Royally Matched (Royally #2)(28)

And then Walter plants one on Cordelia—with tongue. And she lets him. He licks her chin, her lips, and as she laughs . . . it looks like her teeth and tongue get a thorough cleaning too.

Then she puts him on the ground and turns to me, starry-eyed and smiling.

“Now . . . about that kiss?”

I look at Cordelia’s lush, perfect mouth, and then down at the pudgy pooch . . . voraciously licking his own arsehole. And I grimace.

“Maybe later.”

Or . . . not.





“Cut!” the director yells.

And Vanessa walks forward, with a clipboard in hand. “That was great. Lots of simmering, sexual tension with a tease for more to come. Love it. Let’s freshen up and we’ll get some shots of Henry and Cordelia in the convertible for the montage and voice-over piece. Then we’ll move to the picnic area; it’s almost ready.”

But then, from behind the camera, someone knocks into the lighting tripod. It tilts over and crashes, the lens bursting with a loud pop and splintering shatter. A minute later, there’s a commotion, the ladies crowding together. There are whispers and concerned looks, and Laura Benningson asks if someone should get a doctor.

“No,” I hear Penelope answer. “No, she’ll be all right in a few minutes.”

I push through the crowd to the center, where Sarah stands unnaturally still. Her skin is ashen, her face is frozen in terror, and her eyes are flat and blank. And I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, because I remember this. From last year at the pub, the very first time I spoke to her. When someone dropped a tray of glasses, and she froze up in fear.

Penny has her arm around Sarah’s lower back, softly whispering words I can’t hear. And it’s like my heart stops in my chest and my stomach roils at the sight of her so still and afraid. I go to move closer but before I get to her, she comes to. Waking up gasping and blinking, reaching for her sister.

What the hell was that?

Penny catches my eye and shakes her head, telling me silently not to come closer. To pretend that everything is fine.

Eventually, everyone goes back to their tasks—the crew prepares for the next taping, the ladies chat and drink Champagne.

But Sarah remains off on the side. And she looks smaller somehow, like she’s trying to sink into herself. Fold up and disappear. I don’t like it. Sarah’s too pretty to not be standing straight and tall so everyone can see. And she’s . . . nice. Believe it or not, that’s rare in my circle. She helped me last night. Even though it made her uncomfortable, she did it anyway.

And now I want to do something for her.

I want to see Sarah Titebottum smile. A brazen, bold, unselfconscious smile. But more than that, there’s a small, selfish part of me that wants to make her smile. Be the one she’s smiling for.

I glance around the set—everyone is buzzing like worker bees getting ready for the shot. Cordelia’s getting primped and powdered by a makeup girl, Vanessa is speaking with a few of the cameramen, and the convertible I’m supposed to drive is just sitting there . . . all by its lonesome.

And look at that—someone left the keys in the ignition.

Stealthily, I sidle up to Sarah.

“Have you ever driven in a convertible?”

She looks up sharply, like she didn’t see me approach. “Of course I have.”

My hands slide into my pockets and I lean back on my heels.

“Have you ever been in a convertible driven by a prince?”

Her eyes are lighter in the sun, with a hint of gold. They crinkle as she smiles.

“No.”

I nod. “Perfect. We do this in three.”

Now she looks nervous. “Do what?”

I spot James across the way, eyes scanning the crowd—far enough away that he’ll never get over here in time.

“Three . . .”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Two . . .”

“Henry . . .”

“One.”

“I . . .”

“Go, go, go!”

“Go where?” she asks, loud enough to draw attention.

So I wrap my arm around her waist, lift her off her feet, carry her to the car, and swing her up and into the passenger seat. Then, I jump into the driver’s side.

“Shit!” James curses. But then the engine is roaring to life. I back out, knocking over a food service table, and the tires screech as I turn around and drive across the grounds . . . toward the woods.

“The road is that way!” Sarah yells, the wind making her long, dark hair dance and swirl.

“I know a shortcut. Buckle up.”

We fly into the woods, sending a flurry of leaves in our wake. The car bounces and jostles, and I feel Sarah’s hand wrapped around my arm—holding on. It feels good.

“Duck.”

“What?”

I push her head down and crouch at the same time, to avoid getting whipped in the face by the low-branch of a pine tree.

After we’re past it, Sarah sits up, owl-eyed, and looks back at the branch and then at me.

I smirk. “If you wanted me to push your head down, love, you could’ve just said so.”

“You’re insane!”

I hit the gas hard, swerving around a stump. “What? You’re the only one who gets to make dirty jokes?”