Player's Princess (A Royal Sports Romance)(110)

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“Not meet prince with bad hair. Sit in chair. Mirror.”

I keep my hair cut to the shoulders, so there’s not much to work with when I sit down in front of the vanity. It feels strange just looking at myself in the mirror, like I’m looking at a stranger. I start to shake as I think about yesterday. It feels like it was a week ago already. I end up sitting there oddly soothed as the old woman drags a horsehair brush through my unruly locks.

“Lovely hair. Prince will like hair.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

Inwardly I shrug. My hair is red so I have that going for me, but not much else. Guys like natural redheads. I think.

My hair is so short that the braid she uses ends up making a little bun at the back of my head. The old woman stands next to the wardrobe expectantly, until it dawns on me that she’s waiting for me to undress.

“Nothing not I have seen already,” she says, proud of her English.

I shrug and slip out of the nightgown, and start to hang it on the hook before she snatches it away and does it herself, as if the idea of my using a closet offends hers somehow.

She looks me up and down, appraising.

“Light skin. Light skin look good with dark. This one. Bring out eyes.”

She chooses a deep hunter-green dress with almost-black, highlights on the bodice and floor-length skirt, and what I am pretty sure is actual cloth of gold on the sleeves. I’d have no idea how to put it on without the old woman. Dresses were never my thing. I haven’t worn one since the prom.

She pokes my chest. “Too small. Prince like bigger. Men like big.”

“That’s not his problem,” I snap.

She looks at me and sighs, exasperated, then steps behind me, grabs two strings, and pulls. Hard. The dress tightens, squeezing the breath out of my lungs as it compresses my chest.

The old woman looks me over.

“Better. Not good. Better.”

I scowl at her.

“Follow.”

Shrugging, I step into a pair of slippers and follow her out of the room. It’s not hot in the castle but not cold. I feel small as my thin slippers scuff the carpets and the sounds echo in the enormous corridors. Every now and then I pass a huge window that opens onto an overlook and the open air beyond, reminding me how far up in the air I am.

The air itself is a little thin, and I’m puffing by the time we stop. The old woman gestures for me to stop and keeps walking. Two guards swing open a set of heavy oak doors, and I walk inside.

I’m not sure what I’m expecting. I guess I thought I’d be confronting the same giant plodding suit of armor as last night, but standing before me in an unadorned black uniform and white gloves, the prince is a tall, lean man with broad shoulders. His eyes lock on me and he smirks a little, and despite the voluminous dress, I feel a little exposed and start wringing my hands.

I flinch when the doors boom shut behind me.

“I am I supposed to curtsy or something?”

“Yes,” he says in a deep voice, shocking me a little with the volume. “On account of your injury and your ignorance, I will excuse your lack of decorum. You should address me as my prince, as well. Do you need assistance?”

“With what? Oh, walking. No, I’m fine.”

I remember at the last second to add my prince.

Then I don’t, f*ck that. I’m an American, he’s not my prince.

I try to walk gracefully to the table but end up limping. I almost expect him to offer me an arm but he just pulls out my chair instead. It’s a big chair, the top of the back reaching six feet in the air, the whole thing carved from mahogany.

The chair slides in behind me as I sit. He looms over my shoulder, and I catch a whiff of a musky cologne with a hint of berries. He touches my bare shoulder lightly and I flinch, looking up at him. He offers me a hint of a smile and a lingering look. I squirm beneath my elaborate dress, tingling at the idea of him undressing me with his eyes.

He’s already seen it all, I realize. I was almost naked the first time he saw me. I shrink into the chair.

After I sit he walks to the far end of the enormous table and sits down. He draws the white gloves off his hands as a pair of servants enter carrying trays covered in silver domes. The servant who delivers mine lifts the lid off before I get the chance to touch it, while a third man pours water into a heavy pewter chalice.

I stare down at my plate and feel my stomach rumble. On the plate are two deviled eggs, but the whites are purple, like they’ve been pickled. Along with that is a steaming sausage on a bed of fried onions, some kind of hard black bread, and three small fish, grilled whole. On a separate plate, cut in half, is a pomegranate.

The Prince is eating the same thing.

“Um, do I have to wait for you or something?”

“I know you’re hungry.”

One of his servants gives him an iPad.

A f*cking iPad. He twirls his fork in his left hand while he peruses whatever he’s looking at on the tablet.

Are you serious?

“Um,” I say.

“Eat, Persephone.”

“My name is Penny.”

“Eat.”

I stare at the pomegranate and swallow, hard.

“Are you trying to tell me something? With the fruit.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Tell you something?”