Page 6 of Princessa
I swiped the back of my neck since my encounter with Studmuffin caused me to work up a sweat. “I’m normally—”
“Less smitten?” Emma snorted.
“More professional,” I corrected, wishing for more of her ridiculous Alpaca Talk instead of remarks about my temporary case of swoontanity.
“No worries, Ms. Royale. Besides, rumor has it Prince Grayson of Andorra is the Master of Swoon.”
“I’m sorry, Prince who of what?”
“Prince Grayson of Andorra.” The annoying duh-like inflection in her voice made my blood begin to simmer. “At least I think it was him, maybe it wasn’t. Anyway…” she added, trailing off long enough for us to hop off the elevator before she went on gifting me a lengthy, Prince Whoever info dump. My brain captured only what mattered most to me:
Thirty-five. Single. Haughty. Playboy.
The latter no doubt had me looking like an eye-roll emoji. Seriously, were all single male members of royalty skirt-chasing playboys?
“…according to Royal Buzz, my favorite gossip magazine in the world,” she continued as we walked into my office, “the prince has been missing for the last two weeks.”
Of course.
Planning a wedding, tigers, and now a supposedly missing man-of-steel-playboy prince.
My first week at Royale Resort France and there I was, knees deep into that something different I’d so badly craved.
#BeCarefulWhatYouWishFor.
