“Smart choice,” Floris said. “No sense in fighting what you can’t change.”
Nils nodded. “Agreed. Let’s celebrate the fact that King Henry finally agreed to let you go because honestly, I was starting to lose hope he ever would.”
“I owe a mountain of gratitude to your cousin, Tore,” I said. “If he hadn’t reached out to the king with his rational, well-argued plea to allow me this year, I don’t know I would’ve ever gotten permission.”
“He’s a good guy,” Tore said about his cousin, who’d only recently became the king of Norway. “I’m glad he was able to get through to your uncle.”
I would never stop being thankful for the friendship with these three. We’d met as toddler-princes—though Nils was a few years older than us and had been a proper boy by then—and had become best friends over the years. These men were the only people who truly understood the peculiar burden of being born into a life that felt like an elaborate performance.
“The highly rated program in International Relations at Cascade Bay University helped for certain,” I said. “Plus the security detail.”
Tore’s expression turned curious. “Yes, I wanted to ask you about that. How’s that going to work?”
I swallowed. “He’s American, a Secret Service agent loaned out to a private firm for this occasion. King Henry wanted a Brit initially, but he agreed to an American after I objected that two Brits sharing a room might draw more attention than wanted.”
Tore sat up a little straighter. “Sharing a room?”
“Not a room, exactly. It’s a…” My cheeks heated, and I once again cursed the pale skin my ancestors had gifted me with. “A mini-apartment, they call it. It’s a living room with a bedroom plus bathroom.”
“Have you met him yet?” Tore asked.
My stomach dropped at the thought. “I have a security briefing via Zoom in twenty minutes to discuss the logistics of the arrangement. And to meet him.”
“A bodyguard who’s also your roommate?” Floris raised an eyebrow. “How delightfully intimate. Please tell me he’s at least attractive. If you’re going to have someone shadowing your every move, he’d better be pleasant to look at.”
“Floris,” I started, then stopped. How could I explain that I was terrified the bodyguard was attractive? That the thought of sharing living space with someone who could potentially trigger my increasingly inconvenient awareness of my own sexuality was keeping me awake at night?
Floris held up his hands. “I know,” he said, every trace of mockery gone. “Trust me, Greg, I know.”
Maybe he did. It was a small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless.
“Promise me you’ll try to make friends this year,” Nils said seriously. “You’ve been hiding behind proper etiquette and royal protocol for so long, I’m not sure anyone other than us knows who you truly are underneath it all.”
The comment hit closer to home than I cared to admit. “I shall attempt to be more… authentic.”
“Good,” Floris declared. “And remember, Americans are very direct. No need for your usual seventeen-layer British subtlety. If you like someone, you straight-up tell them.”
If only it were that simple. It would be for him, since the Dutch were so wonderfully direct. The thought of being that straightforward gave me the shivers. “Not bloody likely, but I appreciate the advice.”
“Use it as time to experiment,” Tore said softly. “To be yourself as much as you can be.”
Which was code forsee if you can find a man to lose your virginity to, but there was no need to say that out loud when we all understood. “Right. Well, I should prepare for this briefing. Wish me luck.”
After a chorus of encouraging words and promises to check in soon, I ended the call and stared at my laptop screen. In fifteen minutes, I would meet the man who would be my constant companion for the next year. The man who would witness whatever personal revelations or catastrophic mistakes I might make during my time at Cascade Bay University.
Brilliant. Not only was I venturing into uncharted territory with a small but stubborn hope to finally find a guy to hook up with, as the Americans would say, but I’d have a professional observer documenting my inevitable humiliation. How marvelous.
At precisely three o’clock, I joined the video conference. My private secretary, Marcus Whitmore—a man so efficiently organized, it bordered on the obsessive—was already present, along with Rebecca Hartwell, the head of our security office.
“Your Highness,” Marcus began in his crisp tone, “we’re waiting for Special Agent Puller to join us, and then we can begin the briefing.”
Special Agent Puller. Even the name sounded solid, dependable, thoroughly American. I straightened my shoulders and prepared to meet my fate.
The screen flickered, and suddenly, a new face appeared in the call.
I nearly spilled tea on my laptop.
The man looking back at me through the screen was nothing like the grizzled, imposing security professionals I was accustomed to. Special Agent Puller appeared to be roughly my own age, even though I knew he had to be older, with warm brown eyes that crinkled slightly at the corners and dark hair that looked like he’d recently run his fingers through it. There was a small scar visible along his jawline, and when he spoke, his voice carried the distinctive drawl of the American South.
