Rich Boy: A Royal Landlord Romance (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 5) Read online

  Rich Boy

  The Blue Collar Bachelor Series Book 5

  Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Contents

  Stories by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  Looking for your next binge read?

  Calling all dirty girls!

  Let’s stay in touch!

  Stories by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  The Blue Collar Bachelors Series

  Lover Boy

  Play Boy

  Bad Boy

  Hot Boy

  Rich Boy

  Dream Boy (Coming Soon)

  The Dirty Suburbs Series

  Dirty Neighbor

  Dirty Player

  Dirty Stranger

  Dirty Favor

  Dirty Lover

  Dirty Farmer

  Dirty Silver

  Dirty Forever

  Dirty Christmas

  The Esquire Girls Series

  Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Madison’s Story

  For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Ruthie’s Story

  Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Hailey’s story

  Moments with Hailey (Hailey - Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)

  Esquire HEAT Series

  A Very Eager Intern

  A Very Frustrated Attorney

  Standalone Novels

  Matteo

  Beast

  Prologue

  Xavier

  Folkshire Palace, Ridgeland

  And by the way, your formal invitation to the annual Mating of the Brown Bottom Geese Ceremony has arrived, Your Highness. Isn’t that lovely news?”

  With my clammy fingers clenching anxiously around the warm crystal tumbler, I watch the approaching black SUV from the arched window of the tower. The vehicle travels over the historic drawbridge and through the palace’s massive iron gates, following the winding road toward the expansive cobblestone courtyard.

  “…If you require a companion for the event, I’ve just received a note from the office of Lady Yolanda relaying her interest in accompanying you again this year…”

  When the car rolls to a smooth halt, Harold, the head of my personal security team, exits the driver’s seat and opens the back door. He extends a hand to his passenger and the little old lady slides gingerly from the cushioned bench.

  “…Her letter does stipulate, however, that she’d need at least a month’s advance notice since the feathers for her headpiece would have to be flown in from Geneva and you know how overzealous our customs agents can be in their inspections…”

  At the sight of the newcomer, I feel a roiling pang in my gut. Beneath the glow of the hanging lanterns illuminating her shadowy figure, the old woman could easily be mistaken for my grandmother, the Queen. Tiny and wrinkled and slow-moving with a peach skirt suit and a full head of hair like a teased-out cotton ball.

  “…Lady Yolanda goes on to add that she’s an avid birdwatcher and, as always, she looks forward to seeing the mating geese this year…”

  The elderly woman grips Harold’s arm firmly as she makes a shaky ascent up to the imposing wood and iron double doors of the palace.

  “…She closes the letter by asking that I remind you just how much she loves a good cock...”

  I freeze.

  No—that’s not just a saucy punch line. This is my life.

  Fighting off a chuckle, I throw a pointed glance over my shoulder at Thomas, my fast-talking, slow-thinking personal secretary. Belatedly realizing what he just said, the bald-headed, bespectacled man clams up and his bulbous cheeks go as red as Snow White’s poisoned apple.

  He quickly drops Yolanda’s salacious proposition letter to the desk in front of him as if it’s on fire. He tries ineloquently to backpedal his words. “…Although I-I do believe that a male goose is called a ‘gander’, not a ‘c-cock’…b-but linguistics can be confusing for Lady Yolanda at times, Sir. A silly lass, she is."

  I blatantly roll my eyes.

  For the record, I’m intimately acquainted with how Yolanda feels about a good cock. My good cock, in particular. She’s shouted it from the top of her lungs on many a night, loud enough to deprive the entire south wing palace staff of their sleep. She isn’t the slightest bit confused about linguistics. She’s just a wild, unrepentant dirty-talking girl. And quite flexible, too, since we're on the topic.

  I don’t say that to Thomas, of course. He’d probably drop dead with mortification.

  Thinly-veiled innuendo from overzealous socialites is an occupational hazard I’ve been dealing with since my boarding school days, actually. I’ve long become acclimatized to it. When you’re standing second in the line of succession to the throne, women will go to great lengths in their efforts to claim the spot beside you. I find it mildly amusing at this point. Nothing more.

  Don't get me wrong, I enjoy sex as much as the next wealthy, handsome royal heir. But I don’t indulge as often as I could since it has one major drawback; it sometimes involves communicating—actually engaging in dialogue with another human being—which is usually rather annoying and completely not worth the trouble.

  After a tense beat, my secretary adjusts his glasses and shuffles some papers around on the antique hand-carved tabletop in front of him. Then he resumes his current bout of verbal incontinence. “Moving along. The Queen’s office sent a reminder that she’ll be expecting your presence when she hosts the Hand Embroidery and Crocheting Preservation Society brunch next week. The Palace wants to make a bold statement. To let the people know that the Monarchy fully supports efforts to preserve this dying craft.”

  She’ll be expecting my presence...

  The expectations. That’s my biggest peeve, honestly. As future titleholder to the Crown, I’m expected to observe onerous royal customs and represent the Monarchy at world summits and show face at frivolous social events.

  But here’s the thing…I’m all expectations’d out. I’m done.

  I refuse to participate in even one more high society gathering where a bunch of self-important aristocrats go all Peeping Tom on the national goose—and gander—as they get their freak on. Or one more Parliamentary circle jerk where idiot MPs puff up their chests and grandstand while no meaningful legal reform gets passed.

  I. Am. Done.

  And Grandmum is just going to have to find a way to deal with it.

  My attention moves back t
o the window and the little American woman in the courtyard. My sanity (and by extension, the future of the nation of Ridgeland) rests on her narrow, hunched shoulders and she doesn’t even know it.

  The low heel of her shoe catches on the stair and she stumbles just a bit but Harold’s sure arms are there to catch her. While she giggles good-humoredly at her clumsy misstep, the man remains unaffected, his usual indecipherable expression steadily in place. The pair of red-vested foot guards at the palace doors don’t react, either. They stand perfectly immobile and stare unflinchingly ahead.

  Collective resting bitch face at its finest.

  “…Unfortunately, we’ll have to reschedule your visit to the National College for Bagpipe Studies so as not to coincide with—”

  Grunting irreverently, I interrupt Thomas’s blathering. “Did you see that?”

  Of course he didn’t.

  He’s posed studiously at a small desk in the corner of the room, completely oblivious to anything that isn’t printed on official royal stationery and stacked in a pile in front of him. He’s been moving appointments around all morning, trying to arrange my official schedule for the upcoming weeks.

  He’ll soon learn that all that fussing was a colossal waste of time.

  At the sound of my voice, he immediately pauses the paper-shuffling and looks up at me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that, Your Highness.”

  I snatch the crystal decanter from the heavy oak bar cart along the wall and refill my glass. I tip my chin in the direction of the foot guards. “Tell me—how often do we change the batteries in those poor, soulless nutcrackers standing by the front entrance?”

  Thomas’s eyes grow wide with alarm and his voice tremors at not knowing the appropriate answer to my question. “Sir? I’m not sure I understand…”

  An exasperated sigh pours from the depths of my gut. Oh, come on, bloke. Live a little!

  “That was a joke, Thomas. A joke.” I take a gulp of my drink and plop down on the edge of my desk. “Does no one in this damned place have a sense of humor?”

  “Oh, yes, Sir. Of course. A joke.” Eager to please me, a stiff sound vaguely resembling a laugh sputters from his mouth. “Har-har!”

  That’s the problem with this place. The theatrics. Everyone around here is so good at playing his role and filling his part. The minute anything goes off script, they’re like a school of fish out of water. I’m sick of all the people around me lining up to kiss my arse because it’s what they’re supposed to do. Even when they’re older or smarter or stronger than me.

  They believe it’s a sign of respect but frankly, I take it as an insult. Like they think I’m too dumb to realize that they’re only playing up to my ego, pandering to my long string of titles. I can’t understand what the hell they’re so afraid of.

  Never once have I ordered a beheading. Totally not my style.

  The formality, the decorum, the rules and regulations—they’re driving me bloody insane. I have a household staff catering to me hand and foot. I have a bevy of personal assistants and secretaries and guards planning my every breath, my every move, my every trip to the crapper. But not one of them ever sidles up to me and says, "Heya mate. How ya doing these days?" Not one of them notices me. Not one of them realizes that beneath my disarming smiles, my sarcastic one-liners and my blustering bravado, I’m drowning in a shallow pool. I have been for the past eleven years…ever since the accident. I need to breathe. I need a goddamn minute to come up for air. But every time I stick my nose above water, the weight of the crown I’m set to inherit drives me back under.

  Thankfully, I’m not next in line. My father is ahead of me to get a go at the Throne of Ridgeland. But according to Grandmum, the hip-hop dance lessons he’s been taking to keep up with Youthful Bride Number Three may kill him first. (My current stepmother used to be a choreographer for Jason Derulo, I’m told.)

  I’ve known all my life that I’d eventually rise to the throne. The duty owed to my people and to my ancestors has been malletted into my head from before I was even old enough to grasp what it all meant. But it was always sort of theoretical. Sort of like how the Earth could theoretically get hit by an asteroid or spin off its axis. Or how you could theoretically go blind from wanking off too much. But with the Queen’s health quickly worsening over the past few months, my place in line to the throne is not so theoretical anymore.

  Shit is getting real.

  I’m brutally honest with myself. I took a good, hard look at who I am and who the country needs me to be. The two don’t match up. To make things worse, Grandmum and I haven’t been seeing eye-to-eye lately. She finds me impulsive, unpredictable, unreliable. She’s intent on whipping me into shape before she kicks the proverbial bucket. Definitely not my idea of a good time.

  How do I deal with it all? I drink brandy. I drink all the brandy. Day drinking. Night drinking. Evening, weekend and especially bank holiday drinking.

  But this coping mechanism isn’t working so well these days. And I just want to run…So, I’ve decided, that’s exactly what I’ll do.

  My gaze moves back outside. The old lady disappears into the building and I back away from the window. My heart beats riotously. There’s a slight tremor to my hands.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  I know the answer to that question is irrelevant. The ‘right thing’ and the ‘necessary thing’ are starkly at odds in this situation. With my poor choices, I’ve painted myself into a corner. If I don’t take drastic measures, I’ll break. And then, what good will I be to anyone?

  Thomas’s head snaps up when there’s a knock at the door. I spring to my feet. “Enter.” My voice is firm, commanding, masking the fact that I’m about to shit a brick into the trousers of my bespoke suit.

  The door widens and Harold stands in the open doorway. “Your Highness, I present to you Missus—”

  I don’t have time for the formalities. Eager to get this plan in motion, I cut him off in a brisk tone. “Leave us.”

  Without a wrinkle in his expression, he takes a quick step backward into the hallway. The fact alone that he’s put up with my curtness all these years without kicking my regal behind makes him worthy of a medal. One sharp glance in Thomas’s direction and he’s scurrying out of the room, hot on Harold’s heels. The door closes with a soft thud.

  My attention turns to the woman. Her eyes shine with excitement. “Your Highness.” Bowing her head, she bends her knees as low as her achy joints will take her which isn’t that low, truth be told. As she’s straightening up, she starts to tip over sort of like those famous fainting goats, except in slow motion.

  I rush to her side just in time to keep the old lass from face-planting. I gently escort her to one of the plush wing-backed chairs arranged across from my desk and she lowers herself carefully.

  “It’s almost too good to be true,” she gushes, her head snapping left to right as her keen stare eats up every inch of the room.

  The few people who gain the privilege of visiting my private offices here at Folkshire Palace are usually impressed. The room is spacious, furnished in the finest artwork and gilded porcelain with one-of-a-kind antique accents and furniture preserved over centuries.

  Very fancy for a prison.

  But I’m not here to be a tour guide. I’m ready to get down to business. I sink into the massive chair behind my desk, clearing my throat to get her attention. “Our arrangement stands unchanged?”

  “On my end, yes Sir.” Her eyes glimmer as they examine the gold-trimmed drapes hung from the high stone ceilings.

  “Good.”

  Then she looks at me, her brows lifting with worry. “Is there anything to sign? Like a non-disclosure agreement? Or a contract?”

  Ah, shit! In my haste to get this done with, I may have overlooked that tiny (read: huge) detail. So I improvise. “No, the Airbnb terms of service are quite sufficient.”

  Oh-no-he-didn’t, say you.

  Oh, yes I did.

  I swapped out my palace o
n Airbnb. My wing of it, at least. Don’t get your knickers all in a twist. I need a break, a self-imposed time-out. And while most in my position would probably book an all-inclusive resort somewhere in the Caribbean, to me, a holiday isn’t really a holiday when the overenthusiastic European paparazzi are perched in the coconut tree outside of your bedroom window, waiting to catch you in a compromising position with an attention-starved D-list celebrity.

  What I really need is simplicity, anonymity. Some time by my goddamned self. Without Thomas’s schedules and Yolanda’s propositions and the Queen’s expectations. That’s why I plan to disappear into a backwoods American town where no one will find me.

  My gut nudges me again. Am I doing the right thing? it insists. Hell if I know.

  I appraise the woman one more time. She looks harmless but you never know with people these days. I need some further assurances that she'll keep quiet about our arrangement. I stretch my little finger across the table to her. “Let’s throw in a pinkie swear for good measure.” I wink.

  Laughing, she locks her weathered little finger around mine, the promise thus sealed. “I won’t say a word, Your Highness. I swear.”

  I nod in acceptance.

  Lord Kent, the Palace barrister, would wring my neck if he could see me now.