“Do you think it’s the selling or the people buying it that sets her on edge?”
I turn onto the road leading up to the ranch. “Both. Clearly she’s never owned lingerie in her life.”
Erica snickers on the other end of the line. “Listen, I’ll get a meeting set up with Brad. You don’t worry about him—”
“My ex-husband? Of course I’m going to worry about it. Not like he’ll give me anything…”
Of all the people to become mayor of our small town, it had to be my ex-husband. He wanted nothing to do with politics when we started dating in college, but now? Now it’s his life’s dream to become the next governor of our humble state.
And I’ll be damned if I let him and that old bat use me as a stepping stone to get there.
“Take care of the dress and I’ll take care of this.”
I blow out a breath as I pull into an empty spot in front of the ranch. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Erica.”
“Let’s hope you never have to find out.”
She ends the call.
The ranch is blissfully empty. In just a few days, the entire ranch is going to shut down for Gemma and Blake’s wedding. With so many family members coming—not just from out of state, but out of country too—they wanted to make it a month-long celebration.
Stepping out of my car, my eye catches on a man dressed in all black. Slinking around the edge of the fence around the barn, he sticks out like a sore thumb.
It’s almost eighty degrees today and he’s in a suit. I watch as he looks around before going inside.
It isn’t someone I recognize.
Oh fuck. He’s probably paparazzi sent here to take pictures of the royals. I can’t imagine what a photo would go for of them on vacation here.
Slamming my car door, I stalk off toward the barn. There’s no way I’m going to let some scum of the earth plant hidden cameras and ruin my sister’s wedding.
Fuck no.
Stalking off toward the barn, anger floods my veins. It’s one of the downsides of having family members who are married to royals. They never get any privacy.
The few times I’ve visited them in London, press is everywhere. It’s a shame they can’t go about their day in peace.
The barn door is open and I sneak inside.
The mystery man is taking photos of every angle of the barn’s interior on his phone. No long-range lens for this guy. Maybe he’s planning where to plant cameras for any photo op he can get.
Yet, for a photographer scraping by on photos of famous people, he’s different than I expected him to be.
My eyes drink him in. I have no clue who this guy is. In dark shades, he’s dressed head to toe in black. A suit no less. The photographers I remember seeing in London were a lot more casual than this.
Old Man River whinnies as I walk past the horse stalls, drawing the visitor’s attention to my presence.
“Thanks for nothing.” I give him a quick pet before closing the distance between myself and the unwanted guest. “Can I ask what you’re doing here?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“Oh good. Paparazzi with attitude.”
“Actually,”—he clears his throat—“it’s paparazzo. Paparazzi is plural.”
If I wasn’t so annoyed by this man, I’d be swooning at that deep, British accent of his. Whoever tipped him off got their schedules wrong. Our family from across the pond isn’t set to arrive for another few days.
“It doesn’t matter. You’re not allowed to be here.”
