Page 9 of Princessa
Chapter 8
#Papillons
Butterflies—Papillons in French—turned out to be a suitable hash-tagged caption for a selfie posted before I slipped into my strappy high heels. Dinner with Prince Grayson was only twenty minutes away and pesky butterflies, flip-flopping and frolicking about, didn’t simply invade my stomach—they’d made a full-on hostile takeover.
Calm down, Arabella,I breathed,hoping the inhale-exhale techniques that worked in the past would buck my brewing anxiety.
Seconds after my pre-dinner-date post hit Instagram, my best friend bombed my laptop with an incoming FaceTime call. Truth was, despite residing in the same timezone, the two of us seemed to have talked a lot less than when we lived oceans apart. Lauren had been occupied with Hot Mess Couture, her thriving kids clothing line, while I was swimming—or drowning—in all things RRF. My papa was counting on me to help make a lucrative impact on the resort’s bottom line and the pressure to succeed became all-important. When I connected our video chat, I gave Lauren what she rightfully deserved: a speedy summary on all that transpired over the last week, including my impending dinner with Prince Grayson.
“Prince who?” I watched Lauren chomp on a crisp apple, thecrunch, crunch, crunchfrom her laptop screen to mine, annoying the heck out of my delicate eardrums.
“Grayson of Andorra,” I repeated, trying not to feel embarrassed I’d been asked to dinner by a member of royalty who no one had heard of. There were plenty of times where I too found myself meandering down the internet rabbit hole in search of more information than what Emma provided. “Just look him up on Google.”
“Well, his name sure is sexy, like one of those 1990s soap-opera hunks.” She vanished from my view for a few seconds, returning with phone in hand, thumbs tapping away at the screen. “Prince Grayson of Andorra, right?” she verified, baby blues locked on her phone screen, and after moments of scrolling ran by, Lauren’s mouth sprang open, eyes darting from her phone, onto me. “Have you read the first thing that pops up on Google about him?”
To be honest, I’d read it at least a thousand times and although my nod should have been enough to tell her I’d already soaked up the details, Lauren blurted it all out anyway.
“Prince of Andorra, Grayson Matteo Cardona is the sole heir to the throne, a self-made billionaire, a certified search-and-rescue pilot, and was recently named one of the world’s ten most wealthy and handsome princes who just so happens to be eligible bachelors.” Lauren sucked in a deep breath, fanning her face like she was warding off a hot flash. “Girl, there’s not an ample amount of adjectives in any language to describe how fucking lucky you are.”
Funny thing about Lauren, the woman rarely said cuss words. Hearing F-bombs blast out of her mouth was like witnessing Mother Teresa channel her inner Cardi B. “Your mouth is on fire again.”
“Pregnancy Potty Mouth. But we can talk about these unruly hormones of mine later. You, my dear, are about to have dinner with what seems to be royalty’s best kept secret.” She set her phone down, then took another crunch-magnified bite out of the apple. “Now, show me what you’re wearing.”
Believing a woman’s assets should be accentuated with pride, I’d always been one to dress sensually elegant, but not in a manner that would convey come-here-and-do-me-now. Since Mama and Papa brought me up to value our prestigious family image, my fashion sense—as well as my own created designs—reflected that philosophy. Wearing my Royale Beauty line of clothing also made sense because what better way to market my own brand, right? The backless gown I wore to the wedding after-party? A piece from my clothing line. However, for dinner with Prince Grayson, I wanted to step out of my usual conservative-chic zone and drift over to a road less traveled.
Getting to my feet, I took a few steps back from the desk, hoping Lauren could see what I was wearing through my laptop’s tiny camera lens. I bit down on my lower lip, a splash of heat coating my cheeks. “I’ve decided to wear this.”
When an all-approving gasp slipped from Lauren’s mouth, a sigh of relief escaped mine, though her approval, per se, wasn’t really needed. For some reason, validation is what I was after.
Spinning around, I did my best to provide Lauren a 360-degree view. “So, you like? It’s a tad more revealing than my usual.”
“By revealing, you mean you’re finally showing some thigh? Woman, it’s about damn time you wear something above the knees.” She arched one of her perfectly shaped brows. “You look hella hot.”
The dress, a black mini cocktail, had a cute ruffled hem and a deep, cleavage-enhancing V-neck, perfect for my A cups. The skirts or dresses I wore usually fell either at or slightly below the knee. Dolled up in something so short, coupled with strappy stilettos, felt somewhat liberating and grownup, not to mention sexy.
Sauntering back over to the desk, I eased down onto the high-back chair, heartbeat erratic. “Lauren, the man makes me so unbelievably flustered. The ability to speak simple words escapes me whenever he’s near.” Using the screen as a mirror, I uncapped a tube of my branded Candy Pop gloss and dabbed a soft layer of the sheer color onto my lips.
“Then perhaps you’ve met your match. I mean, there hasn’t been another man who’s made you batshit crazy before, correct? Not even Parker Jones.”
“Especially not Parker Jones.” I replaced the cap, then tossed the tube of gloss into my black-sequined handbag. “And, need I remind you, we no longer speak of Parker Jones—aka Complete Waste of Time—in any context?” The mere sound of his name made me shudder. What he did to me was unforgivable and I made Lauren promise to never again speak his name.
“Sorry, babe,” she pouted. “Anyway, what’s Prince Hot Stuff doing at Royale Resort France?”
“He’s supposed to reveal that tonight. It’s the reason why I agreed to have dinner with him.” Full disclosure: I would have accepted his dinner invitation regardless.
Lauren took what I hoped to be her last bite out of the apple. “Will kickass Camille be accompanying you?”
My bodyguard didn’t feel the need to be at my side every minute of the day. Public appearances, events, and shopping excursions were places you’d find Camille in close proximity to me. Other times, she’d be off in the shadows, keeping a hawks-eye from afar. When I crashed into Grayson at the wedding after-party, Camille stood lurking at one of the nearby tables, no doubt laughing her ass off at how I’d come undone in his presence. Since the time I wore diapers, I’d had a bodyguard; it became as second nature to me as breathing. Thankfully, Camille respected boundaries and when I told her I’d accepted an invitation to dinner at one of the restaurants at the resort with Prince Grayson, Camille assured me she’d do her best to give me and His Royal Highness privacy.
“Apparently, she’s been in contact with Prince Hot Stuff’s bodyguard and the two of them will be dining at the same restaurant—together—a few tables over.”
“Oh? Look at you, getting a glimpse into the life of a royal, even though you practically live the life of a princess already. Anyhoo”—she shimmied—“be sure to spill all the juicy details once you get back. And try to have a good time, okay? You, of all people, deserve to be happy.”
On a wink, I ended our video chat, playfully advising Lauren not to wait up for me. “I promise to call you first thing tomorrow morning.”
