Page 4 of Princessa
Chapter 4
“There’s no way I’m going back,” I seethed into my cell phone, peering out the window at tourists speckled on the beach. “Not until my eighteenth-century-minded parents come to their fucking senses.”
“It’s not their way of thinking…per se,” insisted Gaspard, The Royal Family Publicist—also known as Pain In the Ass. “It’s just…the way things have always been done, Your Highness.”
Your. Highness.
Two simple words that made my jaw tick, my whole face heat—especially when delivered with such condescending force. It was a title I detested. Always had. Probably always will.
“Betrothal is as archaic as a public pay phone—there’s no use for it anymore.” I yanked the velvet curtains closed, then plopped my flustered ass down onto a high-back chair beside the window, cell phone still pressed to my ear even though my index finger was intent on tapping end call. “In fact, thanks to something known to most of us as modern-day technology, I can totally use my smart-as-fuck cell phone to find a potential bride to date—one with whom I may actually fall madly in love with before she waltzes down the aisle to the tune of the Wedding March.” I sneered, knowing the sarcastic tone that escorted my curved-up lip would likely break Pain In the Ass’s stoic composure. “I hear that OKCupid phone app has a reputable, five-star-rated track record.”
Gaspard let out a growl that I’m pretty sure was heard across the universe.There we go, composure broken, prepare for incoming rant…
“You,sir, are the Crowned Prince Grayson Matteo Cardona of Andorra, for goodness sake, and with that title comes responsibilities.” I guessed by the way the words were enunciated, his campy, British-accented proclamation was delivered through a set of gritted teeth. His free hand, unless that end of the call was being held on speakerphone, was likely clenched into a fist—perhaps his ass cheeks were clenched too.
“Newsflash: I fucking hate being a prince,” I snapped back, wishing my life really was as high and royally mighty as it seemed. Being a prince shouldn’t have come with an outdated requirement to be wed by a certain age. It was an old way of thinking that someone who had ballsy defiance—namely me—needed to rectify.
“Oh, boo the bloody hell hoo.” Gaspard’s scoff was undoubtedly accompanied by one of his patronizing eye rolls. The two of us had never been on good terms. Clashed personalities. Differences of opinion. I’d tried to fire him at least forty-seven times, yet, for whatever reason, my inflexible parents—King Matteo and Queen Isadora—insisted we keep him on as a bonafide member of the royal staff. “You’ve never appreciated what your title means which—by the way, Prince Casanova—is far greater than using it as a golden ticket to get women to stop, drop, and roll around in the sack with you. Quite frankly,” he dragged on, “if you’d spent less time breaking hearts, you wouldn’t be in this predicament.” A lengthy pause took hold of the moment, and I thanked the stars above he was finally done scolding me. Until, of course, Pain In the Ass continued barking, “It’s time you grow up,Your Highness. Do what a prince is supposed to be doing. Walk down the royal aisle with your betrothed and prepare to take the throne. Prince William and Prince Harry are the epitome of royalty. Follow their lead.”
Comparing me to William and Harry was like beating a dead horse. Indeed, the two of them had their fill of publicized glory days. And, for the record, I wasn’t the Casanova he called me out to be. Sure, over the years, I’d had my fair share of female bed companions, but for fuck’s sake: a brooding beau with a healthy sex drive did not a playboy make. “William and Harry weren’t betrothed to women they didn’t love; even that royal monarchy has moved well past the olden days.”
In all seriousness, the fact those two princes married commoners instead of noble brats, was a giant leap for royal-mankind. Moreover, it wasn’t like I was hellbent onnotgetting married despite all of the,he’s a commitment-phobe, rumors that whirled around Andorra like a menacing cyclone. The fundamental essence of meeting and falling head over heels with my one and only meant-to-be fascinated me. Problem was—and I know this shit had been said countless times before by privileged gents like myself—I’d yet to come across a woman, that one divine woman, who made my heart bounce, who measured up to my idea, my expectation, of a perfect wife. Being inducted, whether by birth or marriage, to my royal family, wasn’t about a title. Anyone could wake up a prince or a princess. The way I viewed a royal appellation—well, it was about the everyday things a person did that forever set them apart from everyone else. All the women I’d met, albeit sexy as all hell, were shallow and one-track-minded. Every single one of them was after something, other than my heart; they figured marriage to me would afford them the Andorra Throne and the posh lifestyle that accompanied it.
“Look, Prince Grayson.” He sighed, triggering me to sit back in my chair and mentally gear up for the impending, blah-blah-blah rhetoric bullshit I knew was coming. “Earlier this month you turned thirty-five and, as you already know, Andorra Rule dictates you’re required to be wed by now or before age thirty-six. Don’t you think two weeks is a long enough period for this disappearing act of yours? Sooner or later we’ll find you and, when we do, you’ll have no choice but to participate in theCompromísGala, where you’ll announce, to all of Andorra, the woman you’re set to marry. So, Your Highness, why not stop playing Houdini? Please…just tell me where you are.” His tone went all Sour Patch Kid, switching from sour to sweet. Still, it wasn’t enough for me to give in, tell him where I’d been for the last two weeks, laying low like a fugitive from my own life.
Before tapping end call, I spat out the first thing that sprang to mind—“Bite me”—then pitched my phone a hundred yards into the air. Lucky for me, the poor thing didn’t break apart as it thumped onto the plush, carpeted floor of my lavish suite at Royale Resort France.
