Page 13 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I press my thumbs into the otter’s chest and spread his arms out. “My brother, Oscar, he’s four years older than me. He’s my best friend.” I roll my words over on my tongue. This part is always hard to get out. “He was born with cystic fibrosis. It’s terminal. Incurable. He’s been sick my whole life, but… a couple years ago, it got really bad.”

I toy with the otter, rubbing his ears. “I had just graduated college, so I took care of him for the better part of a year. Then, one morning, he turns me to and tells me that he doesn’t want me to watch him die. He wants to watch me live. He always wanted to travel, so I bought a one-way ticket out of Michigan. I started a travel vlog… March On! How to travel the world on a budget. It picked up traction—people even send me donations sometimes, and they go straight to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.”

I hand my otter over to Roland so he can look at it. “When I was little, I couldn’t say Oscar. It just sounded like otter. It became a thing between us and… when I carry this little guy around with me, it feels like Oscar is right here with me. Like he’s seeing all this, too.”

I rarely let my precious otter leave my side, but he’s safe in Roland’s hands. He handles the otter gently, reverently, in his big hands. “Your brother sounds like a remarkable man,” Roland says.

My chest swells with pride. “He is.”

Roland’s blue eyes pierce me through to my core. “I would love to tell him as much myself. How does your vlog work?”

My heart skips a beat, and my jaw nearly falls to the floor. “You… want to be on my vlog?”

“If that’s okay. I have someone who handles all my social media… I must admit, I haven’t the faintest idea how this works.”

I breathe a laugh. He’s so humble and charming it nearly sends me into a tailspin. I drag my fingers through my hair to pull myself together and then fish my phone out of my pocket. “Yeah… uh… it’s really easy. Okay.”

This is actually happening. Stay cool, Rory.

The prince of England sits patiently as my fingers swipe over my phone’s screen until I get to the video recorder. “This goes live to my blog once it starts recording,” I explain. “So just tell me when you’re ready.”

“How do I look?” He smiles.

Good enough to eat up, I want to tell him.

Instead, I say, “Perfect.”

He taps his thigh. “Come here. I want you in the shot, too.”

I mean, that’s an offer I can’t refuse. I perch on Roland’s lap, and he winds an arm around my middle to keep me to him. Good luck, me, keeping my hands from trembling. I can feel the prince’s breath on the back of my neck. I turn the camera’s lens so I can see the both of us fitted into the screen.

“Ready?” I ask.

“Always.”

I hit the red Record button at the bottom. Instantly, we’re live.

“Hello, March On family!” I say. I couldn’t fake a smile this big. “This is Rory March, checking in from the one and only Buckingham Palace. Tip top, Cheerio! Did I say that right—is that something you Brits say?”

Roland grimaces playfully and shakes his head.

“As you can see, I’ve got a very special guest with me… an incredible, can’t-believe-he’s-doing-this-with-me special guest…”

“Cheerio,” Roland says and lifts a hand in a wave. “For the Yanks who don’t know me… I’m Prince Roland Pennington. I have a message just for Oscar March. Rory told me your story, and you’re an incredibly brave, strong man and a damned good brother. Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of your troublemaking little sister here for as long as she decides to bless the UK with her presence. I hope I get to see you in person one day, mate. Keep fighting the good fight.” He points a finger at the screen. “And to everyone else watching, go make a donation to the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation if you can. I know I will.”

“There you have it. From the mouth of royals.” I salute my audience. “Rory March, March On!”

I hit the button at the bottom of my screen to stop recording and set the phone down on the side table.

“I think that went well,” Roland says casually.

My face burns and I can feel the backs of my eyeballs prickle with unspent tears. I’m so overcome with gratitude that I can’t speak, not right away.

Roland notices and asks, “Are you all right?”

When I turn to him, I can barely keep it together. “You’re incredible,” I tell him, and my voice trembles when it does. I’m touched. Sincerely, genuinely touched.

Roland’s expression turns serious. He cups the side of my face, and I don’t realize that a tear has spilled until his thumb is there to catch it and brush it away. “I’m not,” he says. “You, on the other hand. You’re remarkable, Rory.”

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