Zan: You, too. And truly, don’t waste another moment worrying about Nick and me. We’re on the same page.
Chapter Six
Alexandra
Nick and I are not on the same page.
Nick is, in fact, on my last nerve.
It turns out he’s a bossier boss than I expected—at least with me.
Refuses to let me bring my sidearm, insists on going over our cover story so many times I could recite it backward in my sleep, and this afternoon, he barged into my guest room at the Gallantian palace to steal my suitcase, insisting he has “a better eye for island wear,” and that I shouldn’t worry about picking out my own clothes for the trip since fashion clearly “isn’t my forte.”
Apparently, my soon-to-be fake-boyfriend thinks I’m a shitty dresser.
But so what?
I do not and never will care about fashion.
That’s Lizzy’s thing and, to a lesser extent, Sabrina’s. I was the triplet most likely to shred her clothes zipping through the Marine-inspired obstacle course I built by the vegetable patch or stain her dress crawling through the grass to spy on my nanny while she was on the phone with her boyfriend.
I do, however, care that I’ll be walking into an enclave of well-armed criminals without a gun. Nine times out of ten, I’m able to escape conflict using my wits or martial arts skills, but Stefano’s men are always packing.
Always.
If our cover is blown, the chances that we’ll end up under fire are better than good.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m suffering from serious pre-mission jitters. I don’t like Nick calling the shots. I don’t like that someone with less experience is steering this ship, and I really don’t like that I’m going to be sharing a bed with that man for a week and a half.
Mostly because the stupid tingling nonsense isn’t improving with prolonged exposure.
If anything, it’s getting worse.
But I’m not going to let Blaire or Neville or anyone else—especially Nick— know that. I’m going to prove to the higher-ups that I can work well with others in an intimate setting, I’ll land the promotion to Southwest Regional Director, and I’ll move forward in my career without Nickolas Von Bergen casting his smug, entitled shadow all over it.
All I have to do is play nice for two more weeks.
I can do anything for two weeks. And once we board the Von Bergen’s private jet the day after tomorrow, “anything” will no longer include my insane parents, our exuberant siblings, or the paparazzi stalking our every move.
Our visit to the veteran’s home yesterday—a trip estimated at an hour, tops—clocked in at nearly four. We were ambushed by reporters on our way out and forced to pose for pictures in front of the outdoor Christmas tree while answering an endless barrage of inane questions. By the time we finally loaded into our caravan of black SUVs to head back to the castle, my feet were so frozen I vowed never to leave my room in heels again.
The extra inches aren’t worth losing a toe to frostbite.
The torture continued this morning over a ceremonial Christmas Eve breakfast, during which the press was invited to the castle to snap photos of the royal family dining with the recipients of this year’s Extraordinary Community Service Awards. Afterward, we spent hours handing out presents to needy children bussed in for a cookie-making party.
I respect people who give back to their communities, and all children—especially the needy ones—deserve a bright and festive holiday, but I hate the spotlight. I always have, long before my cousin Beatrice was mortified in the tabloids for her many romantic mistakes, or Sabrina was called a “lying hussy” for tricking Andrew into thinking she was Lizzy when they first re-met. It’s the reason I pestered my parents to send me to boarding school when I was barely out of diapers. I did nothing to deserve all this attention, and I’d rather be invisible than rewarded for nothing more than the circumstances of my birth.
Though, honestly, the “rewards” of being royal often feel like punishments.
Like now, for instance…
I would never choose to sing in public, not even to celebrate the merriest night of the year.
“Am I mad, or were you just mouthing the words to ‘Joy to the World’?” Nick asks as we tromp through the lightly falling snow to the next mansion on the historic city block, trailed by photographers and royal security and a crowd of curious onlookers who are unfortunately not joining in the caroling.
If they did, it would be easier to hide the fact that my voice isn’t raised in song.
“I can’t speak to your mental state,” I mutter, “but yes.”
“Why? Don’t you want to wish the world a joyful Christmas Eve?”
“The world is happier without my voice in it. Believe me.”
Sabrina stops beneath a sprig of mistletoe tied to an antique lamppost, and I hang back as Andrew goes in for a kiss that has every camera in the vicinity flashing and the crowd cooing with approval.