A Royal Disaster

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Rachel, Out of Office

  Tempting the Prince

  Royal Bastard

  Heired Lines

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Jennifer Bonds. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  10940 S Parker Rd

  Suite 327

  Parker, CO 80134

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Candace Havens, Wendy Chen, Lydia Sharp, and Liz Pelltier

  Cover illustration and design by Elizabeth Turner Stokes

  Staircase image by vectorpouch/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64937-086-0

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition November 2020

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  For all the girls who fall up the stairs.

  And for the incredible women they grow up to be.

  Chapter One

  “Have a nice day?” Elena Murphy narrowed her eyes at the squirrely little process server as he inched toward the door. For a New Yorker, the guy lacked grit. “I’m being sued. By my boyfriend!”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” Nia said, correcting Lena from her perch behind the counter.

  The process server wiped his brow but didn’t respond. Smart man. She almost felt bad for him, but he wasn’t the one being blindsided by an asinine lawsuit. His gaze swung from Lena to Nia and back again. Then he flung the door wide and bolted through it with his messenger bag clutched to his chest like the Holy Grail. The bells tinkled overhead and the studio door slammed behind him, leaving Lena holding the evidence of her latest screwup. She huffed out a breath, shoulders shaking with fury.

  Un-freaking-believable.

  She’d faced her fair share of crap, but getting sued by her ex? That was a new low. Lena eyed the door, wondering if she could catch up to the messenger of doom. Maybe if she gave the papers back she could pretend this wasn’t happening.

  “Why shoot the messenger when you can go straight to the source?” Nia asked, putting an end to the half-baked plan. “You know what they say, snitches get stitches.”

  Lena snorted and turned to her best friend and only employee. She considered explaining it was a civil lawsuit, not criminal, but that was a moot point. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of scary for a future librarian?”

  “No.” Nia grinned, looking far too pleased with herself. “But thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment.”

  “Agree to disagree,” Nia said, arching a dark brow. “Seriously, though. You should call that little weasel and give him a piece of your mind.”

  “With my luck, I’d end up with a restraining order.” She held up the crumpled papers, proof her ex didn’t know how to let things go. “Can you believe this? That pendejo is suing me for ten thousand dollars for—get this—emotional damage. He knows I can’t afford an attorney, let alone damages. It’s ridiculous!”

  “Is this about…” Nia paused for dramatic effect. “The incident?”

  Lena nodded. The incident had triggered her breakup with Chad, and it was a completely forbidden topic. Mostly because she refused to give it credence by talking about it. “I should have known this would come back to bite me in the ass.” She sighed and stuffed the papers in the back pocket of her paint-splattered overalls. “This lawsuit is total bullshit.”

  Nia gave her a sympathetic wave. “Preach, sister.”

  “Honestly, if anyone should be suing for emotional damage, it’s me. I’m the one who had to put up with that whiny man-child for six whole months.” She shuddered at the memory. “Remember the time he got sick and lay on the couch for three days, moaning like he was dying?”

  “Ah, yes, the dreaded man cold.” The corner of Nia’s lips curved upward. “I seem to remember telling you not to go out with him.”

  “So not the time for an I-told-you-so,” Lena said, slipping behind the counter of the tiny art studio. East Village Art was her life, and even though she was barely making ends meet and the building needed more repairs than she could count, it was home. Which was exactly why she needed to purge the last reminder of Chad from the back alley. “I swear, I’m never dating again. I am officially done with men,” she declared, rummaging under the counter for a pencil.

  “Never say never,” Nia chided. “If Prince Charming walked through that door you’d change your tune in a heartbeat.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Lena plucked a pencil from the basket of supplies and twisted her hair up into a bun. Once she’d secured it with the pencil, she turned back to her friend. “First of all, I’m a modern woman. I don’t need to be rescued by a prince. Secondly, what I need walking through the door is a steady stream of customers so I can afford a lawyer.” Lena frowned. “And let’s be honest, even if I did meet a prince, we both know it would end in disaster.” Like everything else in her life. Case in point, she was being sued by her ex-boyfriend. “Besides, real-life princes aren’t into Cinderella stories. Don’t they date, I don’t know, other royals or celebrities or whatever?”

  Nia laughed, her midnight curls bouncing with each shake of her shoulders. “‘Whatever’ covers a lot of territory. Maybe even the occasional artist.”

  “Not in this lifetime,” Lena grumbled, squaring her shoulders and glancing around the empty studio. Sunlight shone through the display window, slanting across the battered hardwood floors and scarred workstations, which were used for everything from painting to pottery. It wasn’t uncommon for the studio to be quiet in the afternoon, even on their best days. EVA did most of its business on nights and weekends, when she taught classes and workshops, but it didn’t soothe the familiar ache in her chest as she thought about the future.

  Three years ago she’d been so sure opening a studio was the right move, making art accessible to the neighborhood in all mediums, regardless of age or skill level. And she knew she should be proud her business had survived when so many others failed fast, but she couldn’t afford to kick up her heels and celebrate.

  Not when she liv
ed on the threshold of bankruptcy.

  The studio turned a meager profit, but repairs and property taxes made it impossible to save for a rainy day. Or, you know, getting sued by your ex. The building was valuable, one of the tiny turn-of-the-century relics that hadn’t been razed and replaced with a more modern mid-rise, mainly because her parents refused to sell. They’d always placed more value on their home and the memories they’d made in it than the land it occupied. It was a sentiment they’d passed to Lena, and now the studio and her tiny apartment upstairs was all she had left of them. She could easily find a buyer and walk away, her pockets lined with more than enough cash to cover her legal fees, but she’d never sell.

  She’d swallow her pride and go to Legal Aid before she’d let Chad’s ridiculous lawsuit drive her out of her home.

  Lena sighed. She’d figure it out somehow. She had to.

  “You okay?” Nia asked, her brow creased with worry.

  “Yeah.” Lena wiped the back of her hand across her forehead. “If you need me, I’ll be out back, painting.” The messy, passionate, exhibitionist kind. She needed an outlet for her frustration, and she had the perfect target in mind: Chad’s mural.

  She made her way to the back room and gathered several gallons of acrylic paint she’d been saving for just this occasion. With their relationship smoldering in the ashes, it was hard to remember why she’d let Chad talk her into the superhero mural in the first place. Maybe she’d wanted the challenge. Maybe she’d wanted to see him smile. Or maybe she just liked men in spandex.

  Whatever the reason, she was over it.

  It took several trips to lug enough paint out to the alley behind the shop, and there was a light sheen of sweat coating her skin by the time she was done. The little patch of outdoor space was one of the few benefits of being the smallest building on the block. So what if it was covered in cobblestones and hedged in on either side by towering mid-rises? It was still private outdoor space. Perfect for painting, sunbathing, and the few potted plants she managed to keep alive. She placed a plastic tarp on the ground to catch any spills and popped the lids off the cans. Then she studied her canvas, visualizing the final product.

  Technically, the mural was on the neighboring building but, since the wall faced the interior of the fenced-in alley, the owner had given her free reign to paint the swath of bricks as she saw fit.

  Lena studied the vibrant palette she’d selected for this project. Sapphire, amber, sangria, emerald, and a deep purple so rich it appeared almost black inside the can. Perfect for some next-level splatter art.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Lena hoisted the bucket of purple paint from the ground, resting it against her hip as she channeled every negative feeling Chad’s lawsuit had evoked. She tapped into the hurt, the anger, the knowledge that no matter how hard she tried, everything she touched would turn to shit.

  She was, after all, a walking, talking testament to Murphy’s Law.

  Lena shifted the bucket so she could grip it with both hands and twisted at the waist as she drew her arms back. Then she flung the paint at the wall with all the force she could muster, roaring as a stranger stumbled through a broken panel in the fence—directly in her line of fire.

  She watched in horror as the paint exploded from the can, arcing toward the trespasser. She lost her grip on the metal can and it slipped from her grasp, tumbling end over end as it soared through the air. Just like one of those slow motion videos, she heard herself scream “Nooo!” but it was too late. The paint pelted the stranger, landing with a sharp thwap-thwap-thwap! He threw his arms up to protect his head, and the flying can hit him square in the groin.

  He doubled over with a rather impressive curse, cupping the family jewels as the bucket clunked unceremoniously to the ground.

  Ay, mierda. Here comes another lawsuit.

  …

  What in the bloody hell?

  Pain lanced through Liam Stanley like a gunshot, and he nearly fell to his knees as white-hot lightning exploded in his cock. He spit every curse he’d ever learned—and invented a few new ones—as he cupped his throbbing balls. It was a decidedly un-princely gesture, and he gave silent thanks he’d ditched the paparazzi who had been tailing him.

  Serves you right for traipsing around the city without a security detail.

  It was hard to tell if the snide words echoing in his head were his own or Fin’s. He could already hear his assistant’s admonishment, though he was in no mood for a lecture. The afternoon’s trade meetings had been a disaster, and now this?

  Something warm and sticky dripped down his brow, coating his eyelids even as he clenched them shut.

  Liam sucked in a breath and forced himself to straighten. He’d been caught off guard, but even so, he couldn’t stand around with his dick in his hand. He scraped the thick goo from his face, doing his best to get his bearings and keep the offending mess out of his eyes. He blinked and stared down at his purple hands as rivulets of paint dripped between his fingers, splattering the ground below.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  “I—” The lone syllable hung in the alley, infused with a note of panic.

  Liam lifted his chin, gaze settling on the woman who’d attacked him with paint, of all things. He scanned his assailant from head to toe, his lips curving at the look of alarm frozen on her lovely face. She wore baggy, paint-splattered dungarees and stared at him with soulful eyes the color of black coffee, with expressive brows that were arched almost to her equally dark brown hairline. There was a faint blush on her olive-toned cheeks, and her rosy lips were parted as if the words had been sucked right out of her mouth.

  Hell, he would’ve called her beautiful—before she’d let the paint can of fury fly. Now he had a few other choice thoughts, but it was probably best to keep those to himself if he didn’t want to lose a testicle.

  “Is this how you greet all your guests?” he asked, grudgingly wiping his hands on his trousers. They were beyond salvageable anyway, and there was no way he’d be able to sneak back into the hotel in his current state.

  He’d have to call Fin for a ride and a change of clothes, after he’d been ignoring his calls all afternoon. Perhaps this was karma.

  “You’re not a guest,” the petite brunette said, snapping her jaw shut and straightening her spine. She planted her hands on her hips and sniffed in a way that would’ve put any lady of the court to shame. “You’re trespassing on my property. You’re an intruder.”

  “Ah, yes. The sign,” he said, recalling the flowered Private Property - No Trespassing placard he’d noticed as he slipped through a loose panel in the gate. Trespassing was hardly becoming of a gentleman, but he’d been out of options, and at the time it had seemed harmless enough. “Not very intimidating, for what it’s worth.” He flashed her a dimpled smile, one that had gotten him out of more scrapes than he could count over the years. “But perhaps that’s where the paint assault comes in?”

  “Assault?” She raised her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes. Okay. So, not a fan of dimples, then. “I think you mean self-defense.”

  Was she serious? She’d doused him in paint and damn near sterilized him with the flying paint can. All because he’d ducked through her gate to ditch the paps.

  Liam lifted a brow but said nothing. He was accustomed to difficult negotiations, and in his experience, the party who had the discipline to remain silent usually held the power. He might be dripping purple paint and unrecognizable, but surely she couldn’t think he’d been trying to attack her. She shifted her weight as the uncomfortable silence stretched on, lasting what felt like forever, but was probably only a minute or two, before she cracked.

  Impressive.

  “This is my art,” she said, cocking her head to peer around him. “Or it was, before you stepped in.”

  Following her gaze, Liam turned, his favorite Bolvaint dress shoes making an improper squis
h. There was a man-shaped outline in the massive purple splatter on the wall behind him, and for possibly the first time in his life, he was stunned speechless.

  She’d turned him into street art.

  “Sorry you got in the way, but this might be my best work yet,” she said with a hint of wonder that suggested he might be forgiven for trespassing. “I guess it’s too much to hope you’d be up for round two?”

  “Correct.” Liam chuckled, surveying the remaining cans of paint gathered at her feet. Her lack of decorum was refreshing. It was rare to meet someone who didn’t feel compelled to bow and scrape and apologize, but that didn’t mean he was going to subject himself to further humiliation.

  Not even for the sake of art.

  “What if I said I was sorry about your…you know,” she said, gesturing to his crotch even as her cheeks flushed a deep shade of crimson. “I mean, I hope it’s okay.” She paused, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear with an innocence rarely seen at court. “What am I saying? Of course it’s okay. It’s not like you can break it, right?” She paled. “Ay Dios mío. It’s not broken, is it?”

  Liam grinned. It wasn’t every day a woman talked about the royal penis in public. In fact, it was unheard of, which could mean only one thing. She had no idea who he was. People rarely treated him like he was human, as if his royal lineage made him something other, something—not someone—untouchable. “I’ll be fine, but I believe it’s the artist who’s supposed to suffer for their creative genius, not the subject.”

  “Damn.” She shrugged, a devious grin transforming her sweet face. She had a great smile—wide, genuine—and he couldn’t deny the surge of satisfaction he got from earning her favor. “It was worth a shot.”

  A flash lit up the alley, and his gaze darted to the fence, where a photographer was firing off shot after shot, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

  Bloody hell.

  The last thing he needed—on a long list of shit he didn’t need—was to be photographed in such an undignified position. With a woman, nonetheless.