Two Ways to Read

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  CHAPTER ONE

  There are some sentences in life you never actually expect to hear. Like, “You’ve won the lottery!” or “Here’s your free car!”

  Or “You’re a princess!”

  Yet that’s what the tiny blonde in front of me said. To me. Bellamy Sullivan, average girl-next-door incarnate.

  In fact, she said it more than once. She’d had to. Because it was just so unbelievable and out of the realm of normal that I couldn’t respond. She must have confused me with someone else.

  She did understand where we were, right? She sat at the counter of Rock Around the Clock Diner, a 1950s-themed restaurant on the outskirts of Liberty Township, Ohio. Waitresses from Ohio in poodle skirts and saddle shoes were not princesses.

  “What is your name again?” I asked the woman, who was watching me and waiting for a response.

  “Lemon. Lemon Beauchamp. I’m the CEO of Lemon Zest Communications, a public relations firm. I represent the royal family of Monterra. Which I told you when I sat down.” She had a short blonde bob, bright red lipstick, and wore custom-tailored Chloé slacks and a white Stella McCartney silk blouse. I could never wear a shirt like that. I’d have ketchup on it in less than five minutes.

  I looked down at the business card she pushed across the counter to me with perfectly manicured fingernails. The card had all the same information she’d just given me.

  “I hate to tell you this, but I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

  Lemon gave me a smile, as if she expected me to say that. She reached into a gorgeous leather briefcase and pulled out a manila folder. She opened it and started to read in a faint Southern accent. “Bellamy Marie Sullivan. Twenty-four years old. Born in Montgomery, Ohio. Daughter of Marie Sullivan, was previously enrolled in night school at Miami University with aspirations of becoming a fashion designer. Your favorite color is pink. You love old movies and have a cat named Snickers.”

  That made my heart clench and my throat seize up. How could she possibly know all that about me? Some of it was public record, but the rest was personal. Somebody must have been watching me. Which was creepy.

  She must have seen how much she’d freaked me out, because she put down the file and reached across the counter to put a reassuring hand on my forearm. “I understand that this is a lot to take in. Could you take a break so that we can sit down and I can explain this all to you properly?”

  Gulping, I nodded. My curiosity would never have let me just walk away. I had to know what was going on. I told Alice I was taking my break and untied my apron. I headed over to an empty booth, and the clicking of heels behind me let me know that Lemon had followed. She slid into the booth across from me, her delicate clothes whispering against the vinyl.

  “What do you know about your father?” she asked.

  The answer was not much. My mother died in an accident when I was seven, and while I had a lot of memories of her, she’d never said anything to me about my father. I’d been so loved I didn’t feel like I was missing out on anything, and so I hadn’t asked. By the time I was old enough to wonder and question, my grandmother, an extremely religious woman, said my father was not worth discussing and that she considered the subject permanently closed. Especially since my mother had acted “shamefully” and brought “embarrassment to the Sullivan name.”

  As I thought of my gentle mother, with her Irish red hair and hazel eyes, the one feature I’d inherited, I couldn’t imagine her ever doing anything shameful or embarrassing.

  “Nothing,” I confessed. “I don’t even know his name.”

  “His name was Alberto. His Royal Highness, Prince Alberto of Monterra. He was King Dominic’s uncle.”

  I zeroed in on the one word that made all the difference. “Was?”

  Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Yes, was. I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, but he died six months ago.”

  Six months ago. If only I’d done something sooner. Tried to look for him. I might have met him. Known him. I could have asked him about my mother and why I didn’t know anything about him. Discovered whether my nose came from his side of the family.

  Now it was too late.

  “How do you know I’m his daughter?”

  The manila folder was back. “Prince Alberto was diagnosed with a terminal illness a year ago. He had searched for your mother years earlier, and when the detective located her, Alberto suspected you might be his daughter. When he got sick, he decided to find out whether or not you actually were. So he sent someone here to verify it.”

  Weird. If he’d suspected I was his daughter years ago, why didn’t he try to see me? And what had changed his mind? That he was facing death? And how had he verified it? Nobody had asked me for a DNA test. I would have remembered swabbing the inside of my cheek. I thought back to what had happened a year ago. I could only think of one unusual encounter I’d had. Which meant that the only possible person it could have been was . . .

  No. No way.

  I could feel my cheeks flush as the memory came rushing back. Enzo Rannalli. The gorgeous, tall, funny, ridiculously sexy man who’d dropped into my life like a hydrogen bomb. The man who had sat at my counter, who flirted with me and joked with me.

  The man who disappeared without a word along with my favorite hairbrush.

  He’d never been interested in me. Some prince from some country I’d never even heard of sent him here to find out whether or not I was his daughter. Enzo had tricked me and used me and stole my freaking hair.

  Jerk.

  But that also meant that my father knew for six months I was his daughter and didn’t contact me.

  Why not? My first impulse was that something was wrong with me. That I was lacking in some way. That I’d fallen short of whatever a real princess was supposed to be. The crestfallen disappointment and insecurity I felt shouldn’t have surprised me. That was what happened when your primary caregiver found you to be a constant disappointment in every way possible and repeatedly told you so. But I didn’t want to think about my grandmother.

  “So is this like some Princess Diaries situation? You want me to rule your country or something?”

  “Nothing like that. The monarchy is in very capable hands. You are pretty far down the line of succession, actually. And I’m afraid there’s no inheritance attached to it either, other than the use of the title.”

  That was pretty worthless. I mean, I could probably ask people to start calling me “Your Majesty,” but that was about as much use as I was going to get out of my newfound princess title.

  I knew that it was supposed to be every little girl’s dream to find out she actually was a princess, but all it did was give me a million more questions that would never be answered now that both of my parents were dead.

  Which made me an orphan. That word hit me especially hard. It shouldn’t have mattered since I was an adult and living on my own, but I really was all alone in the world.

  Which had been my situation for the last eight years. If nothing else, I was generally a happy and resilient person. I had gotten used to it before, and I would again.

  “Okay. Well, thanks for stopping by and letting me know.” I put my palms against the tabletop, intending to push up and leave.

  “Wait. There’s more. I have a proposition for you,” Lemon said, pushing the manila folder toward me.

  Wary, I didn’t reach for it.

  “Part of my job is to make the world aware of Monterra. And you, darlin’, can help me out with that. In return, I’d be willing to help you.”

  Crossing my arms, I leaned back against the vinyl cushion. Something about her tone raised my defenses. “And what, exactly, are you proposing?”

  “We were wildly successful the last time we put a member of the royal family on reality television. So we’d like to do it again. The show will be about you going to New York to pursue your dream of becoming a fashion designer. And it will feature you dating some of the world’s most eligible bachelors, and how you adjust to becoming a princess. I’m tentatively calling it Becoming Royal. Several cable networks have already expressed serious interest. We just have to film a few episodes.” Her dark brown eyes sparkled with excitement, but I didn’t share her enthusiasm.

  “Pass.”

  “Give me a second; I’m not done.” Then she mumbled something under her breath that sounded like “ornerier than cat manure,” but I must have misunderstood. “Obviously, you would get something out of this too. We will do a whole makeover, and you get to keep whatever wardrobe we select for the show. Once the initial filming is done, we will give you two years’ worth of living expenses for New York and will procure an internship with the fashion house of your choosing. Marc Jacobs, Vera Wang, Michael Kors—whoever you want, we’ll make it happen.”

  My jaw went slack. Again, more words you’d never expect to hear in real life. For the last eight years I’d been trying to save up enough money to get to New York and find a job in the fashion indust

ry. Starting with my Barbies when I was little, all I’d ever wanted to do was design clothes. My mother had been a nurse and wore scrubs every day, but when she was home from work, she had so much flair and style. I remembered watching her get dressed for the evening, loving the way she mixed and matched fabrics and colors.

  But something always seemed to come up. The alternator in my ancient car had to be replaced. Snickers got sick. Medical bills from Grandma’s last stay at the hospital I could never quite catch up with.

  New York had seemed a completely impossible dream. Now this woman was offering me almost everything that I had ever wanted. Telling me about my father. Free clothes and a makeover. Money to live in New York. A job with whatever designer I wanted. Things like that didn’t happen to girls like me.

  It all seemed too good to be true.

  “Not to mention what this will do for your future. This show will become your calling card. Designers will become familiar with your style and your work. Think about how this would get your name out there.”

  She had a point, but . . . “I don’t like the idea of being filmed all the time. I don’t want my entire life out on display for the whole world.”

  “Trust me, darlin’,” she said as she leaned forward, serious now. “I completely understand. And I promise you that there will only be cameras on when you’ve okayed it. I know what it’s like to be filmed without permission. I promise to protect you and keep private whatever you want to keep private.”

  Probably every other woman my age would have jumped at the chance to star in her own reality television show. But it wasn’t something I’d ever wanted. I’d never even considered it as a possibility.

  It was all kind of overwhelming. “I . . .”

  Lemon either saw or heard my hesitation. “Okay, I’ve got one last card to play. I’ve seen some of your sketches that you posted online. My best friend is about to become the queen of Monterra. And she’s agreed to let you design her coronation gown. You can’t buy publicity like that. Think of what it will do for your career.”

  As if everything else she’d already offered wasn’t enough, now she wanted me to design a queen’s coronation gown? How often would an opportunity like that come along in a designer’s life?

  I couldn’t say no. I’d be a total idiot if I did. But . . . “You’re asking me to just pack up my entire life and leave Ohio and go to New York. Just like that.”

  She glanced around her with an assessing eye, and her expression when she turned back to me seemed to say, You’re worried about giving this up? I understood that it might not be a lot by her standards, but this was my entire world and had been for a long time. I didn’t much like change. I hadn’t realized how much until she asked me to change everything.

  It was so fast, too. One minute I was wiping down the counter and bringing people coffee, and the next I was a princess who was going to star in her own TV show.

  Totally unreal.

  “I know it’s a lot,” she said in a sweet, sympathetic voice. “But I’m offering you your dreams. And chances like this don’t come around very often.”

  She was right. Of course she was right. I needed to say yes.

  But it was like my mouth wouldn’t work.

  “And if one of the networks likes what they see, then we’ll negotiate an amazing contract for you. I’ll personally make sure you’re well compensated.”

  I couldn’t even think that far in the future. Right now was more than enough.

  Although it was definitely better than thinking about my past. Because at the moment, I heard one voice in my head. Enzo’s. That smooth, Italian-accented, deep voice. How after I’d told him that my dream was to design clothes, he took my hand in both of his, looked deeply into my eyes, and said, “You should do whatever it takes to pursue your dreams, gattina.”

  At the time, my knees had hollowed out. Now I would punch him. Trying not to growl or shake my head like a crazy person, I ordered my mind to stop remembering. To stop thinking about the man who’d used me and then disappeared. He wasn’t worth the brain space.

  He’d at least been right. I should do whatever it took to get what I said I always wanted. And Lemon Beauchamp was here like some little Southern genie ready to grant all my wishes. I would be an absolute idiot to refuse. And what did I really have here? A job that I’d always hated and a studio apartment. That was about it. After my grandpa and mom died, I’d had to take care of my sickly grandmother. I’d never had time for friends. I had acquaintances and coworkers. I hadn’t even bothered to reenroll this semester at school because I wasn’t learning anything helpful about design. My lease was month-to-month. Other than Snickers, there was literally nothing tying me down.

  “On one condition. I get to pick out all my own wardrobe.” It would be sort of ridiculous if I was telling the world I wanted to become a fashion designer and had no say in what I wore.

  “Done.” Lemon’s mouth quirked to the side, like she wanted to smile but didn’t dare.

  “Oh, and I need to bring my cat with me. So I guess that’s two conditions.” I’d never actually been away from Snickers for longer than twenty-four hours, and I thought I’d feel better if she came with me.

  “We’ll be sure to find a hotel that will let you bring your cat. Or else we’ll just pay the damages,” she said.

  I was about to tell her Snickers wouldn’t make a mess, but she pulled the manila folder back and took out a stack of papers before I could. “All you need to do now is sign at the bottom, and we will be all set.”

  “What’s all this?” I thumbed through it, but it was page after page of legalese that made my eyes spin.

  “It’s just standard television stuff,” she said with a dismissive wave. “You have to grant them the right to show you on TV and promise not to sue them if you get eaten by Godzilla or something.”

  Letting out a deep sigh—and worrying that I might possibly be signing away my firstborn—I just did it. Signed and dated it at the bottom. Before I could change my mind.

  She smiled as she signed the paper underneath mine as a witness. “Now that that part is out of the way, I have a condition of my own.”

  “What’s that?” Wasn’t she already asking a lot of me?

  “It will seem strange at first, but I promise you will get used to it. Once we tell the world who you are, you’re going to need some protection.”

  “Like a dog?” I asked, confused. Why would anyone want to hurt me? Why would anyone else care that I was a princess?

  “Like a bodyguard,” she said, and I noticed that she wasn’t quite meeting my gaze. “There are all kinds of scary nutjobs out there, and we are going to keep you safe. They’re no big deal. I have one. The Monterran Security Office has already assigned one to you. He should be here any minute.”

  The roar of a motorcycle made us both look out the window. The motorcycle came down the quiet country road and pulled to a stop in our parking lot. A tall man got off the bike, taking off his helmet and sunglasses. I couldn’t quite see his face because of the glare of the sun, but I watched as he unzipped his leather jacket, hanging it on the bike. Then he took off his white T-shirt, and his very ripped, very muscular chest made me want to press my face against the glass and drool.

  If this was who they wanted to protect me, I was completely on board.

  My new bodyguard pulled out a dress shirt from a saddlebag attached to the bike, put it on quickly, and slipped on a suit coat as he made his way over to the diner.

  It wasn’t until the bell hanging over the door sounded and he stepped inside that I realized why Lemon had been avoiding looking me in the eye.

  It was Enzo.

  CHAPTER TWO

 

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