Page 25 of Scarred Crown

I clamp down on the flood of memories. My job in Tanzania is clear. Keep the prince occupied and away from home until I get the all-clear from King George. Easiest job in the world since he doesn’t want to cut his vacation short. Instead of stressing over him or our history, I need to relax and enjoy this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to go on safaris for however long I get before King George summons us home.

At the meal tent, I pause at the door. Almost all the seats are taken. There’s one left near the head of the table at the opposite end to the prince. I breathe a sigh of relief. No interaction required. Perfect.

Everyone already has a drink, and I ask for water. I can’t even remember the last time I was drunk. In typical Nick fashion, he has two empty beer bottles and a glass of something else in front of him. Perhaps he plans on going for round two with the American woman who is so close she could be in his lap without too much effort.

There’s a buzz around the table as everyone discusses their morning drives and details what they hope to see this evening.

“What did you see this morning?” the British man beside me asks.

When I turn to look at him, I’m surprised at his youth. I was so focused on Nick, I didn’t look around the table properly. He’s likely around 30, not much older than me, with light brown hair and dark brown eyes alight with interest.

“Oh, um. I didn’t go. I just arrived last night, and I was jetlagged.” A lie, but I can’t throw the prince to the wolves. The camp is probably a hive of gossip.

“You’re going out tonight?” he prods.

“She is,” Prince Nicholas calls from down the table. “What’d you see this morning Robbie?”

Great. The prince has taken the one person who showed any sort of interest in me. After their brief exchange, Prince Nicholas regales the table with his stories from this morning, that he didn’t bother to tell me, even when I asked. The gulf between us widens. We’re not friends. Maybe we aren’t even acquaintances anymore. Enemies, maybe, given the tit-for-tat we’ve been engaged in. As far as he knows, I still want to drag him home.

Dinner is samosas, rice, and some sort of fish. Each bite is cardboard while I listen to the prince work the crowd. They’re hanging on his every word. When everyone but me bursts into laughter at another one of his stories, my chest constricts. Without too much effort, he’s managed to eat up all the oxygen in the room.

“Is he like this when you’re alone with him too?” Robbie asks, leaning close.

“You mean entertaining?” I pop a piece of fish into my mouth and chew while I wait for him to clarify.

“Larger than life.” He scoops his rice onto his fork with his knife. “Every night is another outlandish story. Entertaining for sure. Never quite feels real though, does it?”

“Doesn’t it?” I avoid eye contact and eat another piece of fish. “So far he hasn’t told a story I know to be false.” Of course, I don’t know that any of them are true either. Whatever persona the prince wants to present to these people, I’m not going to interfere. They’re strangers, and he has every right to protect himself. The number of cringeworthy stories his pretty face has inspired must eat at him. Of course, the modeling didn’t help anything but his personal bank account. At heart, he’s a private person coping with a public life.

“What’s it like being the secretary to the king of Bellerive?” he prods, taking a sip of his beer.

“I imagine it’s like any other job. Good days and bad.”

“Bad days? What do those encompass when you work for a king?”

“Something goes wrong that was supposed to go right.” When was the last time someone asked me questions about my job? At a press junket, probably. It’s not like I’m an avid traveler for anything other than business. The people I associate with know what my job is like because they deal with dozens of staff members just like me.

“Manage to get any writing done today, Robbie?” Prince Nicholas calls down the table, disrupting our conversation. Except this time, I don’t mind the interruption.

“A bit,” Robbie says, leaning back in his chair, his drink dangling between his fingers. An air of arrogance surrounds him.

“I forget who you said you were working for while you’re here?” Prince Nicholas mirrors Robbie’s posture, and I suspect any moment one of them will whip out their dick and ask me to get a measuring tape.

“Doing a bit of freelance work,” Robbie says, sliding his glass back onto the table. “As I mentioned, I’ve had pieces published in various papers and magazines.”

Ice snakes through my veins. Papers and magazines? Are they the ones we wipe our asses with in Bellerive or the ones we read over breakfast? Sometimes the line between them is thin.

The prince’s animosity makes more sense. He’s come here for a vacation, and he must have discovered Robbie has worked for or is currently working for a tabloid. For all I know, he may have done stories on the Bellerive Royals. Alexander has remained largely scandal free, but Nicholas and Brice have not.

“Making the world a better place one article at a time, I’m sure,” Nicholas says. “Lauren.” He turns to the American woman who is stroking his arm with light fingers.

So cringy. Does she have no self-respect? He’s let her touch him during the meal, but not once has he seemed to enjoy her affection. In fact, he’s spoken to everyone but her.

“Didn’t you say you’ve had a travel guide published? Perhaps you and Robbie should chat tonight, see what else you have in common.” He extracts his arm from her to grab his drink from the table.

Her cheeks blaze red, and she raises her own glass of wine, chugging the contents. He’s fluffed her off on Robbie in front of everyone. I’d feel bad except desperate isn’t a good look for anyone—male or female.

“I’d love a chat,” Robbie says, his grin almost lecherous.