Royal Pain (His Royal Hotness 1)

“Of course you will, darling. That’s the spirit.” And then he’s whirling around and heading off again, tray of drinks in his hands.

I can’t help smiling as I watch him sashay through the crowd. Forget men—thank God for friends.

Except I can’t stop thinking about Kian as the night goes on, can’t stop worrying that things with Garrett are way worse than the palace is letting on to reporters. Is that why Kian isn’t talking to me? Because he thinks he can handle this on his own?

Or is it because His Royal Hotness really doesn’t care about me at all? It seems strange to think that considering he just said he loved me, but…I don’t know. Maybe he was just carried away in the moment when he said that.

Or maybe he was just fucking with me.

The Kian I know doesn’t seem the type to do that, but His Royal Hotness? The guy who’s just in it for the fun and the fucking? Maybe he had a different agenda all along…

I hate that I don’t know, hate that I’m this uncertain about a guy. Hate that—after all the promises I made myself—I’m right back here, letting some prince mess with my head.

I mean, how could I be here again? What American woman falls in love with not one, but two princes, in her lifetime? In what universe does this even happen? And for one of those princes to be His Royal Hotness? The whole thing is completely unbelievable.

Except…here I am. Again.

I do one good deed because of my history with his brother and now I’m totally fucked. That doesn’t seem fair.

How could I not have seen this guy coming? How could I have not realized that this is where we were going to end up?

Because he’s smooth, that’s how. He slides in all charm and chuckles and sexy-as-fuck V-cut and you think you’re in for a good time. Except then he hits you with the gentleness and the intelligence and the hints of vulnerability that pull you under. And then, when you’re drowning, he slams you with the sweetness. And you are totally fucked.

And by you, in this case, I mean me.

Fuck. I mix drinks for Paige’s newest table and try my best to keep from banging my head against the bar. It’s hard considering how much I fucked this all up. Because really, how the hell could I have gone and fallen for the most eligible playboy in the Western world?

The night drags on and I measure it in drinks. A flaming dragon is three minutes down. A gin and tonic, thirty seconds. A rare bottle of cab? Six minutes to locate it in the wine cellar and then bring it back to the main floor of the bar. Drink by drink, minute by minute, the night ticks away with no contact from Kian. Big fucking surprise.

The fact that I can’t just drive over and check on him—at least not without getting myself shot by the Royal Guard—is yet another reason it’s bad to fall in love with a prince. I only have as much accountability as he chooses to give me.

Finally, finally, the night is over. It’s my turn to finish the cleanup—mop the floor, put away the final load of glasses from the dishwasher, wipe down the bar—so I’m the last one in the building when there’s a knock on the locked front door.

I ignore it—it’s not the first time a drunk’s come sniffing around after closing time and it won’t be the last—but the knocking just gets more persistent the longer I don’t answer.

Shit. I’m just about done here and I want nothing more than to go home and fall into my bed, laptop in hand as I pour all the angst and emotion from my crappy day into my latest story.

But there’s a drunk between the bar and my car and until I deal with him—or her—I’m not going anywhere. Damn it.

Praying it’s a woman—they’re so much easier to handle than drunk, entitled, belligerent men—I have my cellphone in one hand and my pepper spray in the other as I approach the heavy wood door.

Except a quick check of the building’s security cameras in the foyer reveals it’s not a drunk outside, at all. It’s Kian—along with his three trusty bodyguards.

Chapter 29

For long seconds, I stand frozen, staring at the video feed of outside the front door area. Kian’s out there. Kian has come to see me. Considering I spent all night angry at him—and telling myself not to trust him—I’m not sure how I feel about this latest development.

My cellphone lights up before I can decide what to do.

Already knowing who it is, I swipe it open anyway. And nearly laugh, because of course Kian is texting me now. Of fucking course he is. He can ignore me for four days, but when he finally remembers I exist, he wants me right this fucking second.

Not that that’s a fucking surprise. His Royal Hotness is pretty much known for his need for instant gratification, after all…

Pissed off now—which is so much better than hurt—I march over to the front door. Then I shove my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and click the locks.

I don’t even get the chance to push the door open before Kian’s grabbing on to it and pulling. And then he’s here, right here, in front of me, looking like absolute, utter shit.

Just that easily, my anger melts away. Not my wariness, but it’s hard to be pissed off at a guy who looks like he hasn’t slept in ninety-six hours. Especially when he’s so shaky on his feet that a stiff breeze—or any breeze at all, for that matter—would knock him on his ass.