Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

I want a next time with her, even if it’s as the man keeping her bed warm until the guy she really wants comes along.

If someone had asked me a month ago if I would tolerate investing in a relationship with a woman who didn’t feel for me what I feel for her, I would have laughed in their face. I thought I was too strong, too confident in what I have to offer to put up with that kind of treatment.

But it’s like the verse the priests always read at weddings—love is patient.

I am patient now. I will wait as long as it takes for Lizzy to feel the way I do, and if she never does, I will still love her.

Probably until the day I die.

I pull into a parking space in front of the visitor’s center at the Wettingfeld Forest and shut off the engine, taking a moment to watch Lizzy sleep before I bend and kiss her forehead.

She wakes with a snuffle and a groggy, “We’re here?” that makes me want to kiss her again.

“We’re here.” I nod toward the cabin of dark, nearly black logs that houses the visitor’s center and camper check-in. “I’m going to go register and pay for the space. You want to come in or stay in the car?”

“I’ll stay here.” She stretches her arms in front of her. “I need a second to get my sea legs.”

“I’ll be right back,” I promise, stepping out and shutting the door softly behind me, grateful to be out of the car after the long drive. But as I walk toward the blue door with the native symbols carved into the wood, déjà vu descends with a suddenness that makes my head spin and my stomach ache.

I fucking hate déjà vu. I hate feeling like I’ve done something before when I know damn well I haven’t.

I don’t like things I can’t explain, things that nobody can account for—even brain scientists, who have better things to study, more important work to do.

Nothing to do about déjà vu except to shake it off, pretend that the unsolved mysteries of being human aren’t unnerving.

As I flatten my palm on the door and push, I am definitely uneasy. Even more so when a freckle-faced girl in braids greets me and I could swear I’ve seen before. When she tells me that the spot I’ve reserved flooded last night in a storm, I’m not the slightest bit surprised.

“We’ll have to put you at one corner of the group campground, if that’s okay,” she says, and the hairs on my arms stand on end. “There’s a family using the center part, but some of their group left yesterday, and they don’t mind sharing with the people whose spaces are underwater.” She grins wider, oblivious to the dread crawling up the back of my neck on spider feet. “And they’re amazing cooks. If you’re lucky, they’ll invite you over for stew. I ate with them a few nights ago, and it was divine. Best lamb I’ve ever had.”

The man behind her, busy feeding sheets of paper into an ancient fax machine, mutters something beneath his breath.

Freckles shoots him an irritated glance before turning back to me. “Does that sound like it will work for you? If not, I can call the private campground closer to Devi. They have some availability, but their prices are higher, and it’s a forty-minute drive.” She laughs. “You can hike there in thirty, but the road has to go around all the protected forest, so…”

“How can he know if it will work if he doesn’t have all the information?” the man behind her says, louder this time, his focus still on the fax.

Freckles rolls her eyes. “I’m handling this guest, Peter. Thanks.”

“Fine.” He grunts. “But if he comes back after he’s seen ‘the family,’ and wants his money back like the last one, don’t ask me to help you cancel the charges.”

“I didn’t need help,” she says. “The computer was locked up. All you did was restart the system. I could have done that myself.”

“Excuse me,” I cut in, not wanting to leave Elizabeth in the car for more than a few minutes. “What’s wrong with the family?” I ask, but I already have an inkling.

Freckles’s mouth tightens around the edges. “They’re travelers,” she says. “Romani.”

“Gypsies,” Peter, the bigot, supplies.

“They don’t like to be called that,” Freckles snaps over her shoulder. Turning back to me, she says more softly, “They’re super nice. They’ve been here for a couple weeks, and we haven’t had a bit of trouble. Really, you should feel perfectly safe.”

“I do,” I lie. “We’ll take the space on the group campground.”

I don’t feel safe, but it isn’t because we’ll be camping next to a Romani group. It’s the déjà vu and the coincidence. What are the chances a flash flood moves us to the campsite of the very people we’re looking for? The improbability makes my flesh crawl as I sign the paperwork and pay the fee for three nights.