Royally Crushed: A Crazy Royal Love, Book 1 Read online

  As you wrote, the hours truly do turn into weeks of following the same routine and attending the same annual events until each year becomes a replica of the last one. I chuckled at your analogy about it being like the movie Groundhog Day, only it's an entire year that repeats itself rather than one day. Unlike Bill Murray (and you, you brave soul), I will never get out of it. I’m terrified that one day I’ll die, having never breathed a single breath on my own terms.

  Can you imagine if anyone intercepted these emails? They’d hate us for whining when our lives are filled with such privilege (and they wouldn’t be wrong). We never have to hold a real job or worry about money. But if only they understood the flipside of it—that we can never hold a job, even if we’re wildly passionate about something.

  Speaking of which, what are you going to do now that you’re out? Military consultant? Paid spokesperson for a charity? Stay-at-home dad while Megs heads back to Hollywood to rake in the big bucks? I’ll be watching with bated breath to see how it all turns out for you. Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll get out of it, too. But for now, I must go. I have to attend a formal tea for The Friends of the Valcourt United Cathedral’s Platinum Fund for Choristers, where I’ll be subjected to the never-ending debate on the difference between the mandate of the Platinum Fund vs. that of the Friends of the Platinum Fund. Honestly, who gives a rat’s arse? Not me.

  Say hello to Celine Dion for me,

  Airy

  2

  Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder. Except Sometimes, When It’s Obvious to Everyone…

  Will Banks

  Paradise Bay, Santa Valentina Island, Benavente Islands, Caribbean

  “Oh Will, just look at her,” my brother, Harrison, says, pointing out toward the calm early morning sea. “She's every bit as beautiful today as she always was.”

  My eyes land on a bikini-clad senior citizen strolling along the shore. I reach up and put my hand on my brother’s forehead, checking for heatstroke. “You don’t feel feverish. Is everything okay with you and Libby?”

  “Of course. Why?” Harrison says, giving me a strange look.

  “You’re ogling a woman who I'm pretty sure is somebody's great-grandmother.”

  “Not her, you jackass,” he says. “Matilda.”

  I look again, this time past the woman and out to sea, spotting Waltzing Matilda, the ninety-foot schooner that used to belong to our Uncle Oscar. Harrison had to sell her to a greasy businessman (who we call Stogie Stew) a couple of years back to save our family's resort from going under. The yacht glides along in the turquoise water, and even though I don't glance over at my brother, I know his expression is a mixture of longing and grief. Harrison would give his left nut to have her back so he could take his own family on the same kind of adventures our uncle took us on.

  I fight the urge to smile. Not because I’m a prick who likes seeing my brother upset, but because very soon, I’m going to surprise him by purchasing Matilda back for him. Honestly, I’ve never been so excited about anything in my entire life—which is saying something because I’ve spent the last several years on an adrenaline high. I’ve bungee jumped from the skid of a helicopter over the bubbling crater of Villarrica Volcano in Chile. I’ve gone cage diving with great whites off the coast of Gansbaai, South Africa—without the cage. I’ve traversed the icy crests and rocky pyramids of the Ellsworth Mountains in Antarctica. But none of it compares with what I’m about to achieve.

  You see, Matilda represents one of a million sacrifices Harrison has made, not only for my sister, Emma, and I, but for the entire Paradise Bay Resort staff. Harrison was all set to take off to California to join the pro-surf tour when Uncle Oscar died. He could have sold off the resort, pocketed the cash, and taken off to live his dreams, and no one would have blamed him. After all, he was only twenty-one at the time, and had already been raising Emma and I for an entire decade. Our parents were killed in a collision when I was six, leaving us to our uncle to finish raising us. Since Oscar wasn’t exactly a ‘hands on’ caregiver, Harrison stepped into that role, making sure we went to bed on time, ate at least a few veggies, and finished our homework at night.

  But did Harrison do the easy thing and leave? No, he did not. He gave up pro-surfing and took on the massive challenge of running a 274-room resort with five swimming pools, seven restaurants, and a fleet of watercrafts. He kept everything running like clockwork until Hurricane Irene came along and wiped us out. Did he throw in the towel? Newp. Did he complain? No. Did he ask my sister to quit culinary school or me to give up my fledgling TV career to come back and help? No, he did not. He quietly sold off Matilda and used the cash to turn Paradise Bay into one of the top resorts in the Caribbean. The guy is a living saint. If he weren’t my own flesh and blood, I’d probably find him supremely irritating. But, having been on the receiving end of his generosity my entire life, I find myself in a constant state of awe of my big brother. Which is why I’m going to get his boat back for him.

  “We’ll get her back,” I say, with a confident smile. I’m about to start filming the third season of The Wild World, my adventure/nature docu-series. (If you haven’t seen or heard of it, think Bear Grylls, only much, much better.) As soon as we wrap for the season, I’ll get my danger bonus, and the deal will be as good as done.

  “Maybe someday,” Harrison says with a shrug. “If not, life’s pretty damn great, anyway.”

  Glancing to my right, I see our sister, Emma, heading our way on her old-timey bicycle. “It was,” I say, pointing down the beach in her direction.

  She lives at the far end of the bay with her fiancé—soon to be husband—Pierce Davenport. Emma-the-chef is a strong, fun, capable professional who can run a hectic kitchen without breaking a sweat. Emma-the-bride, however, has a temperament and bite force quotient equivalent to a Tasmanian Devil. According to National Geographic, devils are “notoriously cantankerous and will fly into a maniacal rage when threatened by a predator, fighting for a mate, or defending a meal.” And that’s exactly how I’d describe my sister lately. A terrifying and unpredictable ball of bridal stress that pretty much everyone, including the love of her life, has been avoiding whenever possible over the last two months. “Let's finish up so we can hide before Emma spots us.”

  Harrison and I pick up our pace, setting up the last few lounge chairs and umbrellas as Emma’s legs propel her bike quickly down the path that runs along the beach.

  “Hey, you two goofballs!” Emma's voice rings out, competing with the sound of the gentle tide and the calls of the seagulls. She hops off her bike. “Glad I caught you. We need to talk.”

  “Hi,” I wave and smile, even though my lips have gone instantly dry due to terror.

  Narrowing her eyes, Emma says, “Why are you staring at me like that? Are you scared? You look scared.”

  I nod instinctively, which negates the fact that I’m simultaneously saying, “No. Not at all. You look lovely this morning. Did you do something different with your hair?”

  “Same ponytail I’ve worn since third grade.”

  “Oh, well, something’s different.” I chuckle nervously.

  “Must be that bridal glow you hear so much about,” Harrison adds.

  “That’s not a thing,” she says. “Relax. I’m not going to bite your heads off. I just wanted to give Will his packing list.” She hands me a thick envelope.

  “Just for me? Why doesn't he get one?” I ask, gesturing toward Harrison with my head.

  “He doesn't need a list. He's got Libby.”

  Makes sense. Libby is Harrison’s super-organized wife. Squeezing the envelope, I say, “Must be quite the list.”

  “It's also your flight itinerary, and a shaving schedule so you won’t have …” She gestures toward my chin. “This going on. I’ve also included a daily schedule for our time in Avonia. Any items on the agenda with a star next to them are required, okay? I know you have some meetings while we’re there, but the whole reason for the trip is my wedding, so I expect you to
make it to all the important stuff.”

  “Of course. Wouldn't miss a moment of it.” I give her a wide grin she could interpret as either sincere or sincerely sarcastic.

  The scowl on her face shows me she knew which way I meant it. My mobile phone buzzes in the pocket of my shorts. Yes! I can get out of this conversation before I say something to set her off. Pulling it out of my pocket, I see Dwight Anderson's name across the screen. “Hey, Dwight, how are things?”

  “Horrific,” Dwight says, but don't get too alarmed because this is a standard response for my manager/agent. Don't get me wrong, the guy is a terrific manager, but he also suffers from a severe case of Chicken Little Syndrome, and I'm about to find out why the sky is falling today. “Worst news possible.”

  “That doesn't sound good.” I take a few steps away from Harrison and Emma, who is now listing topics of conversation that will be unacceptable in front of her fiancé's hoity-toity family.

  Dwight pauses for a second, then I hear a crunching sound, which means his heartburn is acting up again. He inhales Tums faster than Scarface inhaled cocaine. But, not through his nose, obviously. “Allan got fired this morning.”

  “Fired?” I plunk myself down onto one of the lounge chairs and rub my scruffy beard with one hand. “Oh … Is this about—?”

  “—Yes. I tried to tell him shaboinking the new wife of the head of the network wasn't exactly a great career move, but you know him.”

  I glance out to the water and the sight of Matilda causes my stomach to tighten. “Shit. Does this mean we have to delay filming?”

  “Possibly.” Crunch, crunch, crunch. “But I've heard rumblings ABN found a new showrunner before they fired him.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “Some guy named Dylan Sinclair. I looked him up and I can’t find him on IMDb.”

  “So he’s a total greenhorn?”

  “Quite probably, yes. If that’s the case, he’s likely some executive producer’s loser nephew. Frankly, it’s not a great sign, William. It means ABN is giving up on the show.”

  My heart falls to my stomach so fast, I can actually hear it land. “Is there anything in my contract that gives me a veto?”

  Dwight lets out a hard sigh. “You mean you still haven't—?”

  “—No, I haven't read the contract yet. That's what I pay you for.” I make the mistake of glancing at Emma, who taps her wristwatch and mouths ‘hurry up!’ to me. Suddenly I realize Dwight is still talking and I’ve completely zoned out.

  I focus in time to hear “… no say whatsoever in crew members.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You want more say? Get better ratings,” Dwight quips.

  “Like that’s so easy. You’ve seen what we’re up against. YouTube, Pornhub …” I answer.

  “… Not to mention BBC’s Newlyweds in the Wild.”

  I sigh, wishing he hadn’t brought up the bane of my existence. It’s a one-hour show featuring a couple who met on Love Match. They do lame, fake stunts in places that are not wild at all, but because they’re both willing to run around in very little clothing the entire time, they’re killing it. “Clearly what I do and what they do isn’t at all the same thing. I’m not just prancing around some set in Hollywood. We film in the most remote and dangerous places on the planet. The four of us rely on each other to make it out alive.”

  “I know that. You don’t think I know that?” Crunch, crunch. “Who do you think negotiated the danger bonus into your last contract?”

  “Good, then you can help the network see the importance of a seasoned director-slash-show runner.”

  “Listen, William, there’s one concept you need to wrap your head around. You’re one little rating point from being dropped on your arse. When you get here on Thursday for the meeting, it better be hat in hand: yes, sir, no, sir, I’ll do whatever I have to do to make this work. If there’s even a hint of dissension among the ranks, they’ll pull the plug.”

  My other line rings and I hold my phone away to see who it is. Stew Milner calling.

  “Dammit, I have to go, Dwight. I’m getting a call I can’t ignore.”

  “Hat in hand.”

  “Yes, sir. See you Thursday.”

  I swipe the screen, hurrying farther down the beach so Harrison won’t overhear me. “Will here.”

  “Who’s the hottie with the body?” Stew asks.

  I squint out to the yacht and see him standing on the deck with binoculars on.

  “I hope you’re not referring to my sister.”

  “No, the one in the bikini.” He means Grandma Bikini. There’s a lid for every pot, I guess. “Not sure. I think she’s a guest of the hotel. Is that why you’re calling? Because I’m really busy this morning.”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you about Matilda. There’s another man who’s interested in her.”

  Shit. “We had a deal, Stew.”

  “That was before this bloke from Australia came by yesterday. He’s desperate for her. Wants to return her to her homeland,” he says, making a puffing sound that tells me he’s got a juicy cigar in his mouth. “He wanted to pay me right then. Said he’d add ten thousand to your offer.”

  My shoulders drop. “Are you calling to tell me the deal’s off?”

  I glance down the beach and see Emma glaring at me and gesturing wildly for me to get over there now. Holding up my hand, I nod quickly, then turn away.

  “No. I like you, Will. I want to sell her to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Having said that, I’ve got my eye on a property on the west side of the island. I’m not supposed to say anything, but it belongs to a certain television network owner from the US who is putting her house up for sale.”

  He means Oprah.

  “A certain famous American talk show host who runs her own media empire?”

  “Yeah, everybody knows Oprah has a place on the island.”

  “Oh, well then,” he says, sounding taken aback.

  “I’m going to start filming the next season in a couple of weeks. I get my danger bonus as soon as we wrap up. If you can just give me another month, I’ll have the cash.”

  He makes a clicking sound with his teeth, then sighs. “All right. I’ll give you thirty days. Oprah’s getting her place re-carpeted so I doubt it’ll go on the market for a few weeks, anyway.”

  “Thanks, Stew,” I say, relief flooding my veins. “I’ll get you the money. I promise.”

  “Honestly, I don’t care. Either way, the boat’ll be sold,” he says. “Now, if you could do me a favour and put that little hottie on the phone, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Sorry, my battery’s dying.”

  With that, I hang up and shove my phone back in my pocket.

  “I don’t have all damn day!” Emma yells at me.

  Letting out a long sigh, I walk toward Bridezilla. One problem at a time. First Emma, then the network, then Matilda.

  * * *

  Wednesday Evening - 9 p.m.

  Text from Emma to Me: Do you need me to come by and help you pack?

  Me (after some serious eye-rolling): No need, I’m already done.

  Emma: Did you use the list?

  Me: What list?

  My phone rings and I see Emma’s name. Damn, I took it too far. We leave first thing tomorrow morning, which means I should probably start packing, especially since I won’t be coming back until after I film the next season of my show. I sit on the bed and swipe the screen to answer. “Heya, sis.”

  “Don’t mess with me, Will. I’m not above murder at this point,” Emma says.

  “Jokes! I have the list, I’ve checked it twice,” I say, walking over to the desk that sits in the far corner of my bedroom. I pick up the envelope and open it for the first time.

  “No more jokes. The shuttle leaves at seven a.m. SHARP. You’ll be in front of the lobby on time, yes?”

  “You can count on it.”

  “You sure you don’t need a wake-up call?”

&n
bsp; “I already set my bedside alarm and the alarm on my mobile phone,” I say, leaning over to my nightstand and setting my alarm.

  “Did you shave yet?”

  “No, but only because I want to have the freshest shave possible when I meet your future in-laws,” I say, walking into my bathroom and grabbing my razor and a can of shaving cream. I deposit them in my toiletries kit and zip it up. “Don’t worry. I promise I’ll be my most presentable self when we go see the fancy-schmancies.”

  Emma sighs and when she speaks, her voice cracks a bit. “I know this is a joke to you, but I’m really nervous about this. We’re not like them, Will. They’re all so posh and … elegant.”

  “You’re every bit as good as they are, Em.”

  “Ha! Not exactly.”

  “What are you talking about? You’re a world-renowned chef, you’re well-educated, and, despite what I used to tell you when we were growing up, you’re not all that ugly.”

  She laughs a little. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Any time,” I say, opening my closet and pulling out my suitcase. “Listen, I know this’ll be hard for you—a big wedding with hundreds of people you don’t know, but the truth is, all that matters is that Pierce is madly in love with you, and when this one day is over, you two will be together forever.” I put on a mock-dreamy tone on the words ‘together forever’ to keep things appropriately brother-sister light.

  “Thanks, you bonehead.”

  “You’re welcome, Bridezilla. Okay, I better get going. I should really read over this list and start packing.” I quickly say, “Last joke, I promise,” before hanging up.

  Tossing my phone onto the bed, I walk to the kitchen of the small staff villa that has become my home. Other than my surfboard leaned up against the wall, there’s nothing personal in it. No family photos, no mementos of my life. Just a small bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen/living room combo, which is where my surfboard lives. It’s enough for me though, especially because I’m not here much.