Page 61 of Princessa
Chapter 33
Twenty. Eight. Fucking. Years.
That’s how long I’d waited to become somebody’s princess.
And ironically enough, Prince Grayson Cardona of Andorra was my last shot.
He was one I’d thought for sure would be off limits.
A gorgeous-as-fuck prince who, I just knew, wouldn’t remain eligible for long.
Our parents made anarrangementof sorts and when they’d introduced us before he went to university, he clearly wasn’t interested.
Hmph.
So I moved on…to other royalcandidates—his best friend to name a few—thinking I’d have better luck snagging one of them before the Almighty Grayson gave me a second thought.
Fast forward many moons later and, as luck would have it, there he was: single at thirty-five with no one—but me—waiting in the wings.
Aww.
My plan was set in motion: Go to Andorra Palace, get acquainted, make Prince Grayson fall head over heels with my charm—and my pussy—then he’d rightfully present me as his bride-to-be at the whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called Gala.
Then he disappeared.
When the Royal Buzz report surfaced, I screamed.
There was no way I was losing my shot at the throne because of some wanna-be fashion social-media-nothing bitch.
I hopped on Daddy’s jet, my annoying assistant, Piper, at my side, and flew from London to a little shit-in-the-wall place called Saint Jean de Luz, France. Ugh. Torture.
The car whisked us to a dreary little inn called Royale Resort France.
I felt dirty the second I walked through the double glass doors. I mean, it was no Four Seasons or anything.
Anyway, I used one of my many connections to find out which of the tiny rooms Grayson was staying in. And before I headed on up, I told Piper I wanted to visit the prince alone.
“Go and treat yourself to lunch while you wait. But better make it low carb.” My eyes surveyed her outfit. “I can tell by the way that skirt fits, you’ve been eating way too much.”
When I found 12145 - Presidential Suite West and knocked, it didn’t at all surprise me when Grayson’s greeting was, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
After all, I knew I was the last person he’d expected to see.
“May I come in? I think we’ve some things to discuss.”
“Like what, Iris?” He was still as goddamn yummy as ever. I’d always wondered how he tasted.
“Like”—I raised my voice—“how you and I are the ones who are supposed to be getting married.”
As I figured he would, Grayson made way for me to enter, not wanting me to cause a stir out in the hallway.
Once he closed the door, I began taking off my gloves, hat, and coat. It was cold in London that day compared to the shithole I flew into.
But he stopped me.
“Oh, no. Don’t get comfortable. You’re not staying. Say what you need to then leave.”
Dressed in pants and a shirt, Grayson’s sleeves were rolled up. With his arms folded over his chest, I couldn’t help but notice his forearms. Sexy forearm-porn was my jam.
