Royally Not Ready(5)

“Trust me when I say it’s in my best interest not to murder you. Now hang up,” he says in such a forceful tone that I lean in to the speaker of the phone.

“Uh, I think I need to go. You have the phone pinned?”

“Yes,” Timmy answers. “Call me after. I want to know what’s highly classified.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.” I hang up the phone and hand it over to its faithful owner.

He sticks it in his coat pocket as he says, “You will not be discussing this conversation outside of the two people involved: you and me.”

“Okay, sure.” I wink at him.

“Miss Campbell, this is not a joking matter.”

I cross one leg over the other and wave dismissively at him. “I’ll be the judge of that.” I rub my hands together and ask, “Okay, so what’s all the secrecy about?”





Chapter Two





KELLER





Go find her.

Bring her home.

Train her.

Seemed simple at the time. A task I didn’t want, but something I was more than willing to do because my country means more to me than anything.

After seeing Lilly Campbell, King Theodore’s one and only heir, spray water on scantily clad women and a man who found humor in humping the air in public, I realized this is going to be a huge undertaking. And possibly, an erroneous mistake.

“Soo . . . I’m waiting,” Lilly says, blinking those dangerously light blue eyes at me. Ones I’ve looked into many times. Theo’s eyes.

But what I wasn’t expecting was how absolutely stunningly beautiful Lilly would be. Is. Long, white-blonde hair that falls just over her small yet perky breasts, eyes the color of ice crystals, full lips stained in light pink, and a slender frame still curvy enough in all the right places for a man to grip on to. And those lashes of hers—long and dark—which reveal a depth to her eyes I’m sure she’s unaware of.

But it’s her attitude, her vibrant sass, that I know will make this task of not only training her to be the next heir—plus convincing her to drop her life and come with me—very difficult.

“Miss Campbell—”

“Ugh, call me Lilly. That Miss Campbell shit is so stuffy. And you know, it might not hurt you to introduce yourself.”

“I was getting to that.”

“Takes you long enough.”

I clench my teeth. “My name is Keller Fitzwilliam, and I’m the private secretary and advisor to King Theodore.”

“Oooo, you sound fancy. Fitzwilliam, so posh.” She looks over her shoulder. “Seriously, though, where are the cameras? Are they buried in the flowers?”

“There are no cameras. This is very serious. Please regard it as such.”

She folds her arms and stares me up and down. “Where do you get off talking to people like that?” In a snooty tone, she says, “‘Please regard it as such.’ What acting school did you go to? Your accent could use some work.”

Christ.

I push my hand through my hair, irritation now ripping through my veins. “Your mother, Margret—what do you know of her family?”

Lilly straightens up, the straps of her revealing dress pulling on her delicate shoulders. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because what I’m about to tell you pertains to that.”

“Do I have family I don’t know about?” she asks with a dreamy look in her eyes.

That dreamy look, the intrigue, the hope . . . it’s all there, which means, I’ve found my way to capture her.

“What have you been told?” I ask.

“Uh, well, that my mom fled from somewhere in the Scandinavian area and came to America, where she met my father. She never spoke about her family too much. Why, what do you know?”

She’s in for a goddamn culture shock.

“Your mother, Margret, is one of four children.”

“Four! You mean I have aunts and uncles?”

Technically, but I don’t need to go into details about them just yet.

“Yes. And you have grandparents.”

“Grandparents?” she says, her eyes welling up. “Really? Like, actual grandparents? Like two old people who sit in rockers and throw shoes at the street youth for being a nuisance to the neighborhood? Two old people who smile when they fart? Who call you honey and wear small blankets over their shoulders because they’re always cold? Two old people who talk about sciatica and send you five-dollar bills in a birthday card? That kind of grandparents?”

Not so much.

If Theo or Katla ever smiled while they farted, I wouldn’t be sure what to fucking do.

“No,” I answer honestly. “They aren’t that kind of grandparents.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sag. “I always wanted old, cranky grandparents. When I was young, we lived across from this old couple. We weren’t friends with them, but I would sit on my porch and watch them from across the street as they yapped and yelled at the kids riding their bikes. I found it endearing. Sometimes I wished that they had been my grandparents. I even asked—”

“They are King Theodore and Queen Katla,” I say, unable to deal with her jabbering.

“Excuse me?”