I’m going to have enough trouble pulling this off as it is.
In the tiny helipad waiting room, I tug my pink skirt lower on my hips and adjust my ruffled blouse, but I can’t seem to get comfortable. Elizabeth altered her clothes flawlessly to fit me—staying up until two in the morning to make sure I could zip every dress and squeeze into every skirt—but I’m not used to formal wear. I spend my life in comfy cotton and spandex appropriate for hiking and mountain biking and having adventures. I’m not suited to being a pretty princess any more than Elizabeth is suited to leading my nature hikes with the biologists.
Luckily, my assistant, Bran, was able to take over for me while I’m gone. I have no doubt the beefy twenty-year-old will charm the ladies with his down-to-earth demeanor and superhero-sized muscles, but I’m the only one who can take over for Elizabeth.
I’m the only one with my sister’s face.
I pull my compact from my purse, swiping smeared mascara from under my eyes, so like Lizzy’s except for the tiny fleck of black near the iris on my right side. But Andrew hasn’t spent hours staring lovingly into my sister’s baby blues. He won’t notice that tiny difference. As long as I hit the major Lizzy-specific things, I should be fine.
Shy and soft-spoken with strangers should be easy to fake—I don’t want to talk to any of the jerks involved in forcing my sister into a miserable marriage anyway—but the stutter will be harder. I tried practicing last night, but it felt awful, like I was making fun of Elizabeth the way the kids in the village did when one of our nannies took us into town to the playground and for shopping.
Of course, those kids didn’t make fun of her for long. Zan and I taught them respect for the solidarity of triplets pretty darned quick.
I’ve spent my life defending Lizzy. Protecting Lizzy.
And that’s what I intend to keep doing, even if it makes me miserable every second of my month in Gallantia.
As if summoned by my ominous thoughts, the womp-womp-womp of helicopter blades rumbles through the air. I turn to the window, watching the shiny, royal blue Gallantian helicopter alight on the pad like a terribly expensive dragonfly. A beat later, the side door slides open, and a man emerges, looking like a spy with his smart black suit and dark glasses.
All right. This is it.
Time to fake it until I make it.
Chin up and heart pounding, I start for the waiting room exit, dragging my suitcase behind me, but stop dead as a second figure emerges behind the first.
This one is taller, broader, and wearing dark gray suit pants and a greenish-gold button-down shirt that clings to his every sculpted muscle. His curly dark hair is swept off his forehead with an ease that belies what I’m sure is a five-hundred-dollar haircut, and his skin practically glows with health.
He looks expensive.
Beautiful.
And royal as hell.
Prince Andrew is even more handsome in person than he is on the internet, and I hate him for it. Instantly. Intensely.
He isn’t supposed to be here!
Lizzy said he was too busy to make the trip out to fetch her personally.
Watching him swagger across the tarmac, I decide to hate God a little, too. A human this gorgeous is unfair to the rest of us mortals. He can’t help but assume he can do whatever he wants—put snakes in a little girl’s bed, post raunchy pictures of his butt on the internet, stop calling his fiancée because it interferes with his jet-setting, man-whore lifestyle—and get away with it.
And he is going to get away with it.
Exactly one month from today, Lizzy will marry him, and there’s nothing I can do to stop her. I have, in fact, sworn not to interfere in any way.
I promised my sister I would be her loyal stand-in.
But I underestimated how much I would want to punch Andrew in the gut. Or the face. Or the butt—I steal a better look at that fantastically shaped ass as he pauses to take in the view of the snow-dusted mountains that cradle our valley in their arms.
See, even he isn’t immune to natural beauty. Maybe you two will have something in common, after all.
I silence the inner voice with a hiss beneath my breath—I don’t want to have anything in common with Prince Punk-ass—and push through the door. As I cross to meet the two men, I do my best to stretch a timid, Lizzy-shaped smile across my lips and banish the hateful laser beams from my eyes.
Zan is the undisputed queen of shooting hateful laser beams, but when I’m fired up, I can unleash a look that kills.
But I can’t do that to Andrew.
I have to be sweet.
Be sweet, be sweet, be sweet, dammit!