Prince of my Panties (Royal Package 2)

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” he says. “The one from the thirties. Black and white.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds amazing.”

He laughs and kisses my forehead as we stop beside the elevator bay and he presses the down button. “Thank you for humoring me. I know movies aren’t your favorite.”

“But I love popcorn. And you.” I’m rising up on tiptoe to steal a proper kiss when a small voice shouts, “No! No, Mommy!” behind me.

I turn to see a tiny boy with enormous brown eyes racing down the carpeted hallway in a saggy diaper. A moment later, a woman wrapped in a robe darts out of the door behind him, calling in an American accent, “Conrad, get back here! Right now!”

“No, no, no!” the boy squeals. “No bath.”

“Yes, bath,” his mother maintains. “You’ve been dirty for days.”

And then, everything happens at once—the elevator opens in front of Jeffrey, the mother trips over her robe and goes down hard, and the door to the emergency staircase swings open before the diaper-clad runaway.

A man wearing shorts and a T-shirt too skimpy for winter in Switzerland runs out, panting, and the little boy darts through the doorway behind him.

Before I realize I’m moving, I’m off, primal instinct roaring that a baby in a diaper can’t be left alone, even for a moment, on steep, concrete stairs.

I reach the closing door before the mother has made it back to her feet, pulling it open to see the little boy climbing the railing at the top of the stairwell. If he makes it over, he’ll fall four stories through the center of the circular staircase.

He’ll die. Horribly.

I can already see it in my head, a scene so terrible I don’t hesitate. I lunge for the baby, wrapping my hands around his waist and pulling him away from danger. He squirms free almost immediately, falling safely to the landing while I slip in my high heels.

One leg flies out from under me. My arms flail, my hands groping for something to hold on to, but there’s nothing but air—air I whoosh through far too quickly as my body tumbles toward the long, hard, concrete steps.

I have a split second to think—No! Not the stairs on my birthday!—and then strong hands close around my arms, wrenching me back to safety.

I fall against Jeffrey, clinging to his sweater as he bands an arm around my waist and hauls me into the hall, saying in a soft rumble, “On second thought, why don’t we go to bed early? Lock the door and stay far away from stairs until after midnight?”

Heart slamming in my chest, I nod. “Sounds good. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he agrees, wrapping me up in a strong, safe hug.

“Thank you so much,” the robed mother says breathlessly, her bath-averse youngster now clinging to her shoulders with his face tucked into her neck. “I don’t know how he got out of the room. I only turned my back for a second.”

“It’s okay,” I say, the blood still rushing in my ears. “I’m just glad he’s safe.”

“Me, too,” she says, before adding in a shy voice, “I love you two, by the way. Just so you know. You’re my favorite royal couple of all time. You’re just so romantic together.” She glances at Jeffrey before turning back to me. “And the way he looks at you. Girl, you are the luckiest woman on earth. I have never seen anyone so shamelessly adored.”

I smile up at Jeffrey, my cheeks warm. “Yeah, I think I’ll keep him.”

The woman laughs, and we say our goodbyes, returning to our room to find our siblings getting into swimsuits to hit the hot tub on our balcony. We refuse the invitation to join them and, instead, do exactly what Jeffrey suggested. We head to bed, where we snuggle together and whisper in the near-darkness, watching the clock until it hits midnight.

“To another twenty-six years times three,” Jeffrey says with a relieved sigh.

“That’s…” I trail off, biting my tongue as I do the math. “Seventy-eight years and seventy-eight plus twenty-six is…” I huff and shake my head. “One hundred and four? No, thank you. I’ll take ninety-two. That feels like a nice number. Lots of life, but not too much, you know?”

“There’s no such thing as too much life. Not as long as I get to share it with you.”

“Aw,” I say, kissing his bare chest. “If Zan heard you say that, she’d make gagging noises.”

“I don’t care. Do you?” He shifts until he’s on his side, facing me on the crisp cotton sheets.

“Not even a little bit,” I say, sighing as his hand slips down the back of my satin sleep shorts, the ones I designed to flutter around my thighs like flower petals in the wind when I walk.

Ever since I gave myself permission to be the heroine of my own romantic story, I’ve been even more obsessed with designing. I have an entirely new collection almost ready for submission, six months ahead of time.