Washed Up Royal Read online

  We are told someone shouted, “Man overboard.” As soon as the helmsman heard the distress call, he punched the red button at the wheel, marking the boat’s GPS location. However, it appears he failed to depress the button for the mandatory four seconds it takes to record the spot, therefore no location was displayed.

  It took the captain some time to get ahold of Race Control and inform them of the MOB’s position, which was roughly marked by the crew’s safety officer. The distance was an issue for them, though, and because of the turbulent conditions, a helicopter could not be sent.

  Due to the mayhem, Prince Adrien Laurent spent hours drifting in the frothy, cold peaks of the Mediterranean before the skipper was able to turn the boat around and pound back upwind to find him. Reports tell us the seventh in line to the Eastwood throne was found alive, a little washed up, but fine, and taken to a nearby hospital. The Royal Fleet was, however, disqualified from the race for their lack of safety protocol. And King Rutherford wants someone’s head. Whose is anyone’s guess. But my bet is on his cousin, the Washed Up Royal.

  NOT HIS HEAD

  As soon as I step off the plane and turn my phone on, it dings with notification after notification.

  Hoping to keep my whereabouts under wraps, I shove my sunglasses over my eyes, and then glance at the screen.

  And it’s starting.

  Fuck!

  TWITTER

  @Adrien Laurent I think you’re a real washed up royal now

  You fucked up @Adrien Laurent and you’ve officially been crowned a washed up royal

  What? Got a little wet, so now you’re running away @Adrien Laurent?

  Sorry to hear you nearly drowned @Adrien Laurent. I offer yachting lessons if you’re interested.

  Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you, and fuck you, too. There must be hundreds, no thousands, just like them. One giant fuck you should do.

  It isn’t like I have a chip on my shoulder, I just hate labels. Unfortunately, they are something I’ve been dealing with my entire fucking life.

  Jetsetter.

  Playboy.

  Tycoon.

  Navigator.

  And let’s not forget—Prince.

  I’ve had so many titles slapped before my name, you’d think I actually ruled a country. And now this one. Motherfucker.

  So yeah, I left Spain in a hurry but certainly not because I wanted to, fuck you very much. More like because King Rutherford demanded I return to Eastwood as soon as I was released from the hospital to have an audience with him.

  After a grueling plane ride to Eastwood and then an even more grueling car ride to the palace, I told him what I knew—which was nothing.

  King Rutherford has a temper and wasn’t pleased with me, at all. He’s pissed as hell he lost his chance at the cup title because I was knocked overboard. Hell, so am I. I wanted to go round for round with him, but a call from the Prime Minister of Alexandria shortened our meeting, and he ordered me out of his sight.

  Fuck him and his crown.

  My phone buzzes while still in the palm of my hand and grabs my attention. Another quick glance tells me it’s my mother. Ignoring the call, I continue striding through the Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris.

  The back of my head still throbs from where the sail butted me. It’s only a bump, though, and nothing I’m getting all worked up about.

  Just as I’m peering up at the monitor and take notice that my flight back to Spain to meet up with the crew has been delayed, my cell rings again.

  Since I have time, I decide to get this the fuck over with. I can’t ignore her forever, especially when I already know why she’s calling. With a resigned sigh, I raise the phone to hit receive. “Hello.”

  “Adrien, darling, there you are. I thought you might still be in the hospital. You haven’t called me back. Are you all right?” The woman is frantic.

  With the phone to my ear, I start pounding down the corridor. “Yeah, Mum. I’m fine.”

  “What happened? The papers said you almost died.”

  Of course, they did. “Mum, I’ve told you not to believe anything you read,” I tell her with the little perseverance I can muster.

  She sighs. “It isn’t like I had much choice since you haven’t called me back. Now, what on earth happened?”

  Taking a deep breath, I stop where I am and lean against the wall. Then in the middle of the busy airport, I go on to explain what went down, including me, and the aftermath, as well.

  “You saw King Rutherford and he said that to you?” she asks before I even finish speaking.

  “Yes, Mum, he did.”

  “Well, I can’t believe King Rutherford blames you for the incident when clearly you were the most competent man onboard,” she says in such assurance you’d think she was there. “I’m going to ring him right away and set him straight. He should be grateful for—”

  Her words all drone together. I stop listening after a while. Everything that happened is still so unclear. I never saw the crew member and I’m not sure what exactly hit me, either. I’m so over talking about it.

  Agitation has me occupying myself by scrolling back to that message I received yesterday and seriously considering it. As ridiculous as the idea seems, it wouldn’t be the worst thing I could do. It could actually give me the power I need to take action. And since I was planning to be at sea for the next few months, anyway, what’s a summer in the States?

  “He’s family, after all,” my mother tells me, as if that makes all the difference in the world.

  What a laugh. Family. Yes, the king and I are related. Cousins in fact, and when we were younger, best friends even. His father was the son of the Queen of Eastwood, as was mine, and as such, they were both Princes. However, my father was the third born son and lost any opportunity of ascending to the throne as soon as his two brothers started having children. When he married my mother, the Queen decreed him the secondary title of Earl and my mother, Countess.

  And me, yes, I’m a Prince. A courtesy awarded to me at birth because of my mother’s insistence. If you ask me, it’s a burden to carry the royal title but not be anywhere near the line of succession to ever sit on the throne, especially when the man who sits on it is ruthless, callus, and greedy.

  I know what he did. He might choose not to recall our cousin and myself were around back then when he dabbled in matters he shouldn’t have, but I won’t forget. Ever.

  “He should—” My mother goes on but I cut her off.

  “Mum, stop the dramatics, will you? I’m not really sure what the hell happened or even if it was preventable. For all I know, my crewmate hit me over the head with a monkey fist. Either way, it happened and we’re out of the race.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t put it that way and claim sabotage when you saw him,” she demands to know. “Because if you did, I’m sure he wasn’t pleased.”

  “No, I didn’t but it doesn’t matter. He was more pissed that we were out of the race than he was interested in figuring out what happened.”

  “Then go back to the castle straight away and tell the King what he expects to hear.”

  Bullshit reasons that I don’t know are what he wants to hear, and I won’t fucking lie to make him feel better about the forfeited loss.

  That’s when I decide to change my destination. I’m not going to go back to Spain. I’m going to go after that job. After Rutherford.

  “Did you hear me,” she prompts. “If you don’t, who knows what will happen.”

  Even she fears his wrath. I look up at the board for my new destination. “This situation isn’t going to impact your social standing, Mum, you have my word.”

  “Adrien Pierre Laurent, that is most definitely not what worries me.”

  Words. Just words. Her and I both know it most definitely is. “Listen, I’m headed to the States. I’ll call you when I land.”

  “You’re leaving the country?”

  Telling her I already left Eastwood seems way too taxing. “Yes, last I chec
ked, that’s how I get to the States.”

  “Why are you going there? Did he banish you?” she asks, appalled at the very notion. She might as well have just said that no one summers in the States anymore unless they’re washed up.

  My laughter is bitter. “No, he didn’t banish me.”

  “Then you must stay here in Eastwood and straighten this out. Going to the States isn’t going to help your status in any way.”

  A mix of hostility and embarrassment fists in my gut. “There’s nothing to straighten out,” I tell her and start walking again. “I fell off a damn boat and almost drowned. And my status,” I stress the word, “will remain as it always has.”

  She clears her throat. “The media outlets are referring to you as a washed up royal.”

  Yep. Here it comes. The status reminder. “Yes, I’m aware, and in case you didn’t know, they’ve been calling me versions of that for years. And, you know what, Mum, maybe that is just what I am. And maybe it’s time you accept that, as far as I am concerned, there is no moving up the proverbial monarchy ladder.”

  There’s a tsk in her throat. “Well, I’m not so sure about that. Did you hear about Alexandria?”

  “I’ve been on a boat for months, Mum. Gossip wasn’t first on my list of things to discover when my feet hit the ground.”

  “Well, this isn’t gossip. King Stephen of Alexandria passed away a couple of weeks ago, and not long after the funeral, Princess Victoria canceled her wedding to the Prince of Casanovia.”

  Yeah, that I know but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I scan the signs above me for the airport lounge and take a right. “And I care about this why?”

  She huffs like I should know why. “Because it means the throne in Alexandria is vacant, and King Rutherford has offered to assist in any way he can.”

  I say nothing.

  “He will be looking for someone to assume the position.”

  Even though I’m striding through a busy airport, it is difficult not to roll my eyes. First of all, it will never happen. But if it did, he’d take it over so he can control it himself, and I wouldn’t want any part of it, even if it were possible. “Look, Mum, I have to go.”

  Her sigh of exasperation is audible. “But King Rutherford needs—”

  I’ve had enough, and I disconnect, shoving my phone in my pocket.

  The King doesn’t need shit.

  A ONE-NIGHT WHAT?

  Being a princess is certainly a charmed existence, but it can also be suffocating, which is why, as I sit at a bar alone for the first time, I can’t help but feel like I’ve missed so much ordinary.

  And I want it.

  The freedom to roam around unknown is liberating. Talk to anyone. Smile and flirt without every move I make getting reported.

  It’s exhilarating.

  There are so many rules when one is a princess—learn as many languages as possible, stay impeccably groomed, remain formal at all times, go to the best schools although careers are strictly forbidden, attend lavish social events, wave, smile, sit straight, cross your legs at the ankles—the list is endless, and what I’m doing now is strictly forbidden.

  Princesses don’t live on the wild side.

  There is no doubt that sitting at a bar in my jeans with my messy hair and sneakers is breaking so many rules. It is the first and last time I will break so many rules all at once, I’m certain.

  So, when a man sits down beside me and his eyes flick up and down my body, I don’t look away. In fact, it makes me feel kind of sexy. Something I never feel with my hair up in a stiff chignon or pulled back in braids and all the fabrics of the gowns wrapped tightly around me.

  Messy hair, a revealing top, fun sneakers, and Rachel’s jeans are definitely keepers in my book.

  Ordinary feels so good.

  The man beside me is attractive. A bit older than me, he has a square jaw, short haircut, and he’s in a suit and tie. Businessman, I think. Nice. But then I spy the bright white mark on his tanned wedding finger. Cheater, cheater.

  Not into men with a wife, I make a quarter turn with my body and pick up my phone to message Rachel.

  Me: Remind me again what I’m doing?

  Rachel: You’re looking for a one-night stand to help shake up your world.

  Me: Right. Silly me. I forgot. But it isn’t night?

  Rachel: It’s doesn’t matter. It’s still called that.

  Me: What do I do again?

  Rachel: Look around and find someone who interests you. Play it casual when you do, though. Show a gleam of interest but not too much. And see where it leads. Oh, and don’t give him too much information.

  Me: Yes, I got this.

  Setting my phone down, I try to forget the only ordinary thing I’ve ever had in my life—sex. There were no magical moments between Maximus and I but that wasn’t his fault.

  There was just no spark between us no matter how much both of us tried to light one.

  Ending things between us was for the best, even if it leaves me in a terrible situation—no husband of royal bloodline means no crown for me. This ancient law or act, or whatever it is, which governs the monarchy dictates so. I wasn’t aware of this when I called off the wedding. Now, this information seems to have put me in a pickle. My uncle never informed me of this stipulation before encouraging me to let my heart lead the way, which I did when I set Prince Maximus Napoleon Montgomery of Casanovia free and instructed Rachel to promptly announce the breakup.

  No regrets on my part. Maximus deserves more. The man is amazing, giving, loyal, fun, and hot-blooded. He is, after all, one the most notorious royals in all of the five countries in the Vespa Isles. Known for his business mindedness has put him on the top ten entrepreneurs to watch list.

  Recently he became a majority shareholder of the Casanovia-based multimedia company, Sparrow, which his great-aunt founded in 1980, and plans to expand to the United States.

  He also has dozens of sports cars, yachts, startup companies, and villas throughout Europe.

  Maximus is second in line to the throne of Casanovia, with his soon-to-be married older brother, Prince Léopold, leading the way. Unlike me, though, that is not the end of their family line. King Winston Alfred Montgomery, his father, is very old and his mother passed away years ago. The King has recently remarried, so there still could be another heir, which wouldn’t be bad, I suppose, since the throne has never been Maximus’s goal.

  This man wants to make something of himself in the world. The ginger-haired prince is truly a real catch. Who knows, maybe if we hadn’t been promised to each other before birth, we would have found our way. However, when you grow up with someone who becomes your best friend, lighting a forced spark between each other isn’t easy. Not that we both didn’t try, because we did. In fact, we tried a lot. Sex between us was good, just never earth-shattering fantastic. Again no spark.

  Sighing, I glance down at the pink concoction that was in front of me and see that I’ve drank it all.

  Placing an elbow on the bar, I find myself playing with the toothpick that holds the lime wedge and pondering what I have to do when I arrive at my final destination—go in search of a man to sit beside on the throne.

  It’s crazy, right?

  I really have lost my mind because I had a man. A good one. A great one. Then again, I couldn’t doom Maximus to a loveless marriage. The chance to fall in love on my own was taken away from me the moment I was the first born, and I couldn’t take Maximus’s chance away when I had the option not to.

  A princess’s first love is their country.

  My father’s voice is still in my head with the Princesses do and don’t lectures, and I can’t believe how much I miss hearing his real voice.

  If he were still alive, I would have been forced to marry Maximus, and wouldn’t be in the situation I am in.

  Perhaps he did know best.

  No, this is for the best. It will work out. And if I continue to try to convince myself of that, how can it not?

 
; Besides, I’m nervous enough about assuming the role of Queen, if I let anything else get to me, I’ll become a basket case.

  Am I ready for this?

  But I don’t do it, who will?

  Then there’s my uncle to think about if I don’t, and his plans to take over the country or the world, for all I know.

  No, Queen is my destiny, nerves and all.

  The bartender comes over and gives me a smile. He’s not the same person who served me earlier. This guy has long hair. His black with white shirt with bow tie make him look so professional. Cute. My age or perhaps a bit older. Twenty-seven at the most. When he slides a paper napkin and a bowl of nuts my way, he asks, “Another?”

  “Sure, why not?” I tell him, sitting up straighter. Who knows, maybe he could be my one-night stand?

  Not cutting eye contact, even when I catch him staring, he slides the freshly made drink my way and says, “Do I know you?”

  Oh, God! Does he recognize me?

  My heart is pounding and I feel like I have ice water in my veins. I can’t be discovered. It will ruin everything. My uncle will come and find me and bring me home and then, well, I’m pretty sure either the monarchy will be abolished or someone else will take the position that is rightfully mine. “I don’t think so,” I smile, casual-like.

  He grins at me and points. “I know. You’re Victoria…” His brow furrows as if in deep concentration.

  Anxiety flares within me. Closing my eyes, I brace myself for the chaos that’s about to commence. The Royal Protection squad will be here before any of the flights even leave.