Page 42 of The Royal's Pet: A MMF Ménage Royal Romance

I have to admit, I didn’t quite understand the gravity of being with a royal until now. The way people flock to Roland… that was expected. But me? I’m no one. I’ve been on my own for so long, I can’t remember the last time someone told me what to do or where to be. Roland is chauffeured, kept at a distance, and gently coddled, as though he’s a carton of eleven eggs and one unpinned grenade.

There’s a nagging unease gnawing at in the pit of my stomach as I turn my attention out the window. The coastal town whisks by, each house more colorful than the last, like seashells swept out with the tide.

Unsurprisingly, the Pennington Estate is picturesque. The “Villa Leon d’Oro,” as Roland corrected me, is styled to be part Moorish, part Venetian, which gives it a Gothic, old castle feel. It sits at the very edge of a sheer cliff face and looks like it could topple down at any moment. The villa remains sturdy, proud, and it’s not until we get closer, winding up and down the curving cliff side, do I see the imperfections. The white paint has chipped and cracked, no doubt battered by the seaside storms. Bits of tree and foliage have overgrown around the sides, bursting out at odd angles. It strikes me then that Roland isn’t the only one who hasn’t been here in ten years—no one has so much as touched this place since the royal family tragedy.

The driver drops us outside the front. I come face-to-face with a black iron gate with a lion’s head twisted in the metal, propped up between two white columns.

“Home sweet home,” Roland says, his tone saccharine as he climbs out of the town car and shuts the door soundly behind him.

The lion imagery doesn’t stop there. Once we’re through the gate, I spot twin stone lions lounging on either side of the entrance. They’re decrepit now, and one even seems to be missing an ear.

Roland scales the steps in twos, unlocks it, and throws open the double doors. Particles of dust blow upward when he drops his bags.

“It hasn’t had any upkeep in a while,” Roland adds as a side note. “So pardon the dust. Literally.”

“I’ll have a maid come by,” Ben says, already on his phone.

“We can fix it ourselves,” I murmur. “It just needs a little loving.”

I step inside and look around in awe. The curtains are pulled as though the house is in mourning, and the sunlight from outside leaves bleary yellow splotches against the fabric. A white marble staircase winds up to the second floor. The den is a patchwork of old lounge chairs, landscape paintings, and antique vases. A beautiful decorative rug depicting Dionysus’s followers hand-feeding him grapes from the vine takes up an entire wall.

There’s something incredibly romantic about an extravagant villa abandoned by time. I can’t help but fall in love with it.

“There’s a pool outside, if my memory serves me right,” Roland says. “I say we break open a bottle of limoncello and start there.”

“Rory.” I’m so into exploring the house that Ben’s hand on my arm startles me. When I turn, he holds out a phone for me to take. “A gift for you. It’s prepaid. From the palace. Perks of being a principessa.”

I take the phone and turn it on. Already charged and everything. Leave Ben to think of every detail. “This is… a lifesaver. Thank you.”

Ben adds with emphasis, “You can call anyone. Internationally.”

Immediately, the realization hits. Oscar. I’ve emailed him back and forth, of course, but I haven’t been able to speak to him in months. The thought of hearing his voice makes my throat nearly close up with emotion. I yelp and swing my arms around Ben’s neck, yanking him down from his annoyingly tall frame to hug him. “Thank you, thank you!”

He grunts and gently peels me off before nodding to the sliding glass doors. “There’s a closed patio out that way. You can get some privacy there.”

I plant a noisy kiss to the side of his face and then bound off through the sliding doors. As promised, it opens up to a flat pool outlined with stones. The pool doesn’t look as bad as the rest of the place, and I wonder if the locals haven’t been dipping their toes in it while the royal family is away. Dead leaves cover the floor, and I crunch over them to get to the low, pale stone terrace.

Down below me, shimmering blue water crashes against the cliff. To my left, I can see the town of Sorrento tucked away. To my right, the sun starts to set.

I pull out my new phone and dial Oscar’s number. It’s one of the numbers I still know by heart. It takes a couple of rings, my heart pounding in my throat with each one, before I hear his voice.

“’Lo?”

It’s him! I try not to scream with joy. My hand flies to my mouth to stifle my laugh. I give him our standard greeting: “Bonjovi, Otter.”

There’s a moment of hush from his end before he says, almost tentatively, “Ror? Holy shit—is that you?”

“Yeah… it’s me.” The Italian coastline shimmers in my vision as happy tears brim my eyes. “I miss you.”

“Don’t get all blubbery on me yet. Say something funny.”

His voice sounds deeper than I remember it, but there’s something else, too. He’s a little raspy, and I can hear a low, rattling sound every time he breathes. I sniff. “What do you call an airplane that flies the prince of England?”

“What?”

“An heircraft.”

“That’s stupid. You’re stupid.”

---