Page 5 of Guarding the Princess
Nora:The Queen requests travel dates immediately. Once I have those available dates, I will charter the jet for you.
I roll my eyes and put the phone back in my pocket. Reaching for my muffin, I see Charlotte back behind the counter taking new orders, oblivious to the scheming going on with her family. Nora can wait. Our contract said I had three more weeks before they wanted Charlotte back in Regora. I’m sure we could wait a little and still get the royal jet booked for their precious princess.
Despite the sweet and soft deliciousness in my mouth right now, I feel a pang of guilt for making arrangements for Charlotte to go back home, knowing she doesn’t want to go, all while she has no idea I’ve been following her or instructed to make her get on that plane next month even if it requires cuffing her to my wrist.
My phone dings in my pocket and I pull it back out, already formulating a strongly worded response to Nora in my head. How can I be guarding the princess when all I’m doing is responding to her texts all day long? But the interruption isn’t who I think. It’s my very own nagger in the form of family: my mom.
Mom:Call your brother. He says he hasn’t talked to you in weeks. He’s getting some sort of an award. Would be nice to see my two sons in one place…
Mothers. They possess the ability to send you on a guilt trip with just a few short sentences. I slide my phone back in my pocket again and eat my feelings. Who am I kidding? I just like to eat. Constantly.
The first muffin is gone in two bites. I jam the second muffin in my mouth and try to focus back on work. Plenty of time to deal with my family when I’m off duty. I need to come up with a plan for getting Charlotte on that plane without her freaking out. Ever since I heard what she told Zeke last night over dinner, I haven’t been able to stop my brain from spinning. I had no idea I was bringing her back to force her to marry some family-approved prince and strong-arm her into taking the throne. I’d had no idea she didn’t want that, desiring a different life altogether.
Charlotte breezes right by me before stopping in her tracks and freezing. I feel a tingle run up the back of my neck like it always does when danger is near. I mightily regret the mouthful of muffin as I try to chew it down and swallow it so I might leap into action to protect the princess.
Charlotte spins around, pinning me to my chair with her angry blue gaze. She stomps over, her face set in stone. She’s never made eye contact with me before. She leans down by my ear and I forget to breathe.
“I’m going to the bathroom next. You gonna follow me in there too?” She spits the words at me, the accent no longer melodic. More like an angry Julie Andrews, the sharp edge of every word slashing my skin.
I choke, the surprise of her words, her knowing I’m following her, and the ridiculous muffin conspiring so I handle the situation poorly.
The flowery scent of her perfume wafts over me, a counterpoint to the bad attitude pouring off her in waves. I’m not sure if that nasty lady spit on Charlotte’s muffin, prompting this attack, but I clearly need to get ahold of the situation.
Operation Protect Charlotte Without Her Knowing is officially dead.
And I might be too based on the way her eyes are flashing.
3
Charlotte
The bodyguard sat there chewing his muffin—or third muffin, I’d lost count of his gluttony—pretending to be a regular patron enjoying his breakfast. His facial expression didn’t even change, just that cool, calm, calculating look, which fueled the anger swelling in my belly. Mother always did say I had a temper.
“M’forry, wat?” he says around a mouthful of food.
The guy is as handsome as I’ve ever seen, but even that level of good looks couldn’t cover for his bad manners. I mean, the intensity of his light blue-gray eyes and the thick dark hair is lovely, but I don’t have time to fawn over such things.
I frown at him, probably much like my mother when I was a misbehaving child. “Why don’t you finish your muffin and then you can tell me all about how you’re not following me nor how you could possibly work for my mother, during which I’ll stand here and nod, knowing you’re full of BS.”
He thumps his chest with his fist and swallows, the top of his sharp cheekbones showing some color, the only outward sign he’s flustered. He looks like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, the dark stubble beginning to hide a face that should never be hidden. Strong jawline, beefy muscles you tend to find with bodyguards, but he isn’t so huge you’d automatically pin him for a security guard. He looks like he could move quickly if he needed to.
Not that I’d ever ask him for help.
I’ve had my fill of personal security, having had a bodyguard my entire childhood. Do you know what it’s like to invite big burly men in suits to sit at your tea party instead of stuffed animals like a regular kid? Or how about trying to kiss your first boy, but only after successfully shaking off the overzealous bodyguard who’s been trained to stick to you like glue? Or more recently, a bodyguard witnessing your marriage proposal being turned down by a guy with spaghetti sauce on his chin? So pardon me if I was a little sick and tired of having someone always watching me, always observing, and always being in the way.
He clears his throat and finally speaks. “I’m sorry. My mouth was full of these delicious muffins. I appreciate the offer but I can wait for you out here.” He smiles at me and it makes my blood boil.
In the back of my head, I’m aware of his American accent, but my temper barrels on, annoyed by his mere presence.
“How about we cut the crap and acknowledge that you’ve been sent here to watch me. Saves us both the effort of pretending to ignore the other person, don’t you think?” I fold my arms, feeling like I need to appear bigger and stronger than I feel most days.
He shrugs nonchalantly, his massive shoulders straining his polo shirt. “Sure. I needed to introduce myself to you soon enough anyway.”
I squint at him, my anger paused. “Why?”
His gaze darts away, a clear sign he’s about to lie to me. He picks at the remaining muffin on his plate. “Want to have a seat or are you just going to stand there looking all enraged?”
“Actually I need to get back into the kitchen and make another batch of blueberry muffins. Someone ate them all.” I hook a thumb over my shoulder innocently. When he lifts his head, guilt is written all over his face, along with that line of color on his cheeks that dials down the testosterone a degree or two to normal macho man levels.
