Page 2 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

Gun or guns? I’m doing a poor job of taking my eyes off those biceps. “I’m just saying, your guns are going to be useless when otters storm Buckingham Palace and you call for muskrat backup.”

Not a smile from him. Not even a twitch of his lips. Tough crowd.

Unfortunately for him, I never back down from a challenge. I scoot over and steal the seat between us, inching closer to him. “So, bodyguard. Tell me more. Is it hard to stand outside the palace in a big hat and remain incredibly still? That would make me crazy. The being-still part, not the hat. That hats are pretty cool.”

Bodyguard tilts his pint to his lips. “Wrong guard. I detail the royal family. The prince, actually.”

He says it so damn casually, but my jaw nearly hits the floor. “The prince? As in future king of England, invisible man Prince Roland?”

“So they do talk about something other than pop stars in America.”

I nibble a crisp and shrug. “He’s rich, mysterious, and hot as hell. It’s kind of what we’re all about in America.”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say. His thick eyebrows crawl together, and he lets out a disgruntled noise against the rim of his drink. “Right.”

I bridge the gap between us with an offering of my hand.

“My name’s Rory, by the way,” I say. “Rory March. Twenty-four. Hailing from Michigan. I’m a travel vlogger—you know, like a blogger, but with videos? I’m also a Gryffindor and an Aquarius.”

Bodyguard sips the foam off his beer before he finally sets the glass down. “Ben Tolle.” Ben. Of course, his name is something like Ben. Strong, solid, simple name. When he shakes my hand, his palm feels ice-cold from his pint glass. “Ben Tolle from East End. Ravenclaw. Taurus.”

I retract my hand and roll my eyes dramatically. “Figures.”

The corner of his mouth twitches in a near-smile. It’s progress. He’s warming up to me, at least.

“Do you like working at the palace?” I ask, resting my chin in my palm.

“It’s a charmed life.” He nods. “The pay is good. So are the benefits. They put you up in the help’s quarters. There’s never a dull moment. The company can be a bit melodramatic, but they’re the British monarchs, so.”

“What about the prince?”

“What about him?”

“Well? What’s he like?”

Ben touches his upper lip with his tongue, and it sends a warm, tingling sensation through me. I decide that I like watching Ben think. I’m s

o starved for human conversation that I blurt out whatever is on my mind. He’s frugal with his words, picking each one carefully as though he’s been saving them up for a special occasion.

“He’s gracious,” Ben says. “Intelligent. Proud.”

“Is it true that he hasn’t left the palace since his father died?”

“Yes.”

“That was… what. Nine, ten years ago?”

“Ten years exactly, as of tomorrow.”

I whistle. “That’s a long time to be stuck in your house.”

Ben tilts his head. “It’s a big palace.”

“Still. What if he wants to see Monkey Hurricane?”

Ben stares at me for a long time. “What?”

“You know, Monkey Hurricane? The band?” I sing a couple lines from one of their latest releases. It’s badly out of tune. “Come run-away, run-away, we’ll bang-a-rang the sun-away, sun-away.”

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