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She falls into a satisfied silence, and I realize she's finished.
“You have quite the imagination,” I reply.
“Oh, I've watched The Crown. I know all about royal life.”
“Ah.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my gosh, do you know William and Kate?”
“Of course. We meet up regularly in our night shirts and matching caps to eat suckling pig and strawberries brought to us by well-meaning but impoverished peasants.” I do my best to keep a straight face.
I can tell she’s trying to work out whether I'm pulling her leg.
She must decide I am when, after a beat, she lets out a laugh. “You're so funny. I love that about you. I never would have thought a prince could be funny.”
“Fancy that,” I reply, suddenly tired.
What I wouldn’t do to be sightseeing on my own in blissful, anonymous silence.
The thing is, when you're seen as an exciting European Prince, people want to be with you. Women want to be with you. But here's the thing. They don't really want to be with you, more the idea of who they think you are.
Looking into Freya’s eyes right now, I know she has no interest in me.
In fact, it's been a long time since I met a woman who wants to know me. All they see is the fancy title and the fancy clothes, the lavish events and the media coverage. And that's great.
Or it was great.
I'll admit, I've had dalliances with my fair share of the women of this world. Probably more than my fair share, if I’m going to be totally honest.
It's been easy. Very easy. It's like I'm some kind of royal rockstar, with women flocking to me wherever I go. Beautiful women. Smart women. But I never feel that real connection that I want. Call me maturing or getting old, but I no longer want flings and ego boosts with models and actresses and It girls.
It was fine for a while, but not anymore.
I want what others have: a loving, committed relationship with someone who actually knows me, someone who loves me. I want the kind of solid permanence of love, a love that lasts more than a few weeks.
I want a love that lasts a lifetime.
I blow out a puff of air. I sound like a romantic sap who's watched too many Hallmark movies and needs to grow a pair. For the first part, I blame my little sister, Amelia, who makes me watch a seemingly endless list of romantic Christmas movies every year. Well, I say she makes me, but really, I relish the chance I get to spend time with her. We came to a compromise a long time ago: I would watch her movies with her—determined not to enjoy them, of course—and she would tell Father all the things I want him to know about me—not what they say in the media.
And for the other part? I'm safe in my masculinity. I don't need to grow anything.
I'm a man who knows what he wants, and I'm not going to stop until I get it.
Knowing what Freya wants from me and not feeling willing to give it, I walk her to her car, where her father's driver has been patiently waiting. I say goodbye to her with a kiss to the cheek.
“It was just wonderful to spend an afternoon with a prince,” she breathes as she takes my hand in hers.
An afternoon with a prince. Just what I thought.
“Safe travels back to your home state.”
“Goodbye, Your Royal Highness.”
I open my mouth to ask her once more to call me Alexander, but close it. There's no point. To her, as to the rest of the world, I'm nothing more than a prince.
Chapter 3
Maddie
