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Watching her believe that he’d done that, that he didn’t care about her at all, had hurt, too. And he still hurt. A lot. Telling those lies had felt wrong. No matter how many favors he had done for her, allowing her to move on without any doubts, it had felt wicked. On top of that, he missed her, damn it. Did she miss him, too?
No, because he’d made sure she wouldn’t.
Fucking idiot.
Someone knocked on his door.
He stared at it, then squinted at the clock. Eight o’clock at night. Georgie’s ears perked up, and his tail wagged. “Who could that be, boy?”
Georgie bolted for the door, barking the whole way, and he shook his head at the delayed reaction. He slowly stood, setting down his drink as he went. It was probably another set of fucking reporters, eager for a story.
When he reached the door, he peeked out the peephole. A woman he’d never met before, but who somehow looked familiar, stood outside.
Blinking, he glanced down at his attire. Ripped jeans and a tight gray shirt. Not exactly a match to her expensive dress and high heels, but whatever.
He had a feeling he knew exactly who she was—another reporter looking for the inside story behind him and Isabelle. He almost walked away, leaving her knock unanswered, but then he swore under his breath. He’d had enough of these vultures hovering outside his door twenty-four-seven.
He opened the door a crack. “I’m not interested in selling you a damn story, so you can go home right now before I call the cops again.”
As soon as he finished talking, he looked to the side…and saw two royal guards standing guard over the woman on his porch. They hadn’t been visible through the peephole. And if there were royal guards, then…
Well, shit.
“I don’t want a story, but I’m glad to hear you’re loyal to the princess’s cause,” she said, her soft accent hitting him like a brick in the gut. She sounded like…no. It couldn’t be. “I can see you’ve realized who I am. May I come in, Mr. Waybrook? My men will remain outside.”
The men nodded but remained quiet.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He opened the door for her. “Or is it Your Highness?”
She waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter. We’re in America.”
“Indeed.” He closed the door behind him, then stood there awkwardly. He’d never had a fucking queen in his house. A princess, sure. But he couldn’t treat her mother the way he’d treated her. Georgie hopped up and barked excitedly, his paws on the queen’s knee. Aw, shit. “Georgie, down!”
“Please, don’t call him off.” The queen—what was her name, anyway?—bent down and scratched Georgie in his favorite spot behind his ears. Her lips curled into a smile. “Georgie?”
“Yeah. He was named before…well, everything.”
“I see.” She lowered her blonde head and pet the dog with her well manicured hand. “He’s adorable.”
“Uh, thanks.” He scratched the back of his head, staring down at her. “Would you like a drink? I have red wine, bourbon, or beer…”
“No, thank you.” She glanced up at him. In that moment, with her green eyes latched on him, she looked so much like Isabelle that it sent a shaft of pain piercing through him. “Your home is very nice.”
“Thanks.” He glanced over his shoulder at his messy kitchen. If he’d known she was coming, he would have cleaned. “Look, I’m not going to tell anyone what really happened, if that’s why you’re here.”
“I know.” She straightened and smoothed her black dress. “If you were looking for money, you woul
d have taken the funds Prince George offered you.”
He shifted on his feet. “I don’t want money.”
“We know.”
“There’s only one thing I care about, and it’s her.”
The queen nodded. “It’s all I care about right now, too. It’s why I’m here, with you.”
“Is she…?” He rocked back on his heels. He didn’t have a right to ask, but he had to know. “Is she happy now?”
