Page 27 of The Wanted Prince

Laura stopped at a crosswalk and frowned down at my screen. “What are you looking at?”

“Socials,” I said, and tapped on my alerts so it wasn’t a lie. My breath caught at a headline. Laura craned to see.

“What?”

“They know we’re in Spain.” I held up my phone. “’ROYAL FUGITIVE SPOTTED IN SEVILLE.’”

“That’s miles from here.”

“Not far enough.”

“Then, let’s see this friend of yours, and we can move on.” Laura hit the gas a little too hard. We screeched through the crosswalk like a pair of bank robbers. I jerked my cap down and ducked my head.

“Head for the port,” I said. “I think, just a sec.” I pulled up Francisco’s Insta, and there he was. Sailing the high seas (docked, lol). #blessed #boatlife. “He’s on his yacht.”

Laura glanced at my phone. “He looks fine to me.”

“Because I betrayed him in love, not in business.”

Laura made a sound like she was stifling a laugh. But it wasn’t funny, what I’d done to Francisco. I hadn’t told Laura, because I just couldn’t. I couldn’t watch her expression change to match Father’s, that curl of disgust. Those hard, closed-off eyes. She couldn’t help but think less of me if she knew the details.

I half-hoped he’d have cast off and sailed out to sea, or his yacht would be hidden behind some bigger boat. Or it would’ve sunk, or been taken by pirates. But it was where Francisco’s post said it would be, there in its moorings, gleaming white. Laura whistled at the sight of it.

“It’s enormous.”

“You should stay out here,” I said. “Grab a drink.” I pointed at a café with a blue-and-white awning. Laura looked over, then shook her head.

“No way. Too public. I’m coming with you.”

I cast about for some other place Laura could wait. In the car, maybe. Down on the beach? She got out of the car, and I jumped out after her, tugging my cap down over my face.

“There’s tourists all over. Don’t you think?—”

“I think we should get ourselves on board that boat. And stop pulling your hat like that. You look like you’re hiding.”

“We are hiding, in case you’d forgotten.”

“But if we look like we’re hiding, that’s when?—”

“Excuse me?” A man in a crisp shirt had come out on deck. He peered down at us with prim disapproval. “This is a private dock. If you’re looking for rentals, it’s?—”

“We’re here for Francisco.”

The man frowned. “What was that?”

I tried again in a stage-whisper, trying to disguise my voice. “Francisco Rivera. Is he there, or is he not?”

“Alessandro? Is that you?”

I let out a sound that was half-squawk, half-shout, wholly undignified. Francisco laughed. Somehow, he’d managed to sneak up behind us. I cleared my throat, trying to salvage my composure.

“Where’d you come from?”

“My car. I forgot this.” He held up a bottle of wine. “More to the point, what are you doing here?”

“We came to see you.” I peered over his shoulder. Were those tourists watching us, or were they just sitting? I resisted the impulse to futz with my hat.

Francisco frowned at Laura. “Aren’t you Laura Cardona?”

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