“Th-thank you,” I stammer to the man in the black suit as he takes my suitcase, but I’m drowned out by the blades still whirling above the copter.
Good. I won’t have to talk to Andrew for a while, maybe not until we land in Baden Bergen. That should give me plenty of time to stare out the window and concentrate on channeling my inner Lizzy.
“I thought I’d surprise you!” Andrew booms as he reaches my side. Even his voice is richer and more magnificent than the universe should allow.
I grit my teeth and pray it looks like a grin as I give him two thumbs-up. Yay. Super exciting. So glad to see you, Douche-noggin. What a delightful surprise.
His brows rise ever so slightly, making me fear that my thoughts are showing on my face—or worse, that in my sleep-deprived state, I said aloud what I was thinking—but a beat later, he pulls me in for a hug.
One second, I’m itchy and uncomfortable in my borrowed clothes; the next, I’m pressed against a broad, warm, powerful body that feels…delicious.
Andrew’s arms go around me, his fingers finding the knotted muscles between my shoulders and rubbing gently, as if we’ve been intimate for years and he knows exactly where I hold stress when I’m nervous. His spicy, masculine scent floods my senses, making my mouth water as he murmurs directly into my ear. “You look beautiful, Elizabeth.”
And damn me to the seventh circle of hell, I almost correct him.
I almost say, “Sabrina.”
I almost ruin the entire game ten seconds into the ruse because being this close to Andrew makes my head spin and my body sizzle.
Sizzle! I am sizzling for a man I hate. A man who is engaged to marry my sister!
A man I must never kiss or entertain in any romantic way. Not only would it violate my moral integrity, but I’d never be able to look Lizzy in the eye without being overwhelmed with guilt.
My sister doesn’t love Andrew, she doesn’t even like him, but the fact remains that in thirty short days, he will be her husband. And eventually, they will probably sleep together—to provide Gallantia with heirs if nothing else. And if my lips ever touch the same lips Lizzy’s will touch, I will never live it down, even if I’m the only one who knows the truth.
Shamed into action, I catapult out of Andrew’s arms, stumbling backward so fast I trip in Lizzy’s high heels and go down hard. My tailbone makes bruising contact with the tarmac as I spill onto the ground at Andrew’s feet.
A pitying expression fleets across his features—there and gone again so quickly I could have missed it if I so much as glanced away—and then he’s smiling as he reaches down to help me up.
“There now, are you all right?” he shouts in a lovely British accent as he gathers me off the ground by my elbows. He was taught English by expensive tutors from the UK, not by an American nanny from Wisconsin, who left me making strange “o” sounds until another nanny—this one from California—straightened me out again.
Andrew would pity me even more if he knew.
Pity…
It had been so clear on his face. He feels sorry for my shy, awkward sister—for me, a usually composed person who has suddenly become a self-conscious spaz in his presence. Feeling his fingers curled around my upper arms is enough to make my hormones go haywire all over again, and I hate myself for it.
How can this be happening?
How?!
I’ve never melted into a lust puddle at first sight for anyone, and I’ve met my fair share of sexy, magnetic men. The ski slopes surrounding our village summon lovely specimens right to our doorstep every winter. After Thor broke my heart into sad, soggy gingerbread-house pieces two Christmases ago, I spent the rest of the ski season numbing my pain with Sven.
And Leo.
And Baxter.
And Cane, who was also from Gallantia and in complete agreement that Prince Andrew is a poser-loser of the highest order. I’m pretty sure we wished Andrew a raging case of ass sores and drank to it, in fact, but we’d already had a lot of mead by then, so I can’t be sure.
Traditional Gallantian mead is serious stuff.
I should ask if Andrew has any on the helicopter. I can drink myself into a stupor and wake up so hungover I won’t find anyone or anything attractive.
No, you’re going to stay sober and pay attention, Sabrina. The best way to get over this insanity is to remember who this man is. He may look pretty and give great hugs and do a decent job of gallantly scooping fallen damsels off the ground, but at his core, he’s a self-centered turd nugget who thinks he’s too good for Lizzy.
And no one is too good for Lizzy.