It’s electric. I don’t mean that in the way romance novels use it, some tired metaphor for attraction. I mean there’s a literal static snap between us, and for a second, I worry the security detail is going to mistake it for an attack and take her down. The world vanishes into the taste of her: cherries and vanilla, sunlight and something fierce and lovely.
Her lips are softer than I imagined, but the way she presses in is anything but tentative. She kisses like she lives: all-in, laughing at the odds, daring anyone to stop her. I match her, pulse pounding, until I realize the phone is still up and she’s taking a burst of candid photos.
She breaks away first, breathless, and whispers, “You were supposed to stop after one.”
I laugh breathily. “I’m an overachiever.”
She flicks through the photos and laughs to herself. Then, with zero ceremony, she posts the best one—us mid-kiss, her eyes closed and mine slightly open like a fool—to her main social account. Caption: a single heart emoji.
My phone vibrates within three seconds. Elliot’s phone pings a half-second later. Nolan’s earpiece crackles as the press realizes they’ve just gotten the scoop of the year, direct from the source—and that the source posted a prize photo before the press could.
Piper collapses onto the blanket, arms above her head, and grins up at the sky. “Well, that’s that. No going back now.”
“Not like this story hasn’t died down as our PR handlers thought it might. Might as well give them something.” My heart still races as I lie down next to her. “Do you regret it?”
She turns her head, eyes searching mine. “No. Do you?”
The answer is so obvious, I don’t bother saying it. Instead, I just reach out and lace my fingers through hers.
The sun slides behind a cloud, casting the pond in silver. It’s quiet except for the distant sound of children, the whirr of camera shutters, and the barely-there hum of a world watching, waiting for our next move.
They can wait forever. I’m going to enjoy this moment for as long as possible.
CHAPTER 9
Piper
There issomething oddly comforting about being curled up on this plush velvet sofa, watching three alphas debate the finer points of pasta preparation. My phone sits quiet beside me as I snuggle deeper into my blanket cocoon. This is exactly the kind of normal moment that would never make tabloid headlines. No “Pop Darling Piper Sumner” drama tonight—just the four of us figuring out dinner. Because as royal as Kellen is, he’d apparently rather cook a few of the meals himself.
I hide my smile behind my phone screen, not really checking anything, just enjoying the scene. Kellen’s laugh fills the room whenever Nolan makes a dry comment. This is peace. Belonging. Which is, admittedly, the last thing I expected to find in this PR mess.
I could sit here and see how long it takes them to notice I’m falling asleep with my eyes open, but my phone decides to ruin that experiment by ringing. The screen blares “RAELYNN ROBERTS” in all caps, and my chest constricts like I’ve just sprinted up ten flights of stairs. Blood rushes in my ears drowning out everything but those capital letters on my screen.
I slide off the couch and into the grandiose, echoing hallway, ignoring the three-way argument that continues behind me.
“Hey, Raelynn.” I try to sound casual, not like I’ve just been ripped from the warm blanket-cocoon of my only social refuge.
“I’ll keep you only a moment.” Raelynn’s voice is the verbal equivalent of being spritzed with vodka-infused perfume.
I wedge myself into a decorative alcove that probably once held a bust of someone’s dead ancestor. “Shoot.”
“Piper, my darling, have you checked your socials since the post went up?”
I wince. “I try not to scroll for too long ever. Why?”
“Good, because you’re trending number three globally.” Raelynn’s glee is an almost physical thing. I can hear her clicking through analytics, the cackle in her throat barely contained. “You and Kellen. The comments are…” She searches for the word, then lands on, “Delicious. And disgustingly thirsty. Good job with that post. It wasn’t planned, but it’s trending perfectly.”
I force a laugh. “I’m glad my love life can fuel so many memes.”
“Which brings me to the point,” Raelynn says. “We need a new single, stat.”
This is what I get for going along with her pop-princess-to-bad-girl rebrand. “Stat,” I echo, like I haven’t been running on empty for months. “I can try, Raelynn.”
She clicks her tongue. “Youwill do. You need a single for your next album anyway, and given the target launch date of that album, we need this single now.”
She’s not wrong, and I hate it. But it’s not like the album’s even been announced—mostly because all that exists of it are a few chords and a dozen lyrics.
“I will do my best,” I finally say.
