Bastian Page 3

  Only, it wasn’t.

  I couldn’t wait to get this over with, put in my time if you will, then continue on with my life.

  Zara eyed me when I arrived at work, probably seeing if I was about to jump ship or not. “Did you sleep at all?” she asked, as I removed my lightweight trench coat.

  “Yes, actually. I decided to do a little reading up on the man of the hour, you know, to have a leg up on our meeting—”

  “You mean date.”

  “—meeting, and there was so little that interested me, I fell asleep from boredom,” I finished. That wasn’t entirely true. I had found several accounts of him volunteering his time with a wildlife organization that worked soley towards conservationism. Together, the group had aided in the efforts of six different animal species’ population increase. They had been dangerously close to being put on the endangered species list, but now they were thriving.

  I found it commendable, but I was still skeptical of Bastian. It was easy to pose for a well staged picture. I bet he was put up in the best suite instead of the nitty gritty tents that the others undoubtedly called home.

  “Well, let’s hope you don’t fall asleep through the actual date.” She took a sip from her mug and was struck with a question. “Hey, how’s this going to go down? Is he just going to stroll through the front doors? Will he send someone for you? Or are you meeting him wherever you’re going?”

  Good point. I hadn’t a clue, and the lack of knowing led me to believe he would indeed stand me up. “The ball is in his court: I told him the day and the time, and he knows where I work. I’ll continue my day as normal, and if he shows up, then he does. If not, then yay.” I did a tiny little cheer with my fists.

  “You’re crazy,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You’ve no idea,” I agreed, getting back to work.

  I had managed to somehow immerse myself enough to temporarily forget the time. So, when it was five to one, with no sign of his holiness, I made my way down the hall to find the loo.

  I was almost to the same spot I had had my first encounter with Bastian, when I looked up to see him walking towards me. He had traded his well tailored suit for a more relaxed look consisting of a distressed moto jacket, a henley and dark rinsed jeans. He looked dangerous and he looked positively sexy. I wasn’t prepared for this at all.

  “Hi,” he beamed.

  I looked around, mostly to see if anyone was around. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”

  “I’m here because we have a standing engagement and I came from back there,” he said, hiking his thumb over his shoulder. “Figured the front door would make too much of a scene, so I’ve gotten quite good at sneaking in through service doors, back doors, even loading docks some times.”

  I was waiting for a crude insinuation from him, but it never came.

  “Surprised I showed?” he asked, an air of pride to his voice.

  “A little,” I confessed.

  “Well, I’m full of surprises, as you will soon find out,” he informed me, a twinkle in his eye. “Are you ready then?”

  I left my purse in the office, so I excused myself and returned with it and my trench in a few minutes. “Ok, one hour. Clock’s ticking,” I told him.

  “Are you always this punctual, love?”

  And we were back to the pet name. I bit my tongue at a cheeky reply and settled for a simple yes.

  “Very well,” he said, chuckling, leading me out one of the back doors. He placed his hand at the small of my back as he held the door open for me. The proximity was alarming, and I could feel the heat radiating off his body as I walked past him. And once again, he leaned down to my ear to whisper to me. “After you, Alana…”

  Chapter 3

  Bastian

  Privilege was not just something I was born in to, but it was something I was accustomed to and to some degree expected. Now, before that makes me sound like a pompous ass, let me explain.

  I am Crown Prince Bastian of the Kingdom of Devmont, first in line to the throne, behind my father, King Arik.

  Nothing about my upbringing was normal. I grew up in a castle, not a house. Though my mother insisted on being as hands on as possible, I still had a nanny. I had the best tutors. We had live-in staff. I had perfected my crowd-pleasing wave by the age of three.

  I was spoiled.

  But despite what the magazines and tabloids printed about me being a flippant playboy, I tried to stay humble and empathetic towards others.

  When my father courted my mother, it was a bit of a scandal. She hadn’t come from royal blood, but rather a modest farming family.

  Forty years ago, the country was a little more conservative in their thinking and by the time my parents had been wed, the country still hadn’t changed.

  My father worked hard to bring us into a more modernized, progressive country as a whole, and their marriage was the catalyst. Over their wedded years, rules, policies and decorum slowly changed and now we were a relatively forward-thinking nation.

  My mother, Queen Lidia, was the kindest person I had ever known. Together, she and my father ruled with a firm but fair hand, and were revered by their fellow countrymen. I say ‘together’ because my father would be nothing without his queen. Yes, he was the highest-ranking monarch, yes, he was the king, but I’d reckon there wasn’t a wiser man than him.

  I’d spent my fair share of time around other royal families and they almost all seemed to have a marriage of convenience; they each got something out of it, but love didn’t seem to be present or at the center of the relationship. And, I supposed to a degree, our situation was unique. History began with marriage alliances, strengthening countries and creating important allies.

  So, when I had asked my father if he and mother actually liked each other, he laughed, a deep rumble from his belly. “Oh, my son, of course,” he said, rubbing the corner of his eye. “I love your mother more than anything in this world.” I had given him a skeptical look and he had asked me to sit. Complying, I took a seat opposite him and listened.

  “I’m going to tell you the secret to a happy marriage,” he began, and I suppressed an eye roll. How could he possibly know? “A strong marriage is the union made up of two good forgivers.”

  I scrunched my nose up, confused. “Empathy, forgiveness and trust all go into it as well,” he continued. “If you can find the rare woman who has those qualities, and you can find it in yourself to bring them to the table as well, don’t ever let it go. Hold on to it for dear life, nurture it, let it grow and thrive. And work to keep it that way. There’s nothing more beautiful than a relationship built on those things.”

  His words held a hell of a lot of truth, but as a boy, it fell on semi-deaf ears.

  The queen’s simple upbringing was always at the forefront of raising me. Being an only child, I had a lot of one on one time with both of them, but it was my mother who always doled out sage pieces of advice, knowing that regardless of our titles, we had an extra responsibility that sat on our shoulders.

  And I had taken it to heart. Some of my earliest memories were accompanying her to shelters, hospitals, spending time with veterans and the like, and once I was older, I volunteered my time when I could.

  Her benevolence was inspiring, comforting and something you could only hope to come close to duplicating.

  I had watched many a speech given by both parents, and had given my first solo one at the age of thirteen. I remembered being nervous, but with encouraging words from my father, I had handled it quite well.

  So, when my father had to back out of the National Archives engagement for a foreign affair, I was the natural replacement.

  The fire could’ve been so much worse, but the history department that was affected, lost the most. I was happy to be able to present them with a donation check, knowing it would be put to good use.

  I just hadn’t expected to hand it over to someone like her. It was clear that she was nervous, whether from being in fr
ont of a crowd or me was yet to be determined, but I found myself wanting to know more about her.

  In the forty-two second interaction, she had piqued my interest, mostly because of her immediate desire to flee. But after our encounter in the corridor, she had completely wiled me and it hadn’t been a simple curiosity to get to know more about her, it had been a necessity.

  Her large brown eyes were indeed windows to her soul, subtly revealing little truths, though she’d most likely deny it. Unease, embarrassment and anger swirled behind her long lashes, and she reminded me of a cornered animal.

  But a beautiful one at that. I hadn’t tried to hide the surprise on my own face when her wicked, witty words flowed from her mouth like wine from a cask.

  Not once had she addressed me properly, behaved in a manner fit for a prince, nor had she been remotely respectful. And I loved it. It was refreshing as hell to not be treated like, well, royalty.

  Ass kissing was as regular as the tabloid fodder, so, it was her sharp tongue that drew me to her, and I found myself verbally sparring with her. It was unlike anything I had experienced before; absent was the flattery, flirting and ulterior motives that every woman tried. That was boring.

  Not to say I hadn’t had my fair share of company before, but none of it was rousing, stimulating or even remotely long term. I had gone through a bit of a streak in my late teens and early twenties, and that’s when the paparazzi really started to take notice.

  At the time, the clever nicknames and monikers had made sense: The Philandering Prince or The Una-bash-ed Prince. But I had quickly gotten that out of my system, but unfortunately it wasn’t something the papzz was willing to let go. So, here I was, a thirty-five-year-old prince, who was still revered as a promiscuous would-be ruler.

  The problem was I didn’t really care what they printed about me. It was a nightmare for our PR team; they wanted me at every event, every gala, highlighting the ‘good things’ that I truly had never been a part of.

  Never mind the charities and other organizations I gave my time to. Bad press was the best I was to receive and apparently that wasn’t going to change for quite some time.

  And I had a feeling a lot of the animosity I was fielding from her was due in part to the falsely painted picture of myself, courtesy of the tabloids. Or perhaps I disgusted her for other reasons.

  Either way, I was dying to know how I could repulse a stranger as much as I evidently did.

  I truly hadn’t thought she’d agree to my offer of making up for the mess I had caused. All I knew was I had a new found appreciation for cake frosting.

  And I had come to quite enjoy how easy it was to make her flustered. It wasn’t hard to find her name, a quick look on the archives department listings, and I had it.

  And the evident shiver that she reacted to when I whispered her name? So worth it.

  She was walking slightly in front of me. My single stride was equal to one and a half of hers, and I was caught up in no time.

  “I was thinking we’d go to the coffee shop a few blocks down on the corner. Would you like to walk?” I asked. She was wearing practical flats today, and I was slightly disappointed she hadn’t been wearing the pumps she had when we met earlier in the week.

  “Walking is fine,” she said neutrally. “I prefer it actually. I need to stretch my legs after sitting at my desk all morning.”

  We were comfortably side by side now, and a gentle wind had blown crossways. I caught the scent of her floral perfume and decided it was a perfect match for her: beautiful and light with undertones of spice.

  I had been caught up in my mental assessment of her fragrance when the verbal notes of spice hit me.

  “I won’t even ask how you found out my name; it wouldn’t be hard to find, even for someone like you.” She said the last part as more an afterthought, and for once, she actually seemed ashamed of her behavior. Her cheeks flushed a fantastic shade of pink, and it only made her look prettier. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that,” she explained.

  “Oh, but I think you did,” I replied, calling her bluff. “I feel you might have pegged me for a scoundrel, Alana. Please correct me if I’m wrong.” I kept my tone light and almost playful, not wanting to bring an unnecessary amount of tension or drama to our conversation.

  “That would be…accurate, I’m afraid,” she confessed. “Look, Bastian,” she said, coming to a stop and facing me. “You’re a cad, a womanizer, and it’s just so, so…” she stuttered, struggling to find the correct word. “Disheartening. You have the world at your fingertips—or the country at least—and there’s so much you could be doing instead of wasting your time with those, those…bimbos,” she ranted, using her choice word from earlier. She crossed her arms defensively, and that was when I noticed the collar on her blouse was a solid contrast to the rest of the shirt. On anyone else it would come across as quirky, but on her, it was adorably sexy.

  “I’ve had three failed relationships, all of which were a minimum of a year, I’ve never had a one-night stand and I haven’t been on an actual date in four years.” I don’t know what compelled to me tell her all of that, but I did. And it didn’t feel wrong. Quite the opposite actually.

  “Oh, well…I see.” She was at a loss for words for once. “But the press, the magazines…”

  “Let me ask you this,” I began. “How often do you read articles about acts of heroism or do gooders? What about anything lighthearted or inspiring?” When she didn’t answer, I pressed on. “Exactly. They’re so few and far between because it doesn’t sell. I’m kind of disappointed in you,” I teased.

  She made the subtlest harrumph noise, but I heard it loud and clear. A new shade of pink now crept up from her chest and was a stark contrast to the striking cobalt of her shirt. I found myself wanting to see how far down the blush had reached.

  “Mama, mama!” a kid said excitedly. “That’s Prince Bastian, Mama!” He was tugging on her coat sleeve, wanting her permission to approach me.

  The boy had to be no older than five or six and he was wearing a military camo costume. I made eye contact with him and took a few steps towards him and his mother.

  “Hi buddy,” I greeted with a smile. I hadn’t abandoned Alana, she was only a few feet behind me, and I could feel her eyes on me during the entire interaction. “I couldn’t help but notice your uniform. Do you plan on serving some day?” I asked seriously.

  “Uh huh,” he answered. “Just like you did, Prince Bastian. I want to fly heli-topters like you did!”

  I stole a glance at the kid’s mother, and it was obvious she was trying to have him wrap it up. I gave her a look, saying it was more than ok.

  I loved interacting with the public, especially kids. There was such a raw honesty to them, and more often than not, it was laced with unintended humor.

  “Helicopters are my favorite,” I said, smiling at him. “In fact,” I said, patting my chest then reaching inside my jacket to an inner pocket, “I have something for you.” I always kept a handful of stickers in my pockets when I knew I’d be out and about.

  “Ohmygosh, this is the coolest,” he proclaimed, referring to the military style helicopter sticker.

  “Promise me you’ll do well in school and study lots and be good for your parents, yeah?” I asked him.

  He looked up at me, eyes wide in awe. “I will,” he promised, and then he and his mother continued on their way.

  “What else do you have hiding in there?” Alana asked.

  A few innuendos crossed my mind, but I refrained. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I winked at her and we continued on our way.

  It was a pleasantly mild day, the sun occasionally peeking out behind the clouds. A few darker ones loomed in the distance, hovering above the mountain tops.

  “So,” I started, “as much as I’d like to say I had my guys dig up all of your personal history, I told you I was not a barbarian. Organic interactions are much more my style.” And it was true.

  �
�I see.” We were almost to the coffee shop and she angled herself to better speak to me. “So, to be fair, I have to cross ‘barbarian’ off the proverbial list of personality traits?”

  “Perhaps you could replace it with ‘awesome with kids’,” I suggested. “Not sure there’s a single word for that.”

  “Hmm,” she paused, thinking. “How about a ‘sticker-toting-anticipatory-guy’?”

  “Now that’s definitely more than one word. You suck at this game,” I jested, nudging her with my elbow, and damn if I didn’t see a smile on her face. We had reached the shop and I held the door open for her.

  Being the end of the week, the shop wasn’t as busy at it usually was earlier on. We made our way to the order counter and I greeted the barista.

  “Stephan, good to see you, man.” I reached across the counter and we shook hands.

  “Bash! Been a while, friend. What have you been up to?” he asked, his eyes darting between Alana and myself.

  “Oh, you know, the same…sleepless nights filled with willing women, booze and drugs. You?” I didn’t have to look at Alana to see the eye roll she had no desire to hide.

  “Always the center of attention, you were. Nah man, just working and staying positive, taking each day as it comes.”

  I was glad to hear it.

  He took our orders and once we had our to-go cups, we made our way outside once more, but not before Stephan and I gave each other a handshake hug.

  “He seems really nice. How do you two know each other? You can’t possibly be that much of a caffeine fiend,” she said conversationally.

  I shook my head. “He and I served together. He was a tech specialist. Stephan is one of the good guys, give you the shirt off his back, help a friend in need any time of the day or night. When we were deployed the second time, his wife ended up leaving him and it really took a toll on him. So, this job has been a great way to keep his head in the game, so to speak.” It did help that I was a caffeine aficionado, and whenever I ventured in to town, I’d make it a point to stop and visit.