The home is modest by palace standards, a little over 4000 square feet with three bedrooms. It is, however, worth six million dollars because it sits on a private island off Key West and has private beach access. There’s only one dock on the island whereby incoming boats can ferry passengers, although there are several places a boat could pull into shallow waters and someone could walk right onto one of the private beaches.
As such, we’re using extra agents to stand post around the house and more to patrol the island’s perimeter to make sure no one tries to approach from the water. If they come in by dock, IDs are checked before they can come onto the island. While Sunset Key is a little slice of paradise where Camille can relax and have what might be considered a brief vacation, this is actually the most vulnerable place we’ve had her in so far.
On this last day here in the Florida Keys, Camille chooses to do something I find to be out of character. She actually sleeps late, which I’ve never seen her do, even on the morning of her horrible hangover following the wedding reception. At 9:00 a.m., I’m worried enough that I knock on her bedroom door to make sure she’s okay. I woke her from a sound sleep, and she’s actually apologetic for not being up earlier.
“I can’t believe I slept that late,” she says as she stares blearily at the clock. The sheet and blanket are pulled up to her chest, a good thing because I have no desire to see her in her pajamas again. Despite the fact that she was sick and vomiting the night of the reception, I did notice when I found her tangled up in the sheets on the floor that she was wearing silky short shorts and a matching top with spaghetti straps. It covered everything it should’ve been covering but was still sexy as fuck.
I assure Camille there’s no problem and urge her to go back to sleep. She declines, and half an hour later, she’s downstairs looking for a late breakfast. The house came stocked with enough food to last a week, even though we’re only staying for two days. She settles on a bowl of fruit and a cup of tea and then meanders out poolside where she stays for the rest of the day.
I give her space and stay indoors, but I can easily observe her through the sliding glass doors. Other agents roam the grounds, but we’re all unobtrusive. Camille seems to have needed this, and I’d bet $1000 that this might be one of only a handful of days in her entire life when she’s been able to relax completely and not have some duty associated with her royal title pulling at her.
For hours, she stays by the pool, not even sunbathing but relaxing on a chaise under a big umbrella that provides shade. Still, she wears a big floppy hat and sunglasses and looks Hollywood glam in a black one-piece bathing suit with a matching sarong around her hips. She naps and reads and sometimes just looks out over the ocean in contemplation. The entire time, she seems peaceful and happy, and it really brings home the fact that this is one hardworking princess who doesn’t get enough downtime.
Around 5:00 p.m., Camille comes into the house and announces she’s going to grab a shower. She also announces, “I’ll make dinner tonight. I was thinking of grilling some shrimp.”
I give her a skeptical look. “Do princesses know how to grill?”
She grins at me—see, no hard feelings about my refusal to kiss her—and says, “How hard can it be? You start the grill, you lay the shrimp on it.”
I shake my head at her. “You may be good at many things, Your Highness, but you should always leave the grilling to the men.”
She shoots me a mock glare. “Sexist.”
The princess then turns and marches up the stairs to the master suite to take her shower.
She actually might be able to cook. Hell, for all I know, she’s the grill master for the Bretarian palace. But until she goes to sleep tonight, I’m going to let her have one complete vacation day, so I get to work.
I’m actually pleased with myself at how things turn out. A quick Google search and I found an amazing recipe to marinate the shrimp—soy sauce, garlic, lime juice, and ginger. I skewered the shrimp and placed them over the hot grill, needing only a few minutes on each side. Prior to that, I’d whipped up a pineapple-jalapeño salsa—also thanks to Google—and had some asparagus on the grill alongside the shrimp.
It wasn’t a lot, but then again, Camille doesn’t eat like a horse. I do, so I added a double batch of shrimp for me.