All I Ask Read online

  I’m past that point.

  Or perhaps Jacques’ family and kingdom have promised money. That must be it. If they marry me off, they won’t have to pay for a royal allowance and they’ll get some financial benefit for the country.

  Lovely.

  Father blinks, nervous, like he always does when Mother and I go at it. In the end, he always sides with her.

  The article had been spot-on about one thing: pleasing my parents was my only priority until recently.

  And somehow, despite my best efforts, I’ve failed spectacularly.

  Mother says to Father in a purr, “Love, we have the conference call with Buckingham Palace in an hour. We must meet with the staff to prepare. Come.”

  “Of course, my Queen.”

  Father stands and shoots me a conspiratorial smile. I’m sure he thinks it’s a sympathetic gesture, as if to say you know I have to go along with the Queen because she’s really in charge of this whole bloody show, but it comes off as simpering. He squeezes my shoulder. “You will be so busy once you are a wife, you will hardly pay attention to him. And I am certain that the King will curtail Jacques’ activities once the wedding is announced.”

  I imagine spontaneously combusting from sheer rage, lighting our palace on fire, and destroying everything with the flames. Including my parents.

  Jesus, I’m in a stabby mood today. I should’ve stayed in Southeast Asia.

  With his rigid royal stance, Father formally offers Mother his arm. They walk out, spines straight as arrows, heads held high, heartbreakingly beautiful and glamorous as always. Their ugliness is on display only for me.

  I slump in the high-backed baroque chair and scrub my face with my hands. My half-eaten scrambled eggs are cold and gelatinous on my plate, and the untouched bacon is too greasy for my churning stomach.

  It’s easy for Mother and Father to retain their dignity. They’re not set to marry the world’s richest, nastiest, most arrogant royal prince.

  As teens, we liked each other enough to accept our fate. Then, while in college in London, he started to run with a wealthy, fast crowd. I went to school in the United States, and my mind expanded.

  Jacques descended into a parody of a bad boy, fighting, sport-fishing, and fucking his way around the Mediterranean party circuit like a semi-literate Hemingway.

  He represents everything I despise about the world of royalty and the uber-wealthy.

  In a fit of anger, I grab the newspaper and peel it apart, tearing each page furiously, knowing I look like a petulant, frustrated five-year-old.

  Because that’s how they’re treating me. I’m a grown woman, one who was a candidate for a major environmental prize because of my charity work. My parents never even congratulated me on the award.

  I stifle a sob.

  The plain princess.

  Sure, I’m not glamorous, and my fashion tastes run the spectrum from practical to preppy. Still, a stab of hurt goes through my gut every time I see the nickname in the papers. Maybe if I weren’t linked to Jacques, the tabs would leave me alone.

  “You asshole,” I say aloud, while balling up the front page with the photo of his boozy, slack face. Imagining the plate is his face, I mash the paper into my eggs, the black newsprint mixing with the grease of the bacon. Eggs drop over the side of the delicate bone china platter and onto the crisp white tablecloth.

  More swear words escape my lips, and I bury my face in my ink-stained hands.

  “Your highness?” A voice interrupts my thoughts. “May I?”

  When I open my lids, I see a white-gloved hand at my plate.

  “Yes, thank you.” I muster a smile and push my chair back so I can rise with a shred of dignity, ignoring the fact I’d ground Jacques’ photo into the plate of eggs. “Have a good day.”

  My black ballet flats make the faintest of taps as I walk through the halls of my family’s lavish, gilt-adorned palace. Why am I here? If I gave all this up, I wouldn’t miss it. Not the antiques, not the royal jewels, not the rare art.

  If only I hadn’t downed all that coffee. After that fight with Mother, my stomach feels like it’s about to revolt.

  I could do so much as Queen, help so many people and spearhead countless causes. Jacques’ family is one of the wealthiest in Europe.

  I push open the door to my suite of rooms. After living in a modest apartment in Bhutan, the palace is too much. It’s all too much, and a headache blooms in the back of my eyeballs.

  Sitting in my office—it’s decorated modestly in blonde Scandinavian wood and hunter green accent pillows—I open my laptop, and the screen flickers to life. Tapping on my email, I scroll, frustrated. What do I want?

  Who the hell knows? All I know is what I don’t want.

  Jacques.

  The velvet coffin of being a princess.

  This life.

  My gaze scans the junk email folder. Yeah, even princesses get junk email. Clicking on one line, I open an offer from a hotel I’d stayed at years ago when I was in college in the U.S.

  Paradise Beach Resort To Reopen Soon After Renovation

  My finger flicks the mouse, scrolling through photos of a modern, sprawling resort. And the picture of the beach steals the breath from my lungs. I’ve never forgotten that beach, one of the few times I’ve felt true peace.

  I smile for the first time this morning and grab my phone.

  I tap out a text to Poppy Marlowe, my closest friend. She’s a duchess from England, and we met our freshman year at NYU. Hey, remember Paradise Beach?

  Yes. God, what I wouldn’t give to be there right now. This London weather’s f-ing killing me.

  Want to join me in Florida?

  Can’t, I have a charity ball with Michael.

  She’d married a duke last year, a sweet man who’s crazy about her. I’d wept uncontrollably in a bathroom at her wedding, knowing I’d never have a loving relationship like them.

  We text back and forth for a bit, and my phone pings with another text from her. It’s a photo of us on Paradise Beach, grinning against the backdrop of a glittering Gulf of Mexico.

  Can you believe it’s been ten years?

  I can’t, and I’m immediately teary-eyed, swept away in sun-dappled memories of friendship and warmth.

  Like all proper college students, Poppy and I flew to Florida. But instead of crazy, drunken debauchery, we chilled on that little island, exhausted from exams and the frenzy of New York City. We spent our days kayaking, paddle-boarding, and snorkeling, and when we weren’t in the water, we read books while sunbathing.

  Total bliss.

  No paparazzi, no royal watchers pestering for autographs, no one who cared about the Princess of Montignac. No Jacques, no pressure, no royal pain-in-the-ass parents.

  It was the most perfect vacation of my life.

  My phone pings with another text from Poppy. Why don’t you take a vacation alone there?

  I could…

  No one would bother you. It’s quite chill

  True, True

  Take two weeks to sort out your life. No charities, no royal functions, no jackoffs like Jacques.

  Navigating the mouse to the resort website, my finger twitches. Should I?

  I click the BOOK NOW button before I talk myself out of the decision.

  Three

  Tate

  “C’mon Chunk man, time for the handoff.”

  I unhook my pup from his seat harness and attach the leash to his collar. It’s an effort not to get pug fur all over me as I lift him out of the backseat of my SUV, but I figure Max or someone will have one of those lint rollers inside the resort.

  Normally, I don’t give a crap about Chunky’s fur, but today, I’m in my best suit, the one I bought at some ridiculously expensive store in Miami when I was there with my ex last year. She’d talked me into buying it, possibly the only smart decision I’d made with her.

  I leave the car parked in the loading zone in front of the resort, figuring I’ll only be a few minutes while
I find Lauren and give her the dog. It’s not like there are many guests here today; the official grand re-opening isn’t for another few weeks.

  “Hey. How are things? You see Lauren around today?” I grin lazily at the front desk clerk, a blonde with a cute body. She’s one of the new employees here.

  “Tate, hi,” she says, her eyes wide and sparkling. “Aww, there’s Chunky, your famous dog.”

  Famous for farting at inappropriate times, according to my brother Damien. “Famous. Or infamous. You decide.”

  She laughs. “You look impressive. Going somewhere important?” Her eyes roam over my body. “Not that you don’t look amazing every day, but usually when I see you, you’re in a t-shirt and board shorts. Although I love that look, too.”

  “I have a meeting off island.” I lean against the reception counter, which is sleek and all-white. Everything’s sleek and all-white now, a one-eighty from the bright, kitschy Florida resort vibe the place used to have.

  Chunky obediently sits next to me. Praise the Lord, puppy kindergarten paid off. “You’re looking at the next U.S. Representative.”

  Her brow furrows. “What? Really?”

  I let out a chuckle. “Maybe. If I’m lucky. I’m considering running for office. This is an exploratory meeting with potential campaign donors.”

  She giggles and bats her eyelashes a little too much, and I suspect the heavy flirtation will follow. A few years ago, I’d have been all over this, but now, she seems too young—probably a solid ten years my junior. And with the nose ring, the multiple tattoos, and the pink streak in her hair, probably not the best choice of a partner for a future politician.

  It’ll be a tough enough sell to voters that I have a dad who was a punk rock singer back in the 80s, a mom who’s into New Age woo, and brothers with various peculiarities. Also, there’s my sister, who has a quirk of owning ten of the same black dress but whose hair usually looks similar to this clerk’s. Hell, she’s probably a friend of Natalia’s, and that’s why she got the job. The girl is cute, though.

  But meh. That’s been my take lately on dating. Meh.

  “Is a Representative like a Governor?”

  Womp-womp. Definitely not the partner for a future politician.

  Still, I wouldn’t give a crap about any of it—even the lack of a civics education—if there were a spark. That’s the problem I’ve had with women I’ve dated lately. No flames, no smoke, no spark.

  It’s an unsettling vibe for a guy who used to get a lot of action. Can you have a mid-life crisis at thirty-two? A weekend in Miami might set me straight. Sometimes Paradise Beach is too confining, too small.

  “I’ll call Max’s office. Lauren showed up a little while ago, and the two of them disappeared.” The clerk picks up the phone, keeping her eyes and smile on me. “You know them. They’ve been glued together ever since they got back from London.”

  “You’re not kidding,” I mutter. She winks in response.

  “Never mind. There they are.” I point across the lobby.

  My brother and his fiancée—Jesus, it’s weird to say that about Max, because he was a bachelor for so long—emerge from a side door that leads to the resort offices. They’re holding hands.

  “There’re the lovebirds,” I say in a flat voice. The fact that my younger brother Damien fell in love and got married, and then my older brother Max fell for the best friend of Damien’s wife, makes me feel a little left out. There’s always my brother Remy, who will almost certainly never get married. Unless it’s to a mermaid.

  Turning to the clerk, I shoot her a grin. “Could you keep an eye on Chunky for a couple minutes? I don’t want to pick him up, and since he’s sitting so calmly, don’t want to drag him around, either.”

  “Absolutely. I love the Chunkster,” she coos, coming around the desk and taking the leash from me.

  “You can let him off leash. He’s obedient. And slow.”

  “Tate, c’mere. Wanna ask you something.” My brother waves me over, his voice echoing in the lobby.

  I wander through the blindingly white space to where Max and Lauren are standing. They’re in front of one of her many framed photos that adorn the lobby.

  “Look what we put up today. I’m so proud of her.” Max points to one of the large photographs, and he looks as proud as if Ansel Adams had risen from the dead and given him the pictures.

  I study another of the photos. It’s a beautiful waterscape of the Gulf of Mexico, about ten shades of blue. Lauren’s got an eye, I’ll give her that. Truthfully, I haven’t gotten to know her all that well.

  “These are going to sell like crazy,” I say. “You’d better take more.”

  Hell, I might even buy a couple. They’d look perfect in my beachfront home.

  Max untangles from Lauren and joins me. “You ready for today?”

  I smirk at my golden-haired, blue-eyed brother. We look nothing alike, and our younger twin brothers are carbon copies of me. Max and I have somewhat of understanding—he’s a businessman and I’m a lawyer, so we almost speak the same language. Our twin brothers, the Marine and the sport fisherman, are more like salt-of-the-Earth kind of guys.

  Max and I are more like aged scotch and BMW kind of guys. But while he left for New York in his early twenties and wanted to conquer the city, I chose to stay on the island and give back to the area. The environment’s my passion, while Max is more about the deals and the cash. We both drive luxury cars—the difference is, mine’s a hybrid.

  Don’t get me wrong; I’ve done well for myself. Well enough to be considered a serious congressional candidate at the age of thirty-two.

  “Pfft. What’s there to be ready? I’ve got this. I’m ready to kiss babies, eat corn dogs at county fairs, and debate the competition.” I squeeze him on the shoulder. “Seriously, it’s the only way we’re going to get anything done for the Everglades, electing more people like me to office.”

  “You’ve already got the talking points down, nice job. And it is a big step. An exploratory committee. These people might pledge millions to you based on what they see and hear today. Go kick some ass.”

  I push out a breath. “I haven’t made any decisions yet.”

  “Well, whatever you do, I’m in your corner. Holding campaign signs, making phone calls, donating a million or two. I’ve got you covered. Wish I could be there today, but I’m swamped with work.”

  Max is always swamped with work. Another way we’re different—I know how to relax. “Thanks, man.”

  Lauren joins us and slips her arm around my brother’s waist. He kisses her forehead, and she smooches his cheek. Both begin to coo, and I roll my eyes.

  “This is my cue to leave,” I mutter. They’re over-the-top with PDA. I’ve never seen Max this crazy over a woman. She’s gotten him to chill a little, so I’m all for their relationship. The way Max was going before he met her, he was headed for a heart attack by the time he was forty-five.

  “Chunky’s all yours,” I say to Lauren, who is giggling into my brother’s neck.

  Just then, something catches my eye at the front desk, some thirty feet away. A slim woman with long chestnut-colored hair is petting Chunky. I’m guessing she’s a guest, but on the off chance she’s someone new on the island, I should meet her.

  For future campaign purposes, of course.

  She doesn’t notice me walking up, because she’s so absorbed with my dog. Of course he’s in ecstasy from her scratches and is doing that thing where his tongue flops out the side of his mouth.

  I grin at the two of them. The woman looks up, directly into my eyes, and I swear to Christ an electric current travels up my spine.

  “Hello,” she says softly as she rises. Her hair is long, extending to her breasts. Probably ends right at her nipples. The thought makes me ache.

  “Hi.” I grin. “My dog sure likes you.”

  When she smiles, my heart kicks into high gear. I detect something different about her, but I can’t put my finger on what. Maybe it’s her s
hiny hair. Or her stunning amber eyes. I also detect a vibe of intense poise, like she’s been to finishing school or taken years of ballet.

  She also has the most graceful curves I’ve ever seen on a woman. From her shoulders, to her waist, to her ankles, this woman is elegant. Makes me want to stand up straighter.

  “I adore pugs. They look like little monkeys that have forgotten something important.”

  Jesus, she’s funny, too. There’s nothing better than a funny woman. “I never thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

  There’s a pause, and we both study each other, the air suddenly warmer than it was five minutes ago. I have a faint awareness of the desk clerk, but as far as I’m concerned, the entire world fell away while I’m in the presence of this captivating woman.

  “First time on Paradise Beach?”

  She shakes her head. “I came here when I was twenty. Ten years ago, during Spring Break. I stayed at this resort, in fact. The changes here are stunning. And you? Is it your first time on Paradise Beach?”

  As a lawyer, I’m never at a loss for words. But her simple question has me tongue-tied as I stare into her beautiful golden eyes. “No. I…I live here. My brother owns this place, and I was coming here to drop off my dog. I have a meeting, and I don’t like him to stay by himself. Probably silly, I know.”

  “Oh, that’s so wonderful you care enough not to leave your dog alone. I’m always heartbroken when I hear about people who leave their dogs home alone for hours and hours.”

  I grin, stupidly. Her accent is unusual, a hybrid of British and American. Soft vowels, dropped Rs, hard Ts…she sounds formal, aristocratic, even. Like Katherine Hepburn or another old time-movie siren.

  I happen to have a thing for old-time movie sirens.

  My heart slamming against my chest, I tilt my head. “Have any plans for your vacation?”

  She smiles so sweetly that a twinge of shame goes through me, like I‘m a creeper for asking. “Kayaking, snorkeling, paddle-boarding. Anything to do with the water. I assume a lot has changed since I was here last and there’s more to explore. Do you have any suggestions?”