Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
The monarchy isn’t my thing, and I was too young to remember the scandal when Alistair was born. However, I do know the basics of the story due to Mom. She loves a good scandal.
Lady Helena was a staple of the London scene in the eighties. A socialite who worked as model and muse for a major fashion label, she dominated the social pages and gossip columns for years. And she was often seen in the company of a certain bachelor prince. Then one day she disappeared. Of course, the rumors flew. But nothing was known about her or her secret baby, not for a long time.
Over a decade later, an anonymous tip to the gossip rags turned her and her child’s world upside down. Suddenly everyone knew the now happily married heir to the throne had an illegitimate son. Public interest in the story was intense. The British press hounded them day and night. That’s when Alistair and his mother left her family estate in Scotland and escaped to America.
How fucking awful. No wonder the man has issues.
The more recent information about him isn’t as clear. After college, he served for two years as a marine before being wounded in combat. Guess he became an American citizen at some point. But after he was discharged, he and some friends formed a tech company. They’re involved in game development and have apparently been successful.
He’s dated a wide variety of women. Both famous and not. It seems his father disapproved of each and every one to varying degrees. Though little is known about their actual relationship. The king has never publicly discussed him. Never confirmed that Alistair is his son. But the rest of the world has plenty to say on the subject.
There are dozens of photos of Alistair at parties and events with lots of beautiful people. He’s even smiling occasionally. Some of the pictures are him striding about looking serious, taken by paparazzi as he was just going about his life. And then there’s the selection of shots taken with long-range lenses. Such as him in his bathing suit on a beach or relaxing on a hotel balcony with a drink. He is, of course, disgustingly handsome in all of them. Shame on him.
None of this offers any clues to why he’s spending time with me. Not to be hard on myself, but I am an anomaly in this picture. When it comes to Alistair, I think Good Witch Willow was wrong. Which is both good and bad. Good that I might live past Sunday. Bad that I won’t get the boy. Not that I ever really thought I would. Guys like him don’t choose girls like me. It is a fact of life.
There have been no further news items in the Daria Moore situation. Guess they’re waiting for someone more famous to do something newsworthy. The gossip sites are mostly regurgitating yesterday’s articles and shots about us, along with a few new theories about who the mystery woman might be. One article claims we’ve eloped to the Caribbean. Another posits that Daria is pregnant. They all declare that the king is furious at Alistair for his reckless bachelor ways. Again. Stress would have done the king in years ago if he actually did all the raging about the palace that the media claim.
By the time three o’clock approaches, I am ready to roll in gray plaid high-waist trousers with a pair of flat black booties and a fitted pale blue tee. My hair is tied back in a low ponytail and my makeup is immaculate. Definite main-character energy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ali.
Outside.
I reply: Coming.
I grab my sunglasses and purse and head out. There’s a humming in my blood. A mixture of nerves and the sensation you get when you just know something is going to be good. And Alistair does not disappoint. I doubt he even knows how to. A beyond beautiful shiny black convertible with a white leather interior is parked at the curb. He leans against it like he’s in a movie, and the whole scene makes my heart beat faster. But I’m sure that’s just because he’s making a dream come true. Growing actual feelings for this man would be a bad idea. I might die in six days; I don’t have time for a crush on Prince Charming.
When he sees me walking down the cracked concrete pathway, he gives me a brief smile. As if his happiness is only meted out in small doses. “Got your scarf?”
“Yes, I do,” I say with a giddy smile. There will come a day when his accent will no longer thrill me. When I will learn to gird my loins against him. Today, however, is not that day. “Nice car.”
“Ferrari GTO California Spyder Revival.” He opens the passenger-side door for me. “Glad you approve.”