My Royal Temptation. Riley Pine

mishaps. Better to have my hair down and unfettered than to attempt the whole conservative look only to wind up disheveled and unkempt. Because I much prefer kempt.

      X holds open the car door, and I enter to find a veritable feast waiting for me on a small table attached to the wall that separates the rear of the vehicle from the front. There’s a bowl of the reddest strawberries I’ve ever seen, a small basket of scones and a stainless-steel travel mug of what I assume is coffee.

      My eyes widen as I lower myself into my seat, and I glance at X before he closes the door. He offers me a small bow, and I blush, embarrassed at the royal treatment when my upbringing is probably more common than he can imagine.

      “Compliments of His Royal Highness, Prince Nikolai.”

      While I’m sure my fresh breakfast probably cost him no more than a few seconds of his time, a quick royal order via text, I can’t fight the warmth spreading through my veins that he thought of me at all.

      “Thank you, X,” I say with a smile I’m unable to suppress, and he nods before closing the door.

      I settle into the plush leather of my seat, pulling a napkin that’s folded in the shape of a swan from the table before me. A pang of guilt rests in my chest for whoever created this small masterpiece only to have me stain it with berry juice or dripped coffee. Yet I shake it out, a swan no more, and lay it across my lap as X pulls smoothly from the curb.

      I opted for pants today—a cropped black pair with a green silk blouse. And flats. I’d pretty much taken every precaution to avoid a repeat performance with the prince, and I smile smugly to myself at how easy it will be to keep my panties on today.

      I unlock the lid to the mug and breathe in the rich aroma, biting back a moan as I do. Whatever brand of coffee is in there, it’s miles above the quality of the espresso I buy on sale at the corner market.

      I knock on the window that separates me from X, and instead of him lowering it, his voice pipes through a speaker to my left.

      “Can I help you, Miss Kate?”

      I roll my eyes at his insistence on formality but decide not to give him a hard time.

      “It’s kind of lonely here,” I tell him. “Can we talk without the intercom?”

      I hear him clear his throat. “As you wish, Miss Kate.”

      The window lowers, and I pop a strawberry into my mouth before leaning toward the open space between us. But the expanse is too wide for my torso, and I end up falling to my knees, a dribble of berry juice on my chin. I wipe it clean and scoot the rest of the way to the window frame, leaning through it so X’s strong profile is in view.

      “Did you make the swan?” I ask.

      His eyes remain on the road as he replies. “No, Miss.”

      “Did you make the coffee?”

      “No, Miss.”

      “Would you like a strawberry?”

      At this I see the faintest tug on the corner of his mouth, and I decide that along with making sure I send Nikolai Lorentz down the aisle, I’m going to make X smile.

      “No, Miss,” he says, and my shoulders sag.

      I follow his eyes to the road ahead and realize we’re not headed in the direction of the palace. For a second my heart stutters in my chest.

      “Okay, you’re not going to ply me with strawberries and scones only to dump me in the river with a backpack full of stones, right?”

      Again that twitch of his lip, but it doesn’t go beyond that.

      “We are heading to the river,” he says. “But His Highness said nothing about a backpack.”

      I narrow my eyes even though he won’t look in my direction. Despite heading toward the body of water I’ve avoided most of my living years, I decide to trust my life is not in danger and slide back to my seat, this time bringing a warm blueberry scone with me. Seriously? How is it still warm?

      Just as I relax and bring the pastry to my lips, we roll to a stop. X, however, does not leave his seat. Before I can ask him if we’ve reached our destination, my door opens, and I see the prince—not in a rumpled dress shirt and tuxedo pants but in a fitted black T-shirt and dark washed jeans. I know what I said about not being a preteen fangirl, but holy hell. This man in the flesh is a vision to behold.

      He extends his arms wide as if he’s brought the world to my doorstep, and based on the breakfast alone, it feels like he has.

      “We can’t possibly be expected to work indoors on a day like today,” he says, his gray eyes shimmering silver in the sun.

      He offers me a hand, and I take it, grabbing the dossier with my other as he pulls me into the fresh morning air.

      “No,” I say, trying to convince myself that the smoldering heat in my core is from the coffee I leave behind in the car. “I guess we can’t.”