Chapter 1
Ivy
“You’re kidding me?” My hand goes to my mouth as I try not
to squeal over the receiver. I’m at work, hidden in my cubicle, and I shouldn’t
even be on the phone right now. But I couldn’t resist. The radio station I like
to listen to (discreetly while I do my work) was holding a competition for an all-expenses-paid
trip to some tiny little European country that needs a boost to their
tourist trade. I haven’t been on vacation since Spring Break during my final
year of college, and I’m dying for an escape from the monotony of my boring
office job. Adulting is an activity I definitely wouldn’t recommend to anyone
who hasn’t grown up yet. Stay young, kids.
“There’s no kidding here, Ivy. You’re our tenth caller. You
won! You and a friend are off to Fürstheim for an all-expenses-paid vacation.
You’ll get to tour the country, sample their food, and live in luxury for ten
whole days!”
“Eeeeee!” The squeal comes out, anyway. Suddenly all eyes in
the office are on me. Shit. Even my boss is looking this way. “Thank
you.” I drop my voice to an almost whisper as I tuck my long strawberry-blonde
hair behind my ear and try to look busy. “I’m so excited.”
“So am I, Ivy. Stay on the line so we can get your details.”
“OK. Thank you again. This means the world.” I open my email
and start clicking around while I’m transferred to a woman who congratulates me,
then asks for my full name, address, and email. I’m in the middle of giving
them to her when I notice my boss wading her way through the sea of cubicles
over to mine. Oh no! I rattle off my details as fast as possible, move
my mouse, and stare at my computer screen as I try to think up a cover story.
When she gets here, I’m saying, “Is that all you need?” into the receiver in
the most professional tone possible.
Miranda folds her arms over the top of my cubicle wall and
looks at me with a tight-lipped expression. I look up at her, taking in her
long red nails on delicate fingers, shiny red lips, and perfectly styled hair. She’s
blonde, and she’s beautiful, and she’s effortlessly thin, so I kind of
hate her just for that. But she’s also a really hard taskmaster, and I swear
she’s got it in for me.
“Ivy,” she says in a tone that tells me she’s about to
reprimand me for using company time for personal calls. So, I do something
audacious; I hold up a finger to indicate I’ll just be one moment. Her eyes bug
out, and I think steam comes out of her ears. Meanwhile, I’m shitting my pants and
trying not to vomit, but the risk is worth it. I’m going to Europe!
“That’s everything,” the woman on the phone says. “Look for
an email from us before the end of the day.”
“Thank you so much,” I say. “I will.” I hang up and gulp. My
neck feels hot, so I’m pretty sure my skin is all blotchy, and my cheeks are
burning too. Compared to Miranda and her professional good looks, I look like
the before photo for a skin clinic where the patient has rosacea and needs
laser treatment to fix it.
I look up and offer a brave smile. “Yes, Miranda?”
“I hope that call was business related, Miss Howard,” she
says in that drawl of hers that tells me I’m so incredibly tiny compared to her
mightiness. Although, I bet that if I sat on her, she wouldn’t feel so mighty.
I’m about twice the size of her.
“Of course,” I squeak. “I was on a call with a new client.
They’re interested in having us do the marketing for their new, uh—” my eyes
dart around, looking for some inspiration, but she’s tapping her fingers
impatiently which always gets me nervous “—er, nails,” I blurt, wincing when I
realize how dumb that sounds.
Her brows arch. “Nails?”
“I mean, uh, hammers.” Oh fuck.
“Hammers?”
“Ah, yes.” Now I’m sweating. I can feel it beading in my
hairline and between my boobs. “They’re a hardware store?” I’m trying to sound
confident, but it sounds like I’m asking her a question instead of giving an
answer.
“You squealed because a hardware store wants you to do their
marketing?”
“Yes. I think all new clients are very exciting. We should
celebrate them all; make them feel special, you know?” I’m scrambling here. I
am the worst liar on the face of the earth.
She sniffs. “Squealing is unprofessional, Ivy. Find a more
low-key way to make them feel special.”
“So, a ‘yay’ instead then?”
I swear I see the corner of her mouth kick up. She might
have a sense of humor after all. “Let’s not cheer verbally. A welcome gift is
perhaps more fitting.”
“Of course. Should I put some ideas and costs together?”
“On my desk by this afternoon.” She gives one curt nod then backs
off to hover over someone else. I sit back in my chair and let out a sigh of
relief.
I’ve gotten in trouble for doing non-work-related things on
work time a lot. It’s not that I’m not working, because I am. I do more
work than most around here, but I’m also incredibly efficient and find myself with
time on my hands. And that time needs to be filled somehow… So, I’m kind of
skating on thin ice here. One more infraction and my job is toast. But I
couldn’t resist the chance of a ‘Romantic European Getaway for Two’. I mean,
who could?
And I won. I won!
Not that it will be ‘romantic’ since I don’t have a man in
my life, but that’s OK, my bestie will be more than willing to accompany me. In
fact, she’ll lose her ever-loving mind. She’s as desperate for a break away as
I am.
I want to throw my hands in the air and twirl on my chair
so bad right now.
Pulling at my lip with my teeth, I peek over the top of my
cubicle to see where Miranda is stalking. When I see she’s occupied, I grab my
cell and slip it in the pocket of my dress (dresses with pockets are the
greatest gift in life, am I right?) before I dash toward the bathrooms to
discreetly send an emoji-filled message to my bestie: Pack ur bags! We’re
going on vacaaaaatttttiiiooooonnnnn!!!!!!
Chapter 2
Lucas
“What is this?” My father drops the Daily Herald on the
table in front of me. I’ve got a mouthful of cereal, which is probably a good
thing, because he doesn’t quite hear the garble I respond with.
“A newspaper.”
“Don’t speak with your mouth full, son. You’re a twenty-eight-year-old
man. Not a child.”
I swallow my food and look up at my father, the mirror of my
own aging process. Photos of him and I at the same age are absolutely
identical. We both have the same blond hair and blue eyes, same height and
stature. We even have the same kind of smile, which tells me that good ole dad
used to be a bit of a larrikin himself before taking over the kingdom robbed
him of his sense of fun. Now it’s all, trade agreements-this, and export
taxes-that. I don’t know how he does it without going batty. But I will
tell you this, I’m glad the man is fit as a fiddle, because I’ve zero interest
in taking over from him anytime soon. If I’m lucky, he’ll be like the Queen of
England and live forever with Betty White and Keith Richards. Come to think of
it, I should find out more about their diet and exercise routines to make sure dad
looks after himself the same way. Wouldn’t want the kingdom suffering under the
rule of a complete amateur (that’s me) when they have a wonderful—albeit
stuffy—king already ruling.
“It’s hard not to feel like a child when I’m chided over going
outside during a snowstorm.” Some friends and I took our snowboards into the
mountains and had a bit of fun on the fresh powder that came down in a recent
storm. We weren’t stupid enough to snowboard during the storm—we
hunkered down in our cabin during that—but the papers are making it look like we
were risking our lives and forcing emergency services to be on standby when
they were needed elsewhere.
“You’re the next in line for the throne, Lucas. Stunts like
this are not only dangerous, but they make you—us—look incompetent.”
“I hate to break it to you, father, but I am incompetent. Giving
me a kingdom to rule would be a huge mistake.” I take a mouthful of
orange juice then get up from the table where my mother is sitting tight-lipped
while she eats a croissant, flake by flake. “Thankfully, the great people of Fürstheim
have you. And while they grumble about what a tyrant you are, the economy has
never been so good. Excellent work, Dad. Keep it up.” I give him the thumbs-up
gesture as I grab my jacket off the back of my chair, and make a move to leave.
“Tyrant? What does he mean they think I’m a tyrant?” Dad
says, his words hitting me from behind as I make my way out of the dining room.
“It’s nothing, dear,” Mom says. “He’s just teasing. You’re
not a tyrant.”
“I’m not teasing,” I call out as I swipe a green apple from
the bowl. “Check the opinion polls, the people think you’re unapproachable.”
I hear a few spluttering sounds as the door closes behind me,
and my royal-person-who-follows-me-around falls into step beside me. He’s
supposed to be making sure I attend to my royal duties, but more often than
not, he’s telling my parents I gave him the slip. And it’s not even his fault.
It’s something I’ve been doing since I was a kid. I hate the restrictiveness of
palace life. I enjoy getting out there and being at one with the people. My
parents hate that I go around acting like a ‘commoner,’ but if it wasn’t for
me, opinion regarding the palace would be so low we’d probably be overthrown
via referendum (or flaming pitchforks). As much as I don’t want the job of
King, I’m pretty sure I’m the one keeping the position available since public
opinion of me is at an all-time high. I have a fan club and everything.
“Sire…I mean, Lucas,” my aide says as he rushes along beside
me. I’m an easy six-foot-two, broad and fit, and he’s barely five-ten and would
probably blow away in the wind.
“Spit it out, man,” I say as he stutters through his words.
I feel sorry for the guy, I do. And if my parents were kinder, they’d stop
hiring and firing these guys and just let me do my thing.
“There’s an ambassadors’ ball in Milan. You’ve been asked to
attend.”
“You want me to go to Milan? To work?”
“Yes. But I cleared your schedule so you can stay for ten
days. And you only have to work one.”
I stop walking, my interest piqued. “Show me.”
His eyes light up as he taps at the iPad in his hands and
shows me the information he has on my itinerary.
“OK,” I say, handing the iPad back. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?” The relief on his face makes me chuckle.
“Yes, I’ll do it.” I think this guy is the first aide that’s
gotten me to agree to something.
“Thank you, sire. I mean, Lucas. Thank you.”
“What’s your name again?” I ask, feeling slightly bad that I
don’t remember it. But I’ve been through so many aides that I’ve stopped
learning their names. This one just might manage to stick around though.
“It’s Patrick, sire.”
“OK. Well, call me sire again, and I won’t go anywhere. It’s
Lucas. Just Lucas. I don’t do protocol. That’s my parents’ thing.”
“Ah, yes. Yes. I’m sorry s—Lucas. It won’t happen again.”
“Email me that itinerary and tell my father you deserve a
raise.” I have some bags to pack, something I don’t use staff for either. Being
royal doesn’t make me useless. I can do things for myself.
Chapter 3
Ivy
“Holy shit.” Rebecca trots along beside me with her travel
pillow around her neck, and suitcase trailing behind. “This is the tiniest
airport I’ve seen in my life.”
“Right?” I say, shuffling along in my Ugg boots and brightly
patterned, blue leggings. I’m also wearing a yellow tank with my jacket and coat
draped over my arm, and I’m holding all my travel documents in my hands
so we can get through Customs and to the fun part of this trip ASAP. Europe!
I admit this isn’t my most flattering outfit, but if I were to write the ‘plus-sized
girls’ guide to international travel,’ this exact outfit would be my
recommendation. It’s comfortable enough to sleep in, and I can handle the hours
of sitting without my clothes choking my stomach in half. It’s also perfect for
the temperature changes you go through with the different heating and cooling
levels in each airport and plane. I’m telling anyone who’ll listen—leggings are
pants.
Fürstheim is in the dead of winter, but the airport is warm
and kinda cozy. There are people bustling about and it just feels friendly,
which is kind of odd because normally airports are crowded yet isolating.
“Looks like customs is just around this corner,” I say,
pointing to the sign with my chin since my hands are full.
“Thank the gods on high,” Rebecca says, pressing her ruddy
lips together. “I cannot wait to get to our hotel and wash the travel
off me.”
“Me too.” I beam as I turn my head in her direction. “They
gave us a suite, and there’s a—ooof!” What the hell?
Somehow I’m sprawled on the floor after colliding with what
felt like a concrete pillar. Except there is no pillar, only a giant man who’s
now crouching in front of me and speaking a language I don’t understand. “Er
allt í lagi?”
He has the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Huh?” I touch a hand to my head, feeling dazed as something
I’ve never experienced comes over me. This man is…holy shit…he’s the most
beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life. Big, muscular frame, but the
kindest face and eyes. And his smile. His smile! I think he might be
laughing at my dumbfounded state, but wow, that smile makes my ovaries reach
out on their fallopian tube arms while all my baby eggs cry, ‘Daddy!’ I
think I’m in love.
“Are you hurt, Ivy?” Rebecca practically yells over his
shoulder, snapping me out of the lust cloud I was lost in.
I blink twice, then look from him to her and back again.
“I’m OK,” I say.
“You’re American?” he asks in the sexiest fucking accent. He
holds his hand out to help me up, but I don’t know if I trust my legs to hold
me up. I’m weak, ladies!
“Yes,” I manage to say. When I don’t accept his hand, he
starts picking up my paperwork that’s scattered all over the floor.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he says
as he hands it over. “Can I help you up from the floor?”
I’m just staring into his eyes, lost in the ocean of his
soul. I’m in there swimming, doing little roly-polies and it’s so nice in here
that I don’t want to come out.
“Ivy!” Rebecca hisses. She’s also giggling. I can imagine
this looks ridiculous.
“Right. Yes, you can help me up,” I say, taking the paperwork
from one hand and accepting the other. Warmth and electricity race around my
body at the contact, making me feel even more unsteady once I’m on my feet. And
he’s such a gentleman that he wraps a strong arm around my waist to steady me.
“þú ert svo fallegur,” he says with eyes that search
mine, and I don’t know what the words mean. Hell, he could have said ‘Get off
my toes,’ and I would have heard a love sonnet. His voice sounds like melted
chocolate running through my veins.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Can you stand on your own?” Rebecca asks.
“Yes.” Not that I want to.
The love of my life smiles and releases me. My ovaries cry. “Will
you be in Fürstheim long?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say because I can only give one-word answers it
seems.
“We’re here for ten days,” Rebecca offers helpfully.
“Ten days?” He frowns. It crosses over his features like a
ghost, but it’s there.
“I won the radio,” I say. Then I wince because it makes no
sense.
“She won a vacation on the radio,” Rebecca translates. “Ten
days. All expenses paid. We’re very excited. But, it’s been a long day, and I’m
sure you have a flight to catch.” No! Don’t go!
“Yes.” His brow knits. “Enjoy Fürstheim, ladies. It’s a
wonderful country.”
“The airport is wonderful,” I offer, and as ridiculous as it
sounds, it does make him smile again, so there’s that.
“Herra.” A small man with a wiry frame stands a foot
away, addressing this man I don’t want to let out of my sight. “Við ættum að
fara.”
“ég er að koma,” he says, then he turns to me and
takes my hand. “Goodbye, ástin mín.” He lifts my hand and presses a kiss
to my knuckles, and I pretty much crème all over myself. “I have enjoyed
meeting you.” He releases my hand, and I miss him already. “Both of you. Enjoy
your holiday.”
With that, he nods once then turns away, rushing off again
with that little skinny man scurrying after him. It’s like watching Arnold
Schwarzenegger and Danny DeVito in Twins.
Rebecca is smiling when I finally tear my eyes away from his
retreating ass. “What?” I ask.
“Do you need some new panties?”
I giggle then fan my face with my hand. “Yeah. I think I
do.”
