Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

The night goes on that way, drink orders coming in hot and heavy for the next five hours, my rhythm broken only by a few intermittent texts from Kian, none of which I answer—and none of which sound particularly fun or flirtations. I take a quick ten-minute break in the middle of my shift, most of which I spend worrying about how I’m possibly going to explain things to Kian and listening to Carter rhapsodize about his table of hotties—especially the one with the “blue, blue eyes.”

By the time the night finally winds down sometime after two, my head is pounding, my feet are killing me and I want nothing more than to take a shower and crawl into the comfiest pair of pajamas I own.

Either I’m wearing the goal like a badge of honor or Marcus—sweet, wonderful, blessed Marcus—feels my pain. Whatever it is, he sends me home before the floor is swept and the last round of glasses is put away, pledging to take care of it himself.

I feel guilty leaving him there, but not too guilty as I’m the last one in the bar more nights than not. To counter the guilt, I think about how good a shower is going to feel. Or a bath—yes, that’s what I’ll do. Pour myself a glass of wine, put on some Ed Sheeran and slide into a tub full of bubbles. Maybe when I get out, I’ll have some idea of how to deal with Kian.

There’s a part of me that knows exactly how I should deal with him, that knows I should just cut him off right now. Just stop answerin

g his texts and start pretending he doesn’t exist. But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want to do that, a part that instead wants to say to hell with everything and go on that date with him.

Yes, it’s going to end up with me getting my ass kicked by the universe, but right now that doesn’t seem to matter. Not when I keep seeing Kian’s smile every time I close my eyes and not when I’ve spent most of the last two nights dreaming about having his mouth and hands and body on mine.

I never should have dumped that champagne on him at the gala. And I definitely shouldn’t have taken him out to the servers’ break balcony. I’m not even sure why I did it, except as I stood there watching Garrett’s “little brother” fend off one unwanted advance after another, something inside me snapped. Garrett was always so protective of him, always so determined to keep the difficult shit away from his twin that it was instinct to step in. Instinct to do what I know Garrett would have done himself had he been able, what he would have wanted me to do.

It just never occurred to me that if I did that—if I put myself on Kian’s radar and let myself meet him—that I’d end up as charmed by His Royal Hotness as the rest of the world.

I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me. Maybe I figured I was inoculated against him because of the feelings I once had for Garrett. Maybe it was because bright-eyed charmers with super fast zippers have never been my type. Or maybe it was because I was already charmed by him and I just didn’t know it.

Whatever the reason, the damage is done. Now I just have to figure out how to deal with the fallout.

I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I’m halfway across the brightly lit parking lot before I notice that there are four men waiting at the far end of it, standing only a few feet away from the small secondhand car I bought when I decided I was going to settle in Wildemar for a while.

I have one moment to curse myself for being an idiot, to think oh shit. And then they’re turning to me as one and a few things hit me all at once.

One, I must be staring at Carter’s table of hotties.

Two, I know these men.

And three, the boy has stellar taste, because each and every one of these men is H-O-T, all right.

I’m not sure how Kian does it, but somehow he looks better every time I see him. The Tom Ford tuxedo was a really good look for him at the gala and the suit pants and silk button-down he wore to my house yesterday were even better. But this look—His Royal Hotness decked out in a casual V-neck T-shirt and tight, ripped jeans? I can feel every single one of my lady parts sitting up and taking notice.

But how can I not? The man looks absolutely gorgeous. The white of his shirt brings out his tan and the bright, wicked green of his eyes, plus it’s cut just slimly enough to emphasize his broad shoulders, flat stomach and inked up, sexy-as-all hell biceps. Add to that the way his just-a-little-too-long hair is kind of wild tonight—falling over his forehead and flirting with his cut-glass jaw, and he’s the total package.

I always thought Garrett was a beautiful man, but his fraternal twin is the sexiest person I’ve ever seen, bar none.

His Royal Hotness, indeed.

We lock eyes and for the first time since we met, he doesn’t look happy with me.

Is it because he knows I saw his texts and didn’t answer them or is it for another reason altogether? A reason that has nothing to do with him and me and everything to do with Garrett and me.

My stomach clenches uneasily at the thought, and I promise myself that I’m going to tell him tonight if he doesn’t already know.

“Savannah.” Kian steps forward, and I get to watch—firsthand—as his guards blend into the woodwork. Or in this case, the seats of what looks to be a brand-new Bentley SUV. Well, all except Lucas, who stands no more than five feet from Kian and keeps his eyes trained on the prince at all times. None of them acknowledge me, even after the lemonade and cookies from yesterday afternoon, and my trepidation grows. Something is very, very wrong here.

“Kian.” I try to hide my unease with a flippant attitude. “Fancy meeting you here.” I step toward him, intending to brush my lips across the sexy stubble on his jaw, but he turns his head to avoid the contact.

My nerves grow worse. I should have told him. Why didn’t I tell him? It would have been awkward, but damn. Any kind of awkwardness would be better than the shit show this meeting is turning into.

For long seconds, he doesn’t say anything to me. Nor does he make any move to touch me, something else that’s incredibly unusual for him. Instead, his eyes are hard as he stares at me, and his jaw is clenched so tightly I’m surprised I can’t hear his teeth grinding together.

The sight has my stomach cramping up, has sweat rolling coldly down my spine as my heart starts the long crawl up my throat. And that’s before he finally unlocks his jaw enough to say, “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

Chapter 9

The question hangs there in the air between us as I struggle to find an answer that won’t piss him off. Or get me locked up in the palace tower. I’m pretty sure Wildemar doesn’t do that anymore—since constitutional monarchies frown on that and all—but I don’t want to take any chances, either. Not when he looks as angry as he does.