Crown Jewels (Off-Limits Romance #1)(2)

“He’s been in Africa, then Australia, then South America.” Mags’ pouty lips smirk as a long, straight hair extension falls over her shoulder. “I forget you don’t have Snapchat.”

“Nope.” I find no need for it out in Estes Park, Colorado, where I’ve been working at a horse ranch since this past November.

“But seriously,” Amelia tells me as she saunters over to the vanity beside mine, “we were saying that he’s here. And unlike some of us—” she sinks gently down into her chair, smoothing a thin hand over her flawless copper red updo— “you actually have a chance to get at that.”

Charley pulls a bra on, looking like Marilyn Monroe in the reflection of the window out in front of me. “What Am means there is, she screen-shot that bulge pic he posted from that yacht last week and lady-wanks all day to it—so if you could just play wing-man for her when we see him, that would fucking rock.”

Amelia’s fair skin reddens. “That’s not what I meant, Charley.” She opens her lash kit, letting her gaze linger on the rows of fake eyelashes and the little tubes of glue.

I actually manage a laugh, because my best friend is adorable when flustered. “You want me to try to flag him over if we see him, Am?”

I’ve been looking for a deeper reason to out tonight. Something beyond “getting back on the radar” and picking up guys I won’t have sex with. Maybe this can be it.

Amelia presses her lips together, looking briefly into my eyes before her gaze tips back down to her lap. “I’m sure he won’t be there.”

“Where else would he be?” Charley demands.

Mags pops her lips together, blotting at her lipstick as she nods. “It’s true,” she says. “Everyone will be at Carnegie’s.”

My stomach does a barrel roll. I shut my eyes and listen to my friends gossip as Amelia does my lashes. Declan Carnegie—a pro baseball player who’s a little older than us—is supposed to be a closet drug addict (“Out of control,” Charley says); Kendall Jenner and some model she’s cat-fighting will both be there tonight (gasp!); Taylor Swift’s house help told someone who works for us that she’ll be jetting in tomorrow.

Everyone. Will. Be. There.

I dig my nails into my palm and wonder why the hell I left seclusion. It’s been months since I’ve been photographed. I don’t need to draw attention now. And why the Hamptons?

Because you’re fucking brave, I try to tell myself.

Amelia notices my face and gives me a quick peck on the forehead. “Not everyone will be there tonight, Luce. Only the good guys.”

I bite my lip, thankful Mags and Charley are focused on the finer points of party slut evening-ware.

“So you don’t want Prince Liam for yourself?” Amelia teases me as she pastes a line of lashes above mine.

“Um, hell no. No offense,” I tell her with my eyes shut.

“You think he’s an asshole, don’t you?”

I peek one eye open. “Do you really want to know?”

“I already know. I know you, woman.”

My stomach tightens as I remember that searing hot picture of the prince’s package.

Prince Liam might be the first guy my vagina has taken a liking to in two years, but I do think he’s an asshole. My interest in him—my very secret interest—is purely as a slab of man meat and inspiration for my poor, neglected vag.

“He seems like the world’s biggest dick, but remember, I think all guys are dicks these days,” I tell Amelia.

Her fingers are gentle on my face as she pastes on more lashes. In the silence before she speaks, I can feel her sympathy. “I know. So someone’s going to have to prove you wrong.”

I let my breath out slowly as she rubs her fingertip along my eyelid. “Well, I can tell you now, it’s not going to be some royal prick draped with coked-up models, wearing spandex.”

Amelia’s body stills. “Spandex? What do you mean?”

“That’s what he had on, isn’t it?”

“Lucille… My dear Lucille…” Through my extra-long lashes, I can see Amelia’s face scrunch as she starts laughing. “You guys,” she squeals, her eyes crinkling as she beams at me. “Our girl here is a dirty little liar!”

“I don’t know what that even means.” I give her the stink eye.

“You said he was wearing spandex. That Instagram shot, the package shot, you know: the one TMZ called Crown Jewels in the headline. It did look like a speedo. But it was boxer-briefs, all melded around his jewels from where he climbed out of the ocean. Which you didn’t know, but you totally saw it. She looked for long enough to think it was spandex.” Amelia beams at Maggie and Char. “She was reading TMZ. Out in bumfuck Colorado. Our girl here was reading TMZ.”

I snort, biting the tip of my tongue to try to keep my cheeks from going guilt-red. “You know my opinion on that bullshit rag.”

But it’s no use. My friends are hooting like a bunch of over-active chimps.

“She wants dem jewels!”

“Someone needs a royal rumble!”

“Damn, I hope he’s there!”

“Everybody wants him,” Amelia cuts in, smiling. “It’s not that weird, Lucy Su.”