Royally Matched(25)
“I saw Sarah earlier. We said hello.”
“Oh good. She didn’t want to come at first, but I’m glad she did. We have to get her out of her shell. Not too much, just enough to show her a good time, right?”
I nod. “Count me in.”
Penelope stays.
And that means Sarah does too.
Ding!
Princess Alpacca, pronounced like the animal, first in line to the throne of Alieya Island, a small nation below the south of France. The Queen invited her to Wessco after an attempted coup forced her family into exile last year. She doesn’t speak English and I don’t know a word of Aliesh. This is going to be a challenge.
Guermo, her translator, glares at me like I’m the bubonic plague in human form—with a mixture of hatred, disgust, and just a touch of fear.
She speaks in Aliesh, looking at me.
And Guermo translates. “She says she thinks you are very ugly.”
Princess Alpacca nods vigorously.
She’s pretty in a cute kind of way. Wild curly hair, round hazel eyes, a tiny bulbous nose, and full cheeks.
“She says she doesn’t like you or your stupid country,” Guermo informs me.
Another nod and a blank but eager smile.
“She says she would rather throw herself off the rocks to her death in the waves and be devoured by the fish than be your queen.”
I look him in the face. “She barely said anything.”
He shrugs. “She says it with her eyes. I know these things. If you weren’t so stupid you would know too.”
More nodding.
“Fantastic.”
She says something to Guermo in Aliesh, then he says something back—harshly and disapproving. And now, they’re arguing.
But they can stay.
Guermo is obviously in love with Alpacca and she clearly has no idea. My presence will force him to admit his feelings . . . but does she return his infatuation? It’ll be like living in a Latin soap opera—dramatic, passionate, and over the top. I have to see how it ends.
Ding!
Lady Libadocious Loutenhiemer. Track and Field Olympian in the last two games. The youngest Wessconian to ever win a gold medal, cousin of a marquess.
“You can call me Libby. Or Libs. Lulu. Or LL—I pretty much answer to anything.”
She’s in amazing shape—everything tight and toned, but still definitely feminine. Wavy blond hair frames an attractive face with high cheekbones and great eyes.
“In my spare time, I like biking, swimming, running, fucking . . .”
I smirk. “What a coincidence—those are all my favorite hobbies too.”
Oh, yes.
Ding!
And so it goes. Some are bubbly and upbeat, some more ambitious and dramatic, but I enjoy meeting and chatting with all of them. It’s difficult to make cuts, but the show must go on. After the dating game, Vanessa hands me a map of the castle, marking the rooms where each of the ladies is staying.
I do my bit and leave the glass-slipper charms on the pillows of the girls I’ve chosen. Then I exit filming as the cameras continue to roll, capturing the reactions. Screams of joy and disappointment race down the halls of the stone castle. And then there were ten.
DRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
“Stop.”
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
“Go away.”
Drrrr. Drrrr. Drrrr. Drrrr.
“Bloody hell.”
DRRRRRRRRR.
“Shut the fuck up!”
I’m talking to the cameras mounted in the corners of my room. I’m contractually obligated to let them be there, and while they were installed over a week ago, tonight’s the first night they’ve been on. Boy, are they ever on.
Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr. Drr.
It’s the audio version of Chinese water torture. It’s slowly and surely driving me mad. Every time I blink, breathe, roll over, scratch my nose or my nuts, the fucking things move. And they’re not quiet about it.
DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR. DRRRRRRR.
I throw my pillow at the one on the left, which seems to be the most active. But the launch falls short. And now I have no pillow. I just lie flat, looking at the ceiling.
Listening to the last sound I’ll hear before I die.
Drrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrrdrr . . .
I’ve been trying to sleep for the last three hours, and now it’s a quarter past two in the morning and I have to be dressed and downstairs for filming at half past six. Even for a practiced insomniac like myself, this is going to be rough. I need a few hours at least. At this point, I’d take a few minutes.
DRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
And I can’t even play my guitar. Because of that fucking sound.
Knock, knock.
That’s new. I sit up, looking at the cameras to see who’s making the strange noise.
Knock, knock.
But it’s coming from the door. I swing out of bed and cover my bare arse with a pair of sleeping pants—careful not to give the cameras a show. Then I swing the door open.