Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

Because it’s not a bookmark I’m holding in my hand. Or, more precisely, it’s not only a bookmark. Instead, it’s a strip of photos from a photo booth and Garrett is one of the key players in the silly pictures.

But it’s not looking at this younger version of my brother that stops me dead in my tracks. No, it’s the person in the picture with him that has my eyes going wide and my breath catching in my throat.

Because the very young, very fresh-faced, very beautiful young woman who is making faces at Garrett in one photo and kissing him in another, is none other than Savvy. My Savvy.

Chapter 8

Savvy

I make the latest order of drinks—two mojitos, three lemon drops and a vodka tonic—and slide them down the bar toward Cecily. She smiles as she scoops them up, says, “Thanks, babe,” before turning away and making her way through the throng of people packing the bar tonight.

Then again, when isn’t it packed? When I applied for a job here six months ago, I did so because it wasn’t a dance club and I—mistakenly—thought that meant most nights would be a little slower than the popular clubs farther down the street.

But then Prince Garrett was seen here a few months ago, and it became an instant hotspot for young, hip, urban millennials. Add in the freedom the owner has given Marcus and me to put together a complicated and exotic cocktail list, and it’s pretty much been standing room only in here from six P.M. until one A.M. every night but Sunday.

Not that I’m complaining. Or at least, not much. I may not be able to write during off-hours, like I’d originally hoped, but the tips are so good that I only have to do the hotel waitressing gig when they need extra staff for special galas. And even then, only when I want to.

Plus, I like the Wild Sea. A lot. It’s beautifully decorated, filled with really great people to work with and I get to escape the pounding rhythms and brain cell–killing volume that the dance clubs boast. Not to mention it gives me a chance to stay in Wildemar.

I’ve loved this country since I was a nineteen-year-old exchange student, immersing myself in French and Wildemarian literature, exploring the culture and art and pretending to be a great artiste.

I was heartbroken when I had to leave—partly because of the country and partly because of a boy. I promised myself as I climbed on the plane that would take me back to America that I’d return here one day. And, after spending four more years getting my bachelor’s in English and an MFA in creative writing—and six months bumming around the world—I finally have.

I’m not planning on staying forever, but my work visa is valid for another nine months, so why not take advantage of it?

“I need a lychee martini, a dragon’s breath and a flaming ninja,” Carter says as he lands at the bar. “Plus three club sodas and a scotch and soda for the hotties in the back booth.”

“On it,” I tell him, as I finish up a couple margaritas on the rocks for one of Samantha’s tables.

“Seriously?” Carter drapes himself over the bar. “You’re not even going to look?”

“At what?” I keep my head down and my hands busy as I fill glasses with ice and lime slices.

“I tell you there’s a table full of hotties back there and you don’t even glance up. Are you a nun masquerading as a bartender or are you a lesbian?”

“Sadly, neither. Just a girl who’s had her heart broken one time too many. Besides, you saw them first. Don’t you have dibs?”

“I wish. But they seem of the heterosexual variety, more’s the pity.” He fake cries into his hand.

“Now, now,” I tell him as I slide the drinks his way. “No use crying over straight milk. Isn’t that what you always say?”

“It’s not, but it should be.” He sighs heavily, then puts the drinks on his tray. “Besides, I haven’t gotten a good look at the one in the back of the booth yet. Maybe he’ll surprise me.”

“Bonne chance.” I give him a little salute before pulling my vibrating cellphone out of my back pocket.

It’s a series of texts from Kian.

What time do you get off tonight?

I want to see you

We need to talk

I stare at the texts for long seconds trying to figure out what they mean—or even if they mean anything. Kian has texted me several times since he left my house yesterday, all sweet, upbeat little things that make me smile or get my heart pumping a little bit faster.

I’ve answered every single one of those texts with something friendly and appropriate. But these texts…it could be my racing mind or my guilty conscience, but these texts have an entirely different tone. They seem on a whole new level.

Not sure what I want to say to him right now—or what I should say considering I still haven’t shared with him my biggest secret—I shove the phone back into my pocket without answering him.