a dump on an ashtray, I plan to avoid artsy bonding time at all costs. But I should at least say hello and thank Queen Felicity for all the planning and bill-footing she’s done.
Lord knows my parents have done nothing to organize or fund the festivities.
I glance back over my shoulder as Andrew guides me down a narrow dirt path. “But your family. Shouldn’t we—”
“My family is terribly busy. Too busy to say hello this morning, sadly, but they’ll be around later.” He releases my hand and snakes his arm around my waist, practically carrying me now as he hustles around the trees, making the tingly part of me viscerally aware of how strong he is.
I don’t usually get weak in the knees over silly things like muscles—good conversation and a sense of humor are my weaknesses—but so far, there’s nothing “usual” about the way this man affects me.
“Besides, they wouldn’t want our coffee to get cold,” Andrew adds. “Nothing worse than cold coffee. Except for cold eggs, maybe.” We’re so close that when he shudders in disgust, I do, too, making him laugh as he glances my way. “Glad we agree on cold eggs.”
“Complete agreement, but I can walk.” I bring a hand to his shoulder, applying pressure until he relaxes his hold on my waist and my feet touch the ground again. I tug my skirt down and stuff my shirt in, but the fussing does nothing to stop the zing and prickle of excitement across my skin. “I feel like a sausage,” I mutter.