Page 8 of Royal Catch
He continues walking straight to the queen. He must be sure of his place with the royal family because he bends to kiss her cheek and then faces us.
The women are eerily silent.
And then I see it—the similarities between Butler Phillip and the queen, same dark brown hair, same sharp cheekbones, though Phillip has striking aquamarine eyes and the queen’s eyes are hazel. This must be her son. Which would mean…holy royal fuckup!
The queen lifts a palm, gesturing toward him without being so rude as to point. “Crown Prince Gabriel will judge the competition with me. Good luck to you all!”
I send the imposter butler my best death glare. Why did he let me think he was a servant? Have I completely screwed up this thing for Polly? The way I spoke to him! I nearly cringe when my words come back to me. After he told me his name was Butler Phillip, I said:Just like Prince Phillip, the royal hottie! Much cooler than the heir to the throne. That guy, oh, man, I heard he’s a dud.
I called the crown prince of Villroy a dud! And he’s the judge of this competition!
Worse, I said he was a real stick-in-the-mudandhe needed to get over himself. Phillip is his brother. Obviously he was messing with me. Do haughty crown princes mess with princesses? Wait, he said he was Butler Phillip before I told him I had royal blood. What is his deal? He gets off on pretending to be a servant?
His haughty gaze rakes me from head to toe, and then he lifts one arrogant brow. That brow saysha-ha, now you know. Grovel before me.
I lift my chin. I don’t grovel.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a sexy smirk that enrages me. He’s enjoying his high horse.
I take a step forward, about to give him a piece of my mind when I remember I’m supposed to be pastel and pearl demure. I have a quick internal battle over how I can ream him without risking my cover. But then the queen says something to him, and he frowns. They both leave without a backward glance.
The princesses clear out too.
I rush back to my room to make arrangements back home. I can’t let my fear of future unemployed homelessness and spider-infested dungeons cloud my thinking. I must remain focused to win. And to show up Prince Gabriel the imposter butler!
Chapter Four
Anna
I take one step onto the beach in my leopard-print bikini and freeze, mortified by my complete miscalculation. No one is wearing a bikini, not even a one-piece. My cheeks burn as, one by one, the princesses turn to check me out.
Much tittering and whispering ensues. The other women are wearing capris, Bermuda shorts, fussy short-sleeved blouses with cap sleeves, tiny pearl buttons, ruffles and shit.
Giraffe meet petting zoo.
I force my legs to keep moving forward despite the whispers, despite the queen’s disapproving look, despite the beefy security guards flanking the queen, who I’m sure are checking me out through their shades. It’s not like I have time to run all the way back to the palace, change, and get back in time for the competition. I stifle a sigh. It’s a sunny June day, probably in the eighties. It’s like princesses don’t do casual. They don’t show much skin either. Everything is buttoned up to the neck, nothing sleeveless. I suddenly know why Anna was pushing the shawl on me earlier. There must be some kind of royal rule about not showing bare shoulders or boobage or something.
Whatever. I’m here to win.
I plant myself near the group, reach up to the clear blue sky, and stretch. Then I shake out my legs. I take solace in the fact that the leopard is my spirit animal, which is why it’s so heavily represented in my wardrobe. Leopards are strong, bold, and persistent.
I figure we must be doing this fishing thing the old-fashioned way because the only things on the beach—besides the other princesses and the queen with her security guards—are nets and large baskets. We’ll probably be swimming out to some fishing area and scooping up as many fish as we can with our nets. I’m not squeamish. I got this.
The queen is wearing her same dress with flats. Her four guards are in black T-shirts with black pants. These guys are stone-cold serious. Makes me want to flash them to see if I can make them break.
I approach one of the women, a princess who looks like an angel—her blond hair in a neat bun, big blue eyes, pert little nose. She’s standing apart from the herd. Maybe she doesn’t know the other women either. Maybe we could be friends or allies. “Hi, I’m Polly.”
She smiles demurely and really pulls it off. “I’m Marguerite.”
“Where are you from?”
“Alvilda.”
I’ve never heard of it, but Polly probably has. “Does Alvilda need riches?”
Her voice is soft and melodic. “Every kingdom must protect its legacy by any means necessary.”
“Yeah, but isn’t this a little crazy? A competition among royals? We’re above this kind of thing.”
