Royal Bastard (Instantly Royal 1)

“And I should care why, exactly?”

Letting out a quiet sigh, she rubbed her stomach. “Sir—”

“My name is Nick,” he cut her off, his low voice unyielding. “Say it.”

What in the hell did protocol matter in these circumstances? She’d call him the fastest racing pigeon in her dad’s coop if that’s what he wanted. “Nick.”

She didn’t know what else to say, so they both just listened to the other breathe for what felt like forever.

“I’ll think about it.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.

Brooke let out the world’s quietest squeal of joy and did a little spinning dance in her room. Whatever it took, she’d get him on the next flight possible. Everything was going to work out. It had to.

All she had to do was convince him to accept his duty. How hard could that be?

Chapter Two

It was barely lake o’clock when his phone buzzed for the third time in the past hour. Nick considered chucking it into the clear blue water, but curiosity won out.

Brooke: Good morning, Mr. Vane. As you deliberate, I wanted to share a few photos of the Dallinger Park estate that may help you better imagine your ancestral home. Thank you, Brooke Chapman-Powell

He swiped through the photos in the first text message. Rolling green hills? Check. Cloudy skies? Check. Big pile of rocks shaped like a Hollywood castle that just might be haunted? Check. Even without the asshole of an earl being there, there was nothing in the photos to tempt him away from Salvation, Virginia, home of the world’s best pecan pie at the Kitchen Sink Diner.

His stomach growled. Damn, now he wanted pie. He steered his fishing boat out into the lake, the early-morning sun bouncing off the surface, and then clicked on the next text.

Brooke: Also for your consideration here is a link to a brief history of the Vane family. It’s really quite fascinating. Yours, Brooke Chapman-Powell

He clicked the link. Her idea of brief sure wasn’t his. It was an open-format book written in the sixties that had to be three hundred pages long in small print. Yeah, he was never going to read that even if it wasn’t about his supposed family who were more of DNA donors. Once he got to his favorite fishing spot, he killed the engine, dropped anchor, and started fishing—then he gave in and clicked on the third message.

Brooke: And if your hesitancy is in any way related to my earlier unfortunate behavior, please understand that it was a mistake on my part that won’t happen again. Most sincerely, Brooke Chapman-Powell

The woman was persistent; he had to give her that. He cracked open a Coke and took a long drink as the bright summer sun beat down. There was nothing like this spot right here. It was as close to a home as he’d had since his mom died. He rarely left. Why would he? It had everything he wanted. And yet…this English bulldog had gotten him wondering. Not giving himself time to rethink, he started to thumb type.

Nick: What do you like about it?

The three little dots appeared instantly.

Brooke: It’s where I grew up. My family is here. The North York Moors are brilliant.

Family. The single word made Nick’s gut heavy. Except for Mace, he was a loner with no close friends and DNA donors rather than family members. That’s exactly how he liked it. He had absolutely no plans on changing that. Ever.

…

Giving someone their space to make a decision in their own time was pretty much the exact opposite of how Brooke lived her daily life. And with the earl asking for updates practically every quarter hour, she wasn’t about to change her ways. Determined to press the case, she texted the earl’s heir again. Most of her texts went unanswered, but she had to make this happen. The village, even though they didn’t realize it, was riding on one American’s answer.

Brooke: Do you have any other questions or are you ready for me to arrange for your flight?

Nick: Why do you care so much?

Brooke: It’s my job.

Not the whole truth, but not a lie. It wasn’t as if he needed to know everything.

Nick: Tell me three things that have nothing to do with Dallinger Park that could make going to England tolerable.

The absolute cheek of the man. Face heated with indignation, she thumb typed with more force than necessary.

Brooke: English chocolate is delicious. There’s nothing like a pint at your local pub. You’ll never see anything more beautiful than the moors when the heather is in bloom.