Then he leans forward, his beautiful face sure and confident.
“What I can tell you, what I swear to you today, is this: I will marry Olivia Hammond or I will never marry at all.”
And the crowd goes berserk.
Holy shit.
“Holy shit!” Ellie yells.
And Marty gasps. “You’re gonna be a queen, Liv! Like Beyoncé!” He fans his eyes with his hand. “I might cry.”
Only…I won’t be. I can’t be.
“He can’t do that.” I turn to Logan. “Can he do that?”
Logan’s mouth is set in a worried line. His eyes flash to me—and he shakes his head.
One of the reporters stands up, and the back of his head comes into view in the corner of the screen, yelling his question above the din. “Prince Nicholas! The law is clear—the Crown Prince must marry a woman of noble lineage or, if he is to marry a commoner, she must be a natural-born citizen of Wessco. Olivia Hammond is neither of those.”
I stare at the television, paralyzed by a hundred emotions swirling through me.
The crowd quiets, waiting for Nicholas’s answer.
“No, she is not,” he answers softly, looking down.
And then he straightens his shoulders and raises his head.
“And so, today, I, Nicholas Arthur Frederick Edward, abdicate my place in the line of succession and renounce all rights to the throne of Wessco. From this moment on, my brother, His Royal Highness Henry John Edgar Thomas, is the Prince of Pembrook.”
The crowd roars like Brazilian soccer fans right after a goal.
And Henry wakes up, lifting his head. Blinking.
“Wait. What?”
Nicholas slaps his shoulder—smiling big and bright. “It’s all yours, Henry. You’ll do great—I know you will.”
Then Nicholas holds up his hands. “No more questions—I have a lot to do. Thank you for your time.” He turns to go, but then has second thoughts and comes back to the podium. “One last thing.” He looks directly into the camera, and I feel his eyes like a touch to my skin. “You asked for a warning, Olivia, so here it is. I’m coming for you, love.”
And the son of a bitch winks.
He heads off screen with a rush of reporters following him.
The coffee shop is silent—except for the stunned recap of the news anchor. As soon as Nicholas was off the screen, Marty walked outside, dialing on his phone, mumbling how the new guy he’s dating better up his romantic-gesture game. Ellie’s on the floor—I think she passed out somewhere between “Arthur” and “Edgar.” Slowly, I turn to Logan.
“Did that just happen?”
Logan nods. “It did, lass.”
“I can’t believe…What did he just do?”
“He gave up a kingdom for you.” There’s a devilish shine in his dark eyes. “Always knew he was a smart one.”
It takes a minute for it all to sink in. Repeating to myself seems to help.
“He’s coming.”
“That’s what he said,” Logan agrees.
“He’s coming here…for me.”
“Heard that part, too.”
There’s so much to do…but…priorities.
“He’s coming here for me and I haven’t shaved my legs in three days!”
I haul ass toward the stairs in the back, taking out one of the tables as I go.
Behind me I hear Logan mutter, “American women are nutty.” Then he tells Ellie, “Get up, possum.”
GETTING OUT OF THE STATE HOUSE is a shit show. Security has a hard time keeping the public and the press off of me. Literally—there’s grabbing and handshaking, attempted hugs and blown kisses, everyone screaming congratulations or curses or questions or all three at the same time.
The world’s gone completely mad.
And I can’t remember ever feeling so happy.
So fucking free.
It feels like I could leap over the lot of them. Like I could fly if I had to. Because every step takes me closer to home. To Olivia. I can practically taste her on my tongue, and I swear every breath I take smells like roses and jasmine.
On the sidewalk, just near the car, my driver grasps my shoulder and yells in my ear, “The Queen’s ordered us to bring you to the palace!”
I nod. Then I smack his hand upward, sending the keys in the air before I catch them.
“I’d best drive, then. That way, you’re not disobeying orders.”
He stutters. “Sir, please…The Queen—”
“Will get over it. We’re going to the airport—call ahead if needed, but I want the plane ready for takeoff the moment we arrive.”
I push my way into the car. The door’s still open when a handful of security—and Simon—gather round.
“The airport will be mobbed, Your Grace,” another security man argues.
“Then you lads should climb in—I may need your help getting to the runway.”
A different man tries, “Sir, you can’t just—”
“But I can.” I laugh, feeling almost delirious. “Isn’t it bloody fucking grand?”
Once I start the car, they stop arguing and jump the hell in. Simon’s beside me in front.
“Where’s Henry? Did we lose Henry?”
“He’ll be fine,” Simon assures me. “He’s getting pelted with questions, but the men have him covered.”
I roll the car through the human sea and floor it once I’m on the open road. Mixed in with the joy is an urgency. A determined need pushing at my back like a gust of wind—because I can’t wait to see Olivia. To hold her and kiss her until she can’t stand. To make it all right again.