Shamed into action, I catapult out of Andrew’s arms, stumbling backward so fast I trip in Lizzy’s high heels and go down hard. My tailbone makes bruising contact with the tarmac as I spill onto the ground at Andrew’s feet.
A pitying expression fleets across his features—there and gone again so quickly I could have missed it if I so much as glanced away—and then he’s smiling as he reaches down to help me up.
“There now, are you all right?” he shouts in a lovely British accent as he gathers me off the ground by my elbows. He was taught English by expensive tutors from the UK, not by an American nanny from Wisconsin, who left me making strange “o” sounds until another nanny—this one from California—straightened me out again.
Andrew would pity me even more if he knew.
Pity…
It had been so clear on his face. He feels sorry for my shy, awkward sister—for me, a usually composed person who has suddenly become a self-conscious spaz in his presence. Feeling his fingers curled around my upper arms is enough to make my hormones go haywire all over again, and I hate myself for it.
How can this be happening?
How?!
I’ve never melted into a lust puddle at first sight for anyone, and I’ve met my fair share of sexy, magnetic men. The ski slopes surrounding our village summon lovely specimens right to our doorstep every winter. After Thor broke my heart into sad, soggy gingerbread-house pieces two Christmases ago, I spent the rest of the ski season numbing my pain with Sven.
And Leo.
And Baxter.
And Cane, who was also from Gallantia and in complete agreement that Prince Andrew is a poser-loser of the highest order. I’m pretty sure we wished Andrew a raging case of ass sores and drank to it, in fact, but we’d already had a lot of mead by then, so I can’t be sure.
Traditional Gallantian mead is serious stuff.
I should ask if Andrew has any on the helicopter. I can drink myself into a stupor and wake up so hungover I won’t find anyone or anything attractive.
No, you’re going to stay sober and pay attention, Sabrina. The best way to get over this insanity is to remember who this man is. He may look pretty and give great hugs and do a decent job of gallantly scooping fallen damsels off the ground, but at his core, he’s a self-centered turd nugget who thinks he’s too good for Lizzy.
And no one is too good for Lizzy.
The inner voice is right. Lizzy is kindest and the sweetest and the best. That’s why she’s shacking up at a rental cabin for the next few weeks and working her butt off to land that collection and save our family. And that’s why, in one short month, she will marry this horrible man.
Because he is still horrible, and he will reveal his wretchedness to me.
All I have to do is pay attention.
Bolstered by the thought, I roll my shoulders back and nod, flexing my triceps in a subtle cue for Mr. Smells Amazing to take his hands off me. Getting the hint—which is surprising, considering his PicsWithFriends account makes Andrew look like the least subtle-hint-appreciating person on the planet—he releases me and motions toward the helicopter.
“Shall we?” he asks with another grin.
I nod and start toward the chopper, my freshly flat-ironed hair whipping around my head and stinging my face. Contrary to popular belief, rarely are identical twins indistinguishable, and my sister and I are no exception. Lizzy has silky straight hair while mine is wavy and thick. I’m also half an inch taller and ten pounds heavier, evidence Zan cites as proof I tried to eat my siblings in the womb.
But Zan is just bitter about being short.
It’s hard for a personality as big as hers to occupy a mere one and a half meters—five feet to Lizzy and I. Zan learned the metric system at her fancy school. Lizzy and I learned inches and feet from our Minnesota Nanny. By the time our next nanny realized we'd been taught the wrong measurements for our place in the world, the other system had stuck.
It’s just one of the many ways that our lives have diverged since Zan left for boarding school at thirteen, never to return to the land of her birth for more than a long weekend. To manage even that much took my threats, Lizzy’s pleas, and Mama’s claim to have come down with a grave and mysterious illness that might do her in before the spring thaw.
I don’t blame Zan for wanting to put our family drama behind her, but her absence makes it feel like it’s Lizzy and me against the world. Lizzy isn’t just my best friend—she’s the only person I trust to have my back, no matter what.
And I have hers.
And nothing as stupid as a momentary rush of hormones is going to make me screw this up for her.
“Up you go,” Andrew shouts, his big hands circling my waist as he helps me into the helicopter, triggering another sparkle stampede through my bloodstream.
Cursing myself for being celibate for too long—clearly, the past six months of all work and no play were a bad call on my part—I curl my fingers into fists. Digging my nails into my palms, I settle into the generously padded bench seat facing the front of the aircraft. I concentrate on the pain, not the sparkles, and quickly regain control.
Still, I’m grateful when Andrew settles into the seat facing me, next to the man in black, instead of sliding in beside me. Even a little extra distance is a good thing.
I’ll keep my distance and my time with Andrew to a minimum, and everything will be fine. I can do this. I have to do this.
It’s too late to turn back now.
With a Lizzy-sized smile and a nod of thanks, I turn to stare out the window as the helicopter surges into the air. I watch the village I’ve called home my entire life shrink beneath me and swear that I will return to it with no life-ruining mistakes on my conscience.
And then I direct my gaze forward to face the inescapable future.
I’m a big fan of running from trouble. But when running isn’t an option, facing the enemy head-on is your best bet. Show Trouble how strong you are, and nine times out of ten, Trouble won’t make you prove it.
And I am a strong woman.
Stronger than fear and worry and any temptation, especially the kind that comes in sexy, prince-sized packages.
Chapter Five
Andrew
Something’s wrong.
I can’t put my finger on it, but Elizabeth seems…changed somehow.
I’ve only talked to her on the phone—she refused to video chat, citing concerns that it would make her stutter worse—but aside from our recent break, we’ve spoken once a month for the past three years.
I thought I had a solid bead on her personality by now.
Elizabeth is sweet but far too timid for her own good. She’s the kind of woman who lets other people run all over her, who is so afraid of offending that she’ll suffer a thousand indignities in silence before setting boundaries for her own protection. She’s a trembling mouse who would rather swallow her tongue than stand up for herself.
Or so I’d thought.
But as Pierre steers the helicopter higher, I flash back to the look on her face as I helped her off the ground. To the way she rolled her shoulders back and stared me straight in the eye, silently daring me to keep pitying her for being a klutz.
For a moment, she’d channeled a fire I would have sworn she didn’t possess.