I found Tony’s office door and punched in the code—1999; he was nothing if not committed. Ten minutes later, I heard a light tapping on the bathroom door.
“Just a sec, I’m washing up,” I called out.
“I can’t wait that long.”
Nick squeezed in and slammed the door, a bottle of vodka dangling from his hand. In seconds, his mouth was on mine, the liquor dropped and forgotten as we tore at each other. I bumped against the sink, and he lifted me on top of it.
“I can’t believe this old tank top was so effective,” I joked when we came up for air.
Nick retrieved the vodka and took a nip. “Anything you wear is effective,” he said, tugging my shirt over my head. “When I saw that idiot talking to you, I couldn’t…”
His voice got muffled as he went for one of my ears. I laughed and wrapped a leg around his waist, pulling him to me.
“Couldn’t what?”
“Aha,” he said, his right hand closing around the flag pin he’d given me, which—as part of an ongoing game—I’d hidden right in the center of my bra. “Someplace nice and direct this time. I like it.”
I tipped his face up so our eyes met. “Couldn’t what?” I repeated with a slow smile.
Nick flashed a wicked grin as he unclasped my bra. “I told you. I couldn’t wait.”
“What if someone catches us?” I asked, even as I reached for his belt. “Won’t they notice we’re gone?”
“Let them,” Nick said. “I haven’t seen you all day and I’m going mad.”
Thirty-five minutes and one mildly bruised tailbone later, we were sweaty and spent, and the ill-advised vodka made it urgent that I go home. Unfortunately, a large contingent of paparazzi was outside, waiting for a glimpse either of Nick, or a certain redheaded actress from Neighbours (who’d most likely called them herself). So Tony threw dark glasses and a purloined hat onto Cilla and had Clive smuggle her out while shouting loudly about recent Neighbours plot points, distracting the photogs long enough for me to pour myself into the back of Nick’s waiting car and camouflage myself on the floor under a chunky dark blanket—where I promptly conked out, my cheek pressed ingloriously against the mats. I awoke just as Nick was tucking me into the most glorious of beds, explaining with a grin that he’d brought me to Kensington Palace because hauling me up into my flat would’ve made him and Stout look like they were hiding a dead body. It was my first time bunking in Kensington, thanks to Eleanor’s strict policies about unmarried couples sharing royal bedchambers, but I was too groggy to register it; I barely got out a thank-you before I collapsed back into sleep.
The next morning, I awoke facing a robin’s-egg blue wall, the weight of a body next to me on the bed.
“I thought your grandmother didn’t approve of sleepovers,” I said, closing my eyes and rolling over to spoon him.
“Yes, but I was in the mood for a proper pillow fight,” came an unfamiliar voice.
My eyes flew open and I screamed, whacking at the man lying next to me with my fists before leaping out of bed.
“Who the hell are you?” I spat, before taking in the familiar-looking person lounging on the bed in front of me, all mussed ginger hair and ratty track pants, rubbing his arm where I’d cracked him. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen another human being laugh so hard.
Nick burst in, panicked. “Bex! Are you all right?”
He stopped when he saw his guffawing brother, the infamous Prince Frederick of Wales, rolling on the bed and clutching his chest with mirth.
“I should’ve known,” Nick said, affecting what looked like a full-body eye roll. “What are you even doing here? I thought you were in Somerset.”
“I’m on leave for a bit,” Freddie said. “As far as you know. I shouldn’t discuss classified details with a half-naked civilian standing right there.”
If Freddie thought this would make me blush, he miscalculated.
“Don’t worry, I’m not interested in your secrets,” I told him. “I am interested in punching you again, though, for scaring the hell out of me.”
“Go on, a nice young lady like you?” he said, sitting up against the baroque carved headboard with a grin that could charitably be described as shit-eating.
I leaned over the bed and socked him hard in the other arm.
“Easy, Killer!” Freddie yelped. “Where are my PPOs when I need them?”
“Where are mine? No one even stuck his head in to make sure there wasn’t a murderer in here,” Nick said, tossing me some sweatpants from an ornate dresser. “You’re lucky she didn’t punch you someplace less polite.”
“I would have,” I told them, “but I think it’s treason to break the Crown Jewels.”
Freddie shot me an appraising look. “Funny,” he said. “And pretty. Natural. Like a toothpaste commercial. I don’t know why Father was so sprung on you and old India Boringbroke, Knickers. Must have been her massive—”
“I’m sorry, Bex,” Nick interrupted. “I’d like to tell you that he’s not usually this crass.”
“It’s true,” Freddie said cheerfully. “I’m much worse.”
I smiled as I tied the drawstring on the sweatpants. I couldn’t help it; that’s Freddie’s charisma at work. Nick sank down next to him on the expansive bed—the future king, dwarfed by his king-size.