The Crown Prince's Bride (Royal Duology 2)

He wasn’t sure how to ask, and after too long of a hesitation, she put her hand on his arm and gave a little squeeze. “It’s my job,” she said softly. “Try to sober up. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

Then she slipped away, her footsteps echoing on the stone steps.

Raoul had no desire to go back to the party. Instead he picked up his dusty jacket, made his way into the garden—Ceci’s garden—and found a vacant bench.

Then he took the little silver flask from his jacket pocket, unscrewed the cap, and took a big swig.

Stephani was off-limits. Tomorrow he’d reset the boundaries and they’d go back to normal. And if he ever did decide to . . . have a romance again, it wouldn’t be with his assistant.

No matter how alluring she’d turned out to be.

CHAPTER TWO

Six months later

Stephani had planned many events at the palace over the years, but none of this magnitude. A royal wedding was not your run-of-the-mill state dinner or ball, and the last one had been a small, intimate affair with only family present. Of course, some of the chores were the same no matter what the function: fretting over guest lists, menus, decorations, staffing. But there was also security at the church, press access, transportation to and from the cathedral, and honeymoon arrangements for the happy couple—Diego and Rose.

It was a long way from the small coastal town in Greece where she’d grown up. A royal wedding, put into her hands. She wondered if her parents would be proud of her if they were still alive.

She’d grown up a fisherman’s daughter, and it was the sea that had taken both her parents when she’d been away at school.

Stephani printed out the final guest list and tucked it into her folder. Diego’s new assistant, Sofia, was wonderful and a hard worker, but she was still learning. And the bride, though easily pleased, had no experience with planning such a large event. She communicated her preferences, but Steph and Sofia were left to work out the logistics.

As a result, it was now three days before the wedding and Stephani wasn’t sure she was going to make it without either falling asleep at her desk, or getting an ulcer. She reached into a drawer and grabbed an antacid, popped it into her mouth, and let out a huge sigh.

“Stephani, can you find an extra hour in my schedule today for the tourism minister? The latest incident in Germany could have a ripple effect on travel and I want to be proactive.”

She looked up and cracked down on the antacid. “Let me check,” she replied, taking a deep, slow breath to keep the feeling of being overwhelmed at bay. “I’ll see what I can do to set something up with her office for this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” He smiled. “You’re a gem.”

He went back into his office and she crushed the tablet to smithereens, wondering if it would still work if she didn’t do the slow dissolve thing.

This was how it had been between them for six months. Like nothing ever happened. The morning after his birthday party, Raoul had acted utterly professional and . . . platonic. Not a hint of awkwardness or . . . well, attraction. It had stung that she was actually that forgettable, but despite the disappointment, she figured it was for the best. Particularly when the tabloids had become involved in Raoul’s personal life, and the first priority was dealing with a scandal.

The problem was, she was tired of being his assistant. She worked twelve, fourteen hour days quite often. And she was thirty-two, for heaven’s sake. The proverbial clock had started ticking and she couldn’t get it to shut up. When the hell did she have time to actually date? And she might like to plan her own kid’s birthday party instead of Max’s or Emilia’s, though she loved them dearly. She mentally ticked off a timeline in her head. Dating, a suitable time for the relationship to develop, then planning a wedding, then getting pregnant—assuming she got pregnant right away, of course, and nine months later . . . Thirty-five at least. And that was if she met the right person like . . . now.

Like that was going to happen.

And this hadn’t even truly been on her radar until last summer, when Raoul had kissed her. All her feelings that had been riding beneath the surface came bubbling up, and she’d had to shove them back down again. Added to that the engagement and wedding planning for Diego and Rose, and romance seemed to be everywhere.

Except for her. And a few weeks ago she’d discreetly started putting out feelers for other jobs. Maybe it was time to move on. She certainly had the experience to be incredibly versatile.

She scheduled the tourism minister for four o’clock and put the order to the kitchen to prepare a proper tea for the meeting in the blue salon. She finalized the seating plan for the reception meal after the wedding, got the church seating plan from Sofia and made a few adjustments, and touched base with the new nanny, Imogene, on Emilia and Max’s schedule for the wedding day. A headache started behind her eyes and she chased it with a couple of painkillers and a strong coffee. When the staff delivered the tea service at four fifteen, she realized she hadn’t eaten since eight that morning.

No wonder she had a headache and her stomach lining felt as if it had a hole burning through it.

Raoul came out of his office, took one look at her, and came to her desk, kneeling beside her. “Steph, are you all right? You’re awfully pale.”

She smiled weakly, touched by his concern, feeling vulnerable because of it. “I’m fine. I just . . . it’s silly, really. I forgot to eat today, and the coffee I had a while ago isn’t sitting well.”

He immediately got to his feet, went to the tea cart, and put some things on a plate. “Here. You need to eat.”

“Oh, no. That’s for you and Señora Munoz.”

“She’s not here yet, and we won’t miss a few sandwiches and tarts. You need to look after yourself.”

Concern shadowed his eyes and she felt the stupid glimmer of hope that he actually cared flicker in her breast.