The kingdom's bad boy.
Paparazzi's dream.
My. Worst. Nightmare.
Blech. The royal family of Nord.
You couldn't pay me to spend time with those crown-wearing, silk-clad, silver-spoon-licking leeches.
Well, until I'm invited to be part of the press team on the upcoming Royal Tour.
You can pay me for that, but don't expect me to write anything nice.
...Until one week before the tour, a silly little party brings me face-to-face with a man in a mask who makes my whole body tighten.
His eyes flick to my lips for half a second, and I feel like I'm about to faint.
His hand just barely touches the small of my back, and I'm ready to start thinking of baby names.
But that man--the one who lights me up from head to toe?
Turns out he's Prince Silas.
The one who's in all the tabloid pictures with a drink in one hand and a woman in the other.
The one who represents the worst of the frivolous royal spending.
The peak of entitled arrogance.
He might as well be my sworn enemy...and now we're going to be spending three months together on tour.
Just me, my press badge, and his wolfish grin.
Uh, yeah. I think I might be in trouble.
