Page 21 of The Wanted Prince

I snorted. “Four years ago, he’d just bought a mansion. Now, he’s out here with the goats and the… the…” I flapped my hand at the scenery. Laura frowned, puzzled.

“The wildflowers? The nature? That gorgeous, clear lake?”

“The old cracked-roof houses. The bumpy dirt road.”

“Maybe he likes all that.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t.” I gripped the wheel tighter. “We met in college. He had this startup. It was meant to be, going to be, the next big thing. But his investor crapped out and I said I’d find him a new one. Promised to introduce him to the Duke of Salcí. He invests in a lot of tech, thinks it makes him seem younger. But I got distracted. I… I forgot. He never found an investor, and he went bust.”

Laura touched my arm. “That’s not all on you.”

“Breaking my promise is.”

“But it was his startup. His money to find. Yeah, it’s on you that you got his hopes up, but couldn’t he have reached out to the duke himself?”

“That’s why it’s my fault. Because I said…” The words died on my lips as the trees thinned up ahead. Pedro’s house was the saddest thing I’d ever seen, crumbling brick walls held up by ivy, peeling wood columns framing the door. The lawn was more weeds than grass, bobbing with clover. Bees buzzed everywhere, enjoying the bounty.

“He’ll hate this,” I said.

“I love it,” said Laura.

I scoffed. “You love this? It’s practically a ruin.”

“No, this is trendy. This—” She pointed. “Hey, is that him?”

My heart plummeted as I followed her finger. The man she had spotted was dressed like a scarecrow, old threadbare trousers, ragged straw hat. His fingers were stained a deep purplish-blue. I couldn’t tell at first if he was Pedro. Then he caught sight of our car in the drive, and he grinned and waved at us.

“Yeah. That’s Pedro.”

He called out in Spanish, a cheery greeting.

“Seems friendly,” said Laura.

“Because he can’t see us. The sun on the glass?—”

“Sandro? That you?”

My stomach did a backflip. My mouth went dry. I hadn’t even called him when I heard he went bust. Hadn’t reached out to him once in four years. If I was him, I’d march up and punch out my window. I scrambled out of the car, thinking of Laura. The last thing we needed was her showered with glass.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Sandro! It is you!” He dropped the basket he was carrying and flung out his arms. “Come on, don’t you hug?”

I must have looked skeptical, because he glanced down at himself.

“Oh! I’m all juicy. Sorry about that. I have blackberry bushes, so I can’t waste the harvest.”

“The harvest,” I echoed, still trying to make sense of him. He’d lost weight from when I’d known him and put on lean muscle. His hair was long too, his pale skin tanned golden. He’d grown the kind of beard we’d made fun of in college, sort of a scraggly, bushy goatee.

“You look… good?” I said.

“Was that a question?”

I coughed and snapped out of it. “No. You look good.”

He smiled. “So do you. Are you here for the workshop? Because if you are, you’re a few hours early. But I’d be happy to show you around.”

I opened my mouth to refuse his offer, but Laura had joined me, and she cut in.

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