Page 2 of Undecided Heiress

Prince James

My dearest Anna, you are cordially invited to attend a dinner hosted by Prince James of Finsbury Park.

“Fuck me.” I show her the text, stifling a laugh. “What should I say?”

She shrugs with a small chuckle. “Just say that: ‘Fuck me.’”

“Jen!” I squeak.

Rolling her eyes, she sighs, “I suppose you could be boring and tell him you’ll see him later. But it’d be far more interesting if you told him you’d rather have a quick shag on a piano.”

“I regret telling you about all of this,” I groan. With my thumbs poised over the phone to reply to the message, I whisper, mostly to myself, “It was just a dream.”

“Dream or not,” her voice pulls my attention from the phone, “he’s real and wants to see you. What’s the worst that could happen? He murders you? You could always go to his place and send me the location. If I don’t hear from you in a few hours, I’ll send the police. If he comes by your place, you don’t have an exit. He may eat your face off if he’s a cannibal.”

It’s not the worst idea going to him. “At least I wouldn’t have to clean my flat.”

“Attagirl! There’s the spirit!”

Chewing my lip, I consider it for a moment. I’ve spent the past two weeks using that dream as inspiration for my self-care time. Maybe he’s done the same? He was most definitely flirting with me at the station, and I suppose there are stranger ways to meet someone—I’ll take this over internet dating any day of the week.

Finally taking the leap, I reply back.

I gladly accept your invitation, Prince James of Finsbury Park. How shall I dress for such an occasion?

Bubbles dance on the screen, and I glance up at Jen. “He’s replying.”

“What did you ask?”

“I asked what I should wear. Do you think he wants to take me to dinner? Or just to pop by? Is this a date? What if he’s asked me on a date? No, this isn’t a date. He’s just being?—”

“Will. You. Stop? Your favourite book changed. I still stand by the book being a coincidence, but James? You said yourself that James is real. Maybe you’ve seen him on your commute and your cunt manifested him in your dream?”

“You’ve been reading too many astrology charts,” I laugh.

“Was he as gorgeous as you described? I bet he’s even more handsome. So, you are going to dinner with him, even if it’s at his flat and not a restaurant? I’m sure he’s hungry for more than Italian, anyway.”

“That was only in my dream,” I scoff, but I suck in a breath when my phone vibrates in my hands. “Shit, he’s replied.”

I may or may not have an unsavoury response to that.

Is that so?

Yes, but perhaps dinner first, before I share? Please dress however you feel most comfortable.

Where would you like me to meet you?

“What’s he saying?” Jen whisper-shouts.

“Oh, um, he—” She snatches the phone from my hands. “Jen!”

“I knew it! He wants you naked and spread wide so he can practise tracing the alphabet with his tongue on your clit.”

“Fucking hell, that’s not what he said!” I grumble, but I’m not entirely convinced she’s wrong.

“He replied. Allow me…” She types for a moment, keeping the phone out of my grasp while I reach for it. When I finally get it back, there’s another message.

You could come here? Should we get takeaway?

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