“Theo, you need to stop falling for losers,” James informs me.
“Shame I have impeccably bad taste, then.” Since after Auggie. He was a tough act to follow, but I’m not telling that to anyone. I probably should have taken things more seriously back then. “And I’m too annoying to love, anyway,” I say flippantly. “Too messy.”
“If it makes you feel better,” James says conspiratorially, leaning in, “apparently, Aidan fell for a groom.”
“What?” I blink, a frown tugging down the corners of my mouth. There’s running off with another man, then there’s stealing someone’s betrothed. “Whose husband?” I demand. “I want names.”
“Nobody’s husband,” James informs me with a shrug. He waves a hand carelessly. “As in, a stable hand.”
“A stable hand!”
None of this makes me feel the least bit better.
“From Windsor Castle. John told me,” James explains with a nonchalant shrug, peering at me over his menu. Prince John is James’ younger brother, third and fourth in line to the British throne after Prince Auggie and Princess Anne, their cousins. James and John are both cut from the same cloth of chaos. “He saw them at the weekend. Caught them red-handed in the tack room, actually. Bit of a scandal. John was going to call you, don’t worry. But he’s been away in Berlin this week.”
“They have phones in Berlin. I’ve been there. I know it for a fact,” I say darkly, my face burning as my mind reels, trying to make sense of what I’ve been told. But none of this makes any sense. It’s all going from bad to worse. I rub my temples. “And, for the record, no, John calling or not calling doesn’t make me feel any better.”
Plus, Windsor Castle makes me think of Prince Auggie again. Auggie and I have had a moment or two in said tack room ourselves, once upon a time. And then, silly me, I blew him off for Jonathan because Jonathan wasn’t a prince and had no royal baggage. But then, Jonathan left me too, breaking my heart because I was foolish enough to fall in serious like with him. I swear he liked his hounds more than me. In fact, I know he did. There was a string of men after that, true. But when I met Aidan, I thought it was for real. Real love.
Real disaster.
I don’t breathe a word of that.
Forget love.
“A bottle of absinthe, please,” James orders, looking at me with something close to pity, when a waiter appears. He knows me too well. “I think we might need it.”
Chapter Two
A bottle of absinthe between us makes for an interesting night. To our credit, we order food to go along with our drinks. It’s late now, and we’ve moved on to an exclusive club not far from the restaurant. The DJ has the place thumping, and the floor vibrates between the bass and all the people dancing. I’m removed enough from the earlier shock to get into some dancing too, at least.
When I pause long enough to go to the bar and get some water, I bump unsteadily into someone. “Sorry,” I manage, clapping a hand on the tall man’s shoulder in apology. It’s solid muscle under my fingers. He’s even more built than I am, and I’ve kept in good shape since my military service years ago and more recent modeling work after that. Before I settled into working with my business partner on our design projects.
The man turns around, frowning, his mouth open to complain. Then his eyes widen in recognition, beneath a tumble of dark, wavy hair.
Of course he’s hot.
I grit my teeth. A hot man is what got me in trouble to begin with tonight. Or, more like, said hot man got himself caught up in the tabloids and then caused me problems.
Also, I might be staring at the stranger.
Not being a British royal usually has its advantages in London. Less recognition, for starters. I’ve lived in London for years now, away from Denmark. I get less than I would get back home anyway, unless on the off chance I come across a Dane or a Danish monarchy enthusiast. Which, surprisingly, happens more often than one might think.
Except I’m hardly being subtle tonight. I want to be seen. Straightening to my full height, I stand my ground in defiance.
Let them photograph me. I insist.
I want Aidan to know what he’s missing. He’ll be sorry then, him and his wretched groom.
Except it doesn’t make things any better, and then it dawns on me I’ve still been gawping openly at a gorgeous man, with olive skin and black hair and blue eyes. Which, I’ve got to say, is a stunning combination known to do a number on me. He’s mesmerizing. I gawp like a tourist taking in one of the wonders of the world. Believe me, he’s one of them. Usually, I’m a shade more coy, to my credit, but I’ve had a lot to drink tonight, and my filter is off. In fact, my filter’s probably tossed somewhere deep in the Thames, like a votive offering right alongside some Bronze Age weapons and Roman coins.
“Prince Theodor?” He has an accent that I can’t quite place. It’s totally hot, though.
“Guilty,” I say flippantly, recovering in an artful facade of manners. I run a hand through my hair. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to crash into you. Shockingly rude. Would you like me to get you a drink to make up for it? Please.”
“No need. Already have one.” The man holds up his cocktail, complete with little umbrella and some fancy garnishes. His eyes dance. “You don’t know who I am?”
If I hadn’t been busy staring at his face like I was trying to etch it into my memory for all time, I would have maybe looked at his hand with its cocktail. Confession time. “To be honest, I barely know who I am right now.”
