Page 12 of The Prince's Castaway Baby

Before I came out here, I was emailing with a scientist who was very interested in my photos, but she’s happy to wait until I get back before we talk more. I’ve got some great shots of sea turtles that I think she’s going to love.

It’s the thing I like most about this job, though — the isolation. Not having to deal with anyone or anything except myself. I know it would drive some people mad, but it’s perfect for me.

I’m just brightening some of the colors on a few of my exotic-plant pictures when Jens wakes up. I grimace as I hear his door open and shut again, then bare feet slapping against the wood, and the bathroom door creaking shut.

Hopefully he’s smart enough to look in the cupboard under the sink to see if there’s a spare toothbrush. If he uses mine, I might actually kill him.

I busy myself on my laptop, selecting a photo that needs a lot of work so I can look like I’m deep in thought when he comes in.

When Jens walks into the common space, he looks like a completely different man. His hair is greasy and sticking up at strange angles from where he slept. There are bags under his eyes like he’s been tossing and turning all night, and the robe that’s draped over his shoulders engulfs him. It’s easily three sizes too big, but it was the best we could find at short notice.

Fortunately, there’s a box of spare clothes in one of the closets, along with some basic provisions for doing laundry, so he should at least be able to find something that fits him for the next few days. And if he has to wear clothes that he thinks are ugly, so be it. He’ll have to live with it.

I certainly don’t want him to walk around naked.

That thought leads to an unwelcome one. One which asks what his body looks like underneath the baggy pajama top.

Judging from what I saw of his arms yesterday, I imagine he has a well-toned chest, lightly defined abs, a taut stomach. I imagine strong shoulders and even stronger thighs, perfect and beautiful just like the rest of him. I let my eyes run along the line of his jawbone for a second then shake my head to snap out of it.

“Good morning!” he says brightly.

“Morning,” I throw back, not really in the mood for a full conversation.

“How did you sleep?” he asks.

“Fine.” Then, figuring I should be polite, I add, “How didyousleep?

He shrugs. “I’ve had better. Glad to have a bed, though.” He saunters over to me and peers over my shoulder, making my skin prickle uncomfortably. “What are you doing?”

“Backing up photos. Editing them. Nothing complicated,” I say. He gives me a confused frown, and I sigh. “I told you already, didn’t I? I’m a photographer. I take pictures and videos of rare wildlife, and I try to persuade people to like my work enough for them to pay for it.”

“How did you fall into a gig like that?” he asks, coming around the sofa to sit down next to me.

I shrug. “It just kind of happened. You know how it is. You end up doing one job as a teenager, realize you’re pretty good at it, then get paid a massive grant in your last year of high school, go on a fully funded trip to Antarctica when you graduate, then spend a few years getting involved with scientists and researchers who want pretty pictures taken by someone who knows what they’re doing. And then suddenly you have enough saved up that you can go freelance.”

He nods along with what I’m saying like job hunting is fresh information to him. My curiosity sparks again. “What doyoudo? For work or… I don’t know, whatever.”

His face draws into a distant blank, giving absolutely nothing away. “Charity work, mostly,” he says like it’s boring information. “I spend a lot of time representing charities.”

“That’s nice,” I say weakly, doing my best to sound interested even though this is well outside my knowledge zone. “What sort of charities?”

“Oh, anywhere that needs me,” he says, picking at his battered fingernails. I bet he spends a fortune on them usually.

Clearly he doesn’t want to talk about himself anymore, even though I’m dying to know, so I change the subject. “How’s your arm doing?”

“Fine, I think. It barely even hurts now.”

“Good.”

A long silence passes between us.

I have no idea what to say to him next. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t really want him here. And he doesn’t seem to want to tell me anything either.

He could be a worse guest, I suppose. At least he’s polite enough to say thank you, and his puppy-dog enthusiasm, though too much for me, is genuine enough not to be irritating.

I also can’t help but notice his posture. He sits completely straight on the sofa, his shoulders pushed back, his chin lifted ever so slightly. It gives him an air of complete confidence and a superiority that isn’t smug, but isn’t quiet. This is a guy who is used to having some power, but tries his best not to exert it.

I can’t work him out at all.

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