Prince's Proposal (The Exiled Royals 1) (5 page)

“So, let me get this straight?” Brandy prodded, as they sat down in the break room for dinner. “Mr. Asshole…”

“Ray.”

“Ray, whatever. You’re living with this loaded guy who’s both hot and crazy about you.”

“Yup,” she said, shaking her head in absentmindedly as she stabbed half-heartedly at her Lean Cuisine. Mel just wasn’t that interested in her sweet and sour chicken today. “That’s about the size of it.”

“In two days? That’s kind of fast, as in lightning fast, for you!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s the wild, swept up passion thing. I’d totally do that; I’d seize my Julia Roberts moment and insist on the boutique makeover that comes with it.”

“Huh?”

“
Pretty Woman
, hello? Maybe you need to be less Amish.”

“No, I know what the movie is; that’s not really my thing.”

“Oh, it should be,” Brandy said, as she bit into a hoagie. A bit of mayo was stuck on her lower chin, but Mel wasn’t sure her friend would appreciate it if she interrupted her lecture to point that out. “The point is, you’re living the dream, just like I said, and now you’re upset about it.”

“Well, I know it seems nuts.”

“No, it seems amazing. We all want a high roller to deliver us from our life of monotony. You managed to actually do it.”

Mel sighed and stabbed at one of the brownish balls on her plate that was nominally chicken. “But I…you know me. I don’t want to be tied down. I can already tell that he’s thinking this might turn out to be, well, real, and I don’t know how to get him to realize this isn’t going to last.”

“Then ride that wave while you can.”

“He’s so, uh, smitten and it’s super complicated. I was wondering, do you have any advice for how to get a guy not to fall in love with you?”

Brandy flicked a choppy red bang out from in front of her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean? Do you think I’m an expert in repelling men?”

“Of course not.” Although after meeting more than a few of Brandy’s own flavors of the month, Mel had to seriously question her taste in men. Burned out lowlifes would be a more accurate description. “You seem to know more about men than I do, that’s all.”

“Well, I do try to date and not be a nun or have just one bi-yearly walk of shame and regret. You tend to isolate yourself. I should be worried about you – you’re trying to run off the best guy in a thousand damn miles.”

“More than that,” Mel said, not even sure how far it was from Nevada to Yagovia but assuming it was a pretty damn long way. “Honestly, how would your sister get a guy to run in terror? You said she’s been left at the altar once and divorced twice. Clearly, there’s got to be a way…”

“To lose a guy in less than thirty days? Sure, but I don’t want to tell you. I see the way you’ve been smiling since Saturday, and heard the way you were so giggly nervous on the phone the day after you met him…there’s something happier about you. I think this is a good thing!”

“But I can’t relax. Before, whenever I’ve thought it was a good thing, I ended up with my heart smashed to bits. The only way to be in life, the only way to survive romance…” Mel hedged on that part. All relationships terrified her, but she didn’t want to admit that, even to her best friend. So, as she so often did, she settled for a half-truth, “The only way to survive romance is to cut and run before you get hurt.” She shoved the sweet and sour lumps of chicken around on her plate. 

Brandy stared at her a moment and then said, “I am totally baffled. You’re living with a guy you think is hot, he’s rich to boot, and you’re worried he’s too smitten with you, that – God forbid – he’s in love with you? Yeah, I get it, that’s a huge problem. NOT.”

Put that way, it did sound a little crazy, even to Mel. How could she explain to Brandy the abject fear she had of letting herself believe that Ray was a good guy, that he actually cared for her, that he wouldn’t leave her feeling like a complete fool when he tired of her, as he surely would? 

She tried with something she thought sounded perfectly reasonable. “I’d rather get him to lose interest in me than let myself fall for him only to have him dump me when he realizes I’m not the woman he thinks I am.”

“What are you talking about, babe? You’re fantastic. You’re even better than whatever it is you
think
he’s imagining!”

“I just need to be careful, that’s all. I’m looking out for myself,” Mel said, wondering if that was really true. She took a sip of her diet coke and leaned in toward Brandy. “So, give me the best tips you’ve got. I need a plan that will make him count the days till the end of the month.” 

Ray was confused.

That was understating it. Confused would imply he had even half a clue. He was a man exiled from his home, cut off from most of his fortune, and now married to a woman he’d barely met before he tied the knot. 

But that wasn’t a good explanation. Alcohol, and too much fun, was the better explanation than using his current troubles as an excuse. Nevertheless, Prince Raymond Kharmin was lost and completely out of his depth. For first three or four days that they’d shared a home – even if she’d been prickly and very clear about the arrangement – he’d at least
recognized
Melissa as the same person. He hadn’t once felt the honest, though guarded, woman he’d fallen for – at least a bit – was a façade.

Okay.

But could someone please explain to him who the hell this new person was masquerading around in Mel’s imminently kissable skin?

Since she’d returned from work on Wednesday, it seemed as if she’d had a complete personality transplant. Either she was some bizarre schizophrenic or, more frightening, that hot, enticing woman on the casino’s balcony had never really existed.

Even though it was a sham marriage – one he had to preserve for his own benefit – they were still obliged to live together for the next twenty-one days.

As a result, her complete personality reboot – or was it actually a revelation? – scared Ray more than he’d like to admit.

Frankly, Ray considered himself a man with far better taste and judgment.

This morning’s sight did nothing to clear up his confusion. 

As a result of his dwindling resources, and the fact that he could no longer supplement his income by gambling for now, he’d had to cut back on his household staff. When he walked over to the kitchen island, he was more than prepared to make himself some quick scrambled eggs. It was one of the few things he was able to make, along with a truly heinous smoothie composed of spices and a variety of cooking liquids that no sane person would drink. Of course, if he mixed his secret concoction with the right scrambled egg plate, it was an instant hangover cure. So he wasn’t entirely hopeless in the kitchen, just
mostly
hopeless. 

That was, at least, his plan that morning when he strolled into the kitchen.

Instead?

Instead, he stumbled into World War III.

There was flour everywhere and more than a few cracked eggshells littering the island. An open bag of sugar was leaking all over the counter. In the center of this melee was Melissa, her hair up in a messy bun and her face covered in flour.

The woman had even managed to get a big glop of dough stuck on her nose. Her clothes were…unexpected to say the least. A too-baggy Hawaiian print shirt with a hole in the shoulder and acid washed jeans that almost came up to her breastbone. It was the ultimate middle-aged tourist mom outfit, and he had no idea where she’d found it.

How could anyone even own clothes of that style in this decade, much less
wear
them together?

She grinned and smiled inanely at him when he cleared his throat. 

“Darling! I’ve been thinking that I’ve really been too rough on you this week.”

He blinked at her. Oh God, it was worse than he’d first suspected. Clearly he’d slipped into
The Twilight Zone
. She’d been consumed and replaced by the love child of Danny Tanner and June Freaking Cleaver.

“You’re baking?”

Despite her appearance and the mess that used to be his kitchen, the actual aroma in the room was pleasant and he could tell from the scent of browning sugar that whatever she’d stuck in the oven was almost ready.

She smiled as she started over to him, her hands still weighed down by the large mixing bowl containing dough for her second batch, or something like it. “Oh, yes. It’s a little something I’ve been working on.”

Unfortunately, this declaration from Mel was punctuated by her tripping over the perfectly clear and smooth marble floor and spilling the dough all over him.

He gritted his teeth and rushed to the sink to get the sticky mixture off his shirt. This was one of his favorite button downs. Ray had purchased it in Milan at Fashion Week and it was one of his clubbing staples. It had cost well over a grand. Chump change then, but still, such a favorite shirt deserved more than apple turnover or whatever the hell it was that was now stuck all over it.

“Are you serious?” he roared, and then he stilled, flushing, when he noticed her flinch.

It was just a moment before she was all over him with a bottle of club soda and a hand towel. “I can get that right out,” she said. “It’s not that difficult at all, whoops!” she exclaimed as a large flood of water dripped over his crotch.

It was a disaster.

He shook his head, mindful of upsetting her – after all, he already felt like a dick for shouting at her. Ray excused himself and rushed back to his room. He dumped his shirt in the Jacuzzi, deciding he’d trash it later.

After a quick
second
shower, Ray opted to slide on some sweats and a plain t-shirt. Until this latest kick of hers was over, he needed to avoid nice clothes.

When he went back downstairs, he was surprised to find that though the kitchen was still a world class disaster zone rivaling Chernobyl, there were two plates laid out for them on the kitchen table, both brimming over with giant cinnamon buns that could make Cinnabon close up shop and go home in defeat. 

He sat at the table and pulled the bowl of icing to him and started decking out his massive pastry. He missed homemade pastries. In the castle, the lead baker, Irina, always made a variety of delicious strudels, sweet rolls, and pies. Some of his fondest memories as a child were of sneaking into the kitchen with his sister Serena and eating his weight’s worth in sweet breads. Sure, even without access to unlimited wealth, he still ate well. But it wasn’t the same as the warm, buttery goodness of something straight from the oven.

Mel sat across from him and waited for him to take his first bite.

He obliged and moaned a bit, an almost obscene sound, in response to the explosion of flavor on his tongue. “My God, these are amazing.”

She smiled back at him and bit into her food as well. Some of the spastic perkiness, that Stepford Wife vibe he’d felt earlier had abated; she seemed calmer, like that collected siren from the balcony of a week ago.

“It’s a special recipe.”

“I can tell there’s something else here besides the cinnamon and apple shavings. Is there a chance it’s nutmeg?”

She mimed turning a key in front of her mouth. “A good baker never tells. Those are trade secrets.”

Ray sighed and took another bite. “I know a lot about those.”

“Baking or secrets?” she asked.

“Both. Mostly about secrets. There are plenty of secrets in the royal closet that have to be kept hidden, things that can never be allowed on the world stage.” 

“Must be hard.”

“It is,” he admitted. “But I think we all have our secrets. For example, this weird Julia Child act aside, you play your cards incredibly close to the chest. What is it you’re hiding, or hiding from?”

Her expression darkened, like a shade coming down over her eyes. She shook her head. “What you see is what you get from me, promise,” she said. Then there was a flicker and her demeanor completely changed; that same plastic Disney World approved smile was back on her face. “Anyway, sweetie, I’ll make a ton more of these. I even have other test recipes. Baking I can do, but I’ve never pressed myself as a cook. I’ve always wanted to try Lima Bean casserole. I saw it in a cookbook once, and I think that’ll be divine before I rush off to my shift.”

“It’ll be something,” he said, trying not to let his tone or expression give him away.
Lima beans, dear God.
He was still not sure whether the Mel he was talking to was the real Mel or the new, not-so-improved Mel, or if he even knew which was the real one. 

“Is it the 15
th
yet?” Ray asked, his voice pleading and frustrated.

Gregory chuckled on the other end. “You’ve been married, so to speak, for eight days. That’s not even the length of most people’s honeymoons! Seriously, what could she have done in a week to ruin everything? A throne and a multibillion-dollar inheritance are serious acquisitions to consider forfeiting so you can jump ship so soon. What’s going on?”

Ray sighed and glanced at his budding collection of ruined shirts. Last night, dinner had ended up in his lap and almost burned him. The stench of lima beans mixed with cream cheese in that horrid casserole was still clinging to his hair.

This morning, even though she had ended up creating amazing cherry turnovers, she’d somehow managed to get glops of it in his hair and the collar of his shirt when she kissed him at the breakfast table. While he was glad for that first bit of physical affection since the wedding night they couldn’t remember, he was eating through the Perry Ellis Collection like no one’s business.

“She’s flipped.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, “that I was first attracted by an amazing, hot, smart woman, and now I have to deal with this crazy Betty Crocker wannabe. Every time I do anything at home, there she is in the kitchen creating random messes and ruining my clothes. I’m
wearing
more of the food than I’m actually eating.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“Well is that it? She’s messed up your clothes?”

“No, that’s not it. I know this is a business arrangement, and most of the time she makes that clear.”

“Most of the time?”

“Well, since the baking bonanza started, she’s been saccharine sweet and a very perfect housewife. She actually kissed me for the first time in a week.”

“I see,” Gregory said, his tone measured and deliberate.

“Again, what is that supposed to mean? You’re my friend; you’re not a shrink. So tell me what any of this means?”

“And has anything else happened?”

“Not really. It was like she went to work one day as one person and came back as a completely different, and very annoying, person.”  

“Oh, I get it.”

“You get it? Because I sure don’t. She has also somehow acquired the worst wardrobe I’ve ever seen. Today she was wearing a plaid skirt-shorts thing.”

“Gaucho pants.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read the internet and have five sisters, not just the one like you,” Gregory said. “So, after going to work, she had a personality 180
and
became a walking fashion disaster. I don’t mean to underestimate your intelligence…”

“You really don’t have to put it like that. We’ve been friends for too long.” 

“True, I’ll just chalk up your acting like an idiot to being royalty, something to do with primarily living in a fantasy bubble.”

“Meaning?”

“Clearly, she’s had a long conversation with one of her friends. They’ve decided how everything is going to work out.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“It’s a plot, Ray. She’s trying to drive you off by playing out every terrible girlfriend cliché she can. The too-happy homemaker, letting her looks go…she’s going to rev all that up and make you crazy so she can get out of the contract early. The deal, as you well know, is that if you dump her first, you still owe her the house.” 

“Well, yes.”

“So she’s driving you away so she can cut her losses twenty days early. Don’t let her, my friend. The more annoying she gets, the more you dig in and pretend you love it. In another week, she’ll be so confused and out of ideas that the real Melissa will resurface.”

“You say that, but I’m running out of clothes that she hasn’t accidentally set on fire or turned into a sugary mess!”

“You know, for a guy who’s bedded more women than I can count, than even some NASA super computers can count…”

“I am
not
that bad.”

“You’re not that good either, or our dear queen wouldn’t have kicked you off the continent.”

“Was there a point?” he growled, not sure why he ever thought calling Gregory would result in any comforting advice.

“Yes, there definitely is. You need to call her bluff. Never let her realize that you know she’s putting up a ruse. Let her be as annoying as she wants. It’s all a game and you just have to survive it. My God, you’d think you’d understand women better.”

“I do!”

Gregory chuckled long and hard on the other end. “My friend, you do not; Melissa is clearly eating you alive.”