I look back at the customs officer and shrug.
“The documents were put together by a woman,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true, but the more he thinks I’m just some silly American girl, the better.
For the first time, he cracks a smile. Just barely, but he does.
“The prince is very popular with women,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows just a bit.
“I can see why,” I say, and smile back at him.
He just grunts and collects the photos back into the folder, then places my passport on top of the folder and pushes both toward me across the table. I take them, relieved.
“Apologies for the inconvenience,” he says, stone-faced again.
“It was no inconvenience,” I say, nodding my head at him.
We both stand, and he gestures at the door of the compartment.
“We will arrive in Velinsk in thirty minutes,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say.
I walk back through the train, taking deep breaths. I can’t wait to get off this thing. I’ve been riding it for thirteen hours, and I’m pretty tired of being in a metal tube.
Before I go back to my seat, I go to the tiny bathroom. I splash my face off, brush my hair, and pull it into a bun since it’s obvious I haven’t washed it in two days.
I wonder if I should change my clothes, since I’m wearing leggings, an oversize tunic, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, but everything else I have is dirty. Besides, I’m not formally meeting the royal family until my welcome dinner tonight, so I’ll have time to change, bathe, and feel human again before that.
Then I go back to my seat and study the briefing like mad. I probably look insane, muttering names and phrases over and over to myself, but the people in this compartment have already seen me at my worst, so I don’t really care.
Finally, the train pulls up to a small train station. I shoulder my enormous pack, straighten my spine, and get off the train at last.
The air is summery but slightly cool, and it smells salty and fresh. I take a deep breath, glad to be off the train full of human smells.
I start walking, and as I do, my phone goes off in my pocket.
Texts from my mom start pouring in, all time-stamped at least an hour ago. We must have been out of range, or something. I stop in my tracks and read them all quickly, my heart sinking. I start chewing on one thumbnail, something I always do when I’m stressed.
The gist of the texts is: the royal family will be meeting you at the train station, so you should look presentable.
I look around for a bathroom, where I can frantically change into dirty clothes that at least aren’t these dirty clothes. Instead, I see my parents waving their arms. I stare for a moment and then hesitantly wave back, then walk over to them.
“Welcome to Sveloria, sweetie!” my mom gushes as I hug her, then my dad.
Then she smiles her polite-but-slightly-worried smile.
“Did you get my texts?” she asks.
“They came through about twenty seconds ago,” I say. “I guess I was out of range, but I’ve got some other clothes with me. They’re kinda dirty, but I can go change right now if that’s better?”
A black limousine pulls up to the sidewalk outside the station. Two men in black suits step out, and the other travelers step out of the way. A few point and whisper.
My mom puts one hand on my arm. She doesn’t look thrilled.
“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” she says.
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About Roxie
I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women they fall for.
My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom, forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.
I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded, whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.
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