Prince Albert(68)

"Of course I did," Albie says. "I can't have just anyone looking after you. Noah assures me he's solid."

"How protective and also slightly misogynistic of you."

"Careful with the big words, luv," he says. "Me caveman. No understand big words."

I stick out my tongue at him before looking back at my outfit choices. "I'm going to be late," I say.

"So you don't want me to help you get dressed, then," he says, pulling me against his hardness. Heat pools between my legs, but I push him away.

"Your version of getting dressed involves fewer articles of clothing than mine does," I say, laughing even as he reaches for the hem of my t-shirt and yanks it over my head.

"You should be in fewer articles of clothing," he says. His hands run up my back to unhook my bra but I wriggle away.

"I need my bra, thanks," I say.

"But you don't need those pants." He reaches for the button on my jeans and I smack his hands.

"Out," I tell him. "I'm going to be late."

"Fine, fine," he says, raising his hands in mock surrender as he walks backward. "Where are you going?"

"Why, are you keeping tabs on me?" I tease. I yank off my jeans and shimmy into a royal blue skirt that matches a suit jacket on the bed.

A knock on the door interrupts us before I can answer, and I glare at Albie, as I point toward the secret passageway. "Just a second!" I yell.

Albie rolls his eyes and sighs before disappearing behind the wall. Luckily, it's only the stylist, checking to see what help I need with my outfit. She eyes me critically, her gaze focused on the length of my body. "Look," I say. "It seems a bit ridiculous to get dressed up like this to go do charity work."

Belle looks at me, her lips pursed like she just ate a lemon. "You're not doing charity work," she says. "You're representing the royal family. This isn't a formalized PR event, but there will likely be photographers there, media presence. You must look like you're one of the royals. Classy. Subdued. Appropriate. Oh, just a second. I have just the thing."

She disappears into the closet, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat. When my mother said she'd set up some charity work for me, that I could go to visit a children's hospital in town or a refugee organization, I didn't consider the fact that it would involve the media. That is exactly the opposite of what I'm interested in.

The stylist returns with a pearl necklace in her hand. "This will do," she says. "Would you like me to help you with it?"

I nod mutely as she slips it around my neck, then steps back and nods her approval. "One other thing," she says, reaching for her handbag. She pulls out a file and hands it to me. "Your mother asked that I pass along the itinerary information to you. Your security detail will accompany you, but unfortunately, she will not. Something came up. She requested that I pass along her regrets."

"What?" I squeak. My mother sent the stylist to drop the bombshell that there will likely be photographers at the children’s hospital and that – oh, by the way, no big deal – I’ll be attending by myself?

I clench my hands, digging my fingernails into my palm. Damn it.

"Is there anything else, Miss Kensington?" the stylist asks. She's already on the move, headed toward the door with her large tote bag over her shoulder.

I clear my throat. "No. Thank you."

I wait until she's gone to groan my frustration, as I grab my clutch purse, momentarily considering faking sick to get out of this afternoon. But only for a split second – I’m going to a children’s hospital, after all.

I’ll be able to get through a little bit of media time, I mentally reassure myself. The palace public relations team has read me the riot act, already preparing me for what to say and what not to say when it comes to the media. If I can simply remember to breathe and smile and wave, everything will be okay. I’ll just pretend not to hear any questions that reporters ask.

It’ll work, I tell myself.

Totally.

I feel like I’m going to vomit.

Outside, I walk with Simon to the car. Simon seems to be made entirely of stone, his face expressionless. He makes no attempt at chitchat or small talk as we walk, something that at least the other bodyguards try to do.

Being accompanied by Simon only makes my anxiety worse.

I’m filled with dread. The only times I've been outside the palace or summerhouse have been accompanied, and now I'm walking into a potential media situation.

I tell myself not to panic as Simon opens the car door for me.

"Need a lift?" Albie grins at me from inside the car.

"Are you following me?" I try to inject some annoyance into my voice, but I can't. I'm too relieved to see him.