Royally Screwed (Royally 1)

That awful tight feeling pinches my chest, because looking at his face drums up memories that pound their way through my head.

“Why are you here, Logan?”

He gives me a confused look. “It’s my shift. Tommy has the day off.”

“No. No, I mean why are you still here?”

There hasn’t been a word from Nicholas—not a call or a text. I expected Logan and Tommy to head back to Wessco as soon as it was clear I was back. For good.

His mouth tightens, and sympathy dims in his eyes. “Prince Nicholas asked me to protect your business, watch over your sister. Until I receive new orders, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Maybe…he forgot you were here?”

Logan chuckles. “He doesn’t forget about his men. If Tommy and I are here, it’s because here is where he wants us to be.”

I don’t know what to do with this information—if it’s some deeper clue about Nicholas’s intentions or means nothing at all. But I don’t have time to analyze it. Because a second later, my sister’s voice echoes from out front.

“Everybody out! Let’s go—it’s siesta time, people—we’re closed for the afternoon. Hey, Marty, help a sister out, will you?”

Logan and I rush out of the kitchen. Ellie holds the door open, waving everyone out of it, despite the grumbles and protests, while Marty herds them in her direction like a modern-day shepherd.

“Your money’s no good here.” He waves at a guy offering him several bills. “Come back tomorrow.”

“What are you doing?” I call above the line of heads.

Ellie holds up her finger until the last would-be customer has left. Then she locks the door and pulls down the dark green shade over the picture window.

“It’s almost time for the press conference.” She skips to the television on the counter, turning it on. “I figured you’d want privacy when we watch it.”

My stomach has dropped to my feet a lot during the last few months, but this time, it drops to fucking China.

“I’m not watching the press conference.”

“Oh yes you are, Negative Nelly.” She drags me by the arm to a front-row seat. “Unlike you, I still have hope that His Hotness is going to pull his stupid head out of his fine ass.”

“Even if he did, it doesn’t matter. We were only supposed to last the summer. We were doomed from the start.”

Marty comes up behind me, squeezing my shoulders. “Even if that turns out to be true, this will give you closure at least.”

I hate that word. Closure. It’s just confirmation that what you dread is actually true. Dead is dead. Over is really over. But there’s no comfort in it.

“I don’t want to watch.”

I haven’t searched Nicholas’s name online, haven’t looked at any of the paparazzi photos that are always so readily available. It would be like holding a still-raw, blistering burn against a hot stove—too much hurt to handle.

My sister folds her arms. “Liar.”

Okay, she’s right. The truth is, I don’t want to want to watch. I don’t want to miss him. I don’t want to need him. I don’t want to spend every moment of every day trying not to cry because I can’t imagine a future without him in it anymore.

But…we don’t always get what we want. Most of the time, we don’t, actually. What did my mother say when we were little? You get what you get and you don’t get upset. So I sit in the chair and dig my fingernails into my palm while Ellie switches the channel to the news station carrying the live press conference, and increases the volume.

To find out exactly what Nicholas and I both ended up getting.

I’m not the only one who’s paid a price. Despite how it all went south in the end, I know Nicholas—every inch of his soul. I know what he felt for me was real—every touch, every smile.

I’ve imagined his regret when he found out the truth. I believe if he could’ve changed things, he would have. I believe he wanted to, more than he’s wanted anything in his whole life.

But we can’t change who we are—not a queen, a prince, or a girl from New York.

Like he told me once…royalty is forever.

The television focuses on an empty podium, the royal family crest etched into the shiny wood. I don’t recognize the ornate background—two windows with heavy floral drapery, with a portrait of Nicholas’s parents hanging on the wall between them. It’s not Guthrie House—maybe it’s another room in the palace, or one of the other properties he’d told me about, but never had the chance to show me.

There’s building chatter from a group off camera, a burst of camera flashes, and then he’s there, stepping up to the podium. The breath rushes from my lungs in one scraping, painful swoop, and the lump that suddenly lodges in my throat makes it hard to inhale.

God, he’s beautiful.

And he looks fucking terrible.

His navy suit molds to his form perfectly—those wide shoulders, strong arms, warm, magnificent chest. But there’s more hollowness to his cheeks and there are shadows beneath his eyes.

He seems…sad.

And that devastates me. Because despite how it all ended, he deserves to be happy—and I want that for him so much.

Henry sits down in a chair on Nicholas’s right, resting his head on his hand, elbows on the table, looking tired. Simon’s there too, one more chair over, and I think of Franny.