41.3
Kev
“It’s not a formal event. It’s only dinner with the family. I can dress myself, Ben, thank you,” I say, not bothering to even try to hide the edge in my voice. A flicker of embarrassment crosses the valet’s face, and I feel badly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”
He nods. “I can have Doctor Evanston called, if you like, Your Highness,” he says.
“No,” I say, quickly. Too quickly. “It’s nothing. It’s fine, I mean.” It’s not nothing. I haven’t slept well all week, not since I got back from the States.
“As you wish, Your Highness,” he says, retreating toward the door.
“Ben?” I ask. “Were you able to find Miss Kensington’s misplaced passport?”
“Not yet, Your Highness,” he says. “But, rest assured, I will find it.”
The idea of having Isabel Kensington around the palace all summer might be entertaining, but if she really wants to go back to the States, she should.
I wonder if she’ll even be at dinner. It’s casual tonight, according to the agenda – which really means that it’s black tie and not full dinner dress. For me, dinner dress would mean military dress with full regalia. This is the dinner engagement announcement to my cousins and aunts and uncles, a small family gathering before the more public events get underway.
I walk down the hallway in the direction of one of the dining rooms, an informal one, not the formal ones used for the larger dinners.
“Alb, wait,” Alex calls, and before I can react, she’s slamming into me, swinging her arm around my shoulder.
“God, you’re a pain in the ass,” I joke, as she leans into me. “What are you doing? Are you coming to dinner?”
“Yah,” she says, snapping her gum loudly in my ear. “Why are you dressing up for this bullshit, anyway?”
“Because I’m a responsible member of society,” I say, grinning. “And a respectable member of the royal family.”
Alex wrinkles her nose at me. “You’ve never been responsible, you lying liar,” she says. “Don’t even try to scam me – I know the Army didn’t change you that much. And seriously, what is with the tux? You can’t make me the only rebel. Who are you trying to impress? Ohhh.”
I shake my head as her eyes go wide. “I’m impressing no one,” I say.
“The girl,” she says, her voice a sing-song. “Yeah, you are. You’re trying to impress her cause she’s totally hot.”
I shrug. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yeah, right,” she says, laughing. “You noticed. She’s your new stepsister, in case you haven’t figured that out. That means you need to keep your dick in your pants.”
“That’s a phrase I could do without ever hearing come out of your mouth again,” I say. “You might want to go put on something that isn’t jeans. Maybe consider buttering our father up a little bit by actually playing by the rules, for once. Aren’t you planning on going to Monaco?”
“So?” she asks. “Finn’s father has a plane.”
“Yes, but aren’t you using our house in Monaco?”
Alex exhales heavily. “Fine. You have a point.”
“What is that?” I ask, cupping my ear. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. Could you say that louder, please? Did you say I was right?”
“I liked you a lot better before you did the whole military thing, you know,” she says. “Before, you would have shown up to dinner stoned or with a stripper on your arm. Now you’re all about working for the man.”
“It’s called picking your battles, Alex,” I call to her back as she stomps off in the opposite direction. “And I never brought any strippers to the palace.”
Well, I never brought any strippers to dinner at the palace.
I'm about to turn in the direction of the dining room, but I don't. Instead, I head in the opposite direction.
Toward her room.
"Yes?" Isabel asks, her voice muffled. When I open the door, she's turned with her back toward me, her arms contorted as she tries to zip the back of her dress. "I guess I do need help with the zipper, after all."
"I'm better at unzipping dresses than I am at zipping them up, but I'll give it a try," I say.
Isabel whirls around at the sound of my voice, one of the straps of her dress sliding over the edge of her shoulder. Shit, her and the damn straps of dresses. It's enough to make me want to rip the fabric off her entirely.
"Oh my God, what are you doing here?" she squeals, pressing her hands to the top of her dress, and clutching the garment against her breasts. "I thought you were the woman who was supposed to help me dress. She just left."
"Turn around," I say, crossing the room toward her. I know full and well that this is a bad idea. I shouldn't be in here with her, not when the sight of her shoulder has me hard as a rock. I swear to all that is holy, my dick is acting like I've never seen a woman’s shoulder before.
“I will not,” she says. “You need to leave. I’m sure you’re not supposed to be in here. Isn’t there some kind of palace rule against this kind of th–”
She stops talking when I reach her, and I hear her inhale deeply, the sound sharp in the stillness of the room. Her breasts rise underneath her palms, and I think about covering my hands with hers and simply moving them, causing her dress to fall to the ground in a pool at her feet.
I could do it. It would be so easy.
