Everything Nick has done this afternoon has made the girls giggle, including choking on his paella and getting toilet paper stuck on his shoe on the way out of the bathroom. He could probably belch a Hamlet soliloquy and the ladies would still be swooning at his feet.
All three of us have been genetically blessed—thick dark brown hair, green eyes, and olive skin that bronzes perfectly in the sun—but the gossip blogs swear our baby brother, with his twin dimples and impossibly long eyelashes, is the prettiest of the Von Bergen princes.
Nick’s the beauty, bulky Jeffrey’s the brawn, and I’m the brains, a weight that rests heavily on my shoulders as I struggle to scheme my way out of this nightmare without a shred of help from my siblings. My brothers aren’t stupid—quite the contrary, they’re usually too clever for their own good—but they don’t worry about the future the way I do.
Neither of them is going to be king.
My country is depending on me to make wise decisions, to steer the ship of our nation, and to maintain the peace and prosperity my citizens enjoyed under my grandfather’s rule. I have a sacred trust to uphold, and I do my best “upholding” when I’m in good spirits.
I will not be in good spirits if I’m forced to marry Elizabeth Rochat.
We’re a match made in a sad, moldy basement where dreams go to die. But for some reason, my brothers don’t see the truth that’s so obvious to me.
Therefore, I’ve made a list to convince them it’s their royal duty to help me put an end to this charade.
I whip out my phone and pull up my latest note. “Not Compatible with my Fiancée Point One: Traveling is one of my favorite things. Meanwhile, poor Elizabeth is a sheltered homebody and possible agoraphobic who, as far as I know, has never left her family’s property,” I read, not bothering to lower my voice.
The only other people at the pool are the giggling heiresses, and Nick’s earlier attempts to get their number revealed they don’t speak English, German, French, or Gallantian. I’m guessing they’re Italian. I speak my share and could have found out for sure, but I’m not about to help Nick score with beautiful women when he’s all-too-eagerly sending me to my romantic grave.
“You know that’s not true,” Jeffrey says. “She was at the lake. When we were children.”
“Right,” Nick says, pointing a finger Jeffrey’s way. “She was at the lake. And she came to the anniversary thing the year before Dad left. Remember? She broke out in horrible hives at the ball, and one of the guards had to run her to the infirmary. No one told her the lemonade had strawberries in it or something like that. Right?”
“That’s right,” Jeffrey rumbles.
Nick shakes his head. “That poor thing. I’ve never seen anyone turn that color. She looked like a lobster splattered with Pepto-Bismol.”
“Yes. And according to my source, that was the last time the princess left her tower,” I announce flatly. “When she was a thirteen-year-old child. She’s allegedly so pale she glows in the dark and smokes in the sunlight. Like a vampire.”
Jeffrey grunts. “If she never leaves the castle, how does your ‘source’ know what she looks like?”
“Excellent point,” Nick says, before adding in a judgey voice, “and hiring spies to gather information on your fiancée is creepy. You get that, right?”
“I have ways of knowing things, and so does he,” I say. “And if Elizabeth were on social media like a normal human, I wouldn’t have to spy on her. But she isn’t. She’s a complete technophobe. She doesn’t even have a Mebook page.”
Nick’s jaw drops and even Jeffrey’s unflappable brows lift a centimeter or two.
“How is that possible?” Nick finally sputters. “Everyone has a Mebook page.”
“Elizabeth doesn’t,” I say, glad to see my brothers coming around.
This woman isn’t a normal, nearly twenty-five-year-old woman, and she’s absolutely a horrible fit for a man who has never met a stranger or a social media platform he can’t dominate with charm, wit, and a few strategically released pics of his backside.
I’m not above a butt shot for charity. When the veterans need funds to update the rec room in their retirement home, my brothers and I put our booties to work hawking designer jeans. It’s the least we can do for the men and women who so proudly served our country.
“How does she function?” Nick murmurs, still shell-shocked. “I use Mebook to sign into…everything. Absolutely everything.”
“I think it’s interesting,” Jeffrey says, as stubborn and contrary as ever. “Shows she’s got her own mind.”
“It shows she’s terrified of other human beings,” I say. “Which brings me to points two and three: Princess Elizabeth is both a technophobe and has a documented fear of large crowds, small crowds, and any gathering of two or more people she isn’t related to by blood.”