Paper Princess: A Novel (The Royals Book 1) (11 page)

T
he second I get inside
, I hurry upstairs and lock myself in my bedroom. I dump my schoolbooks on the bed and grab the first assignment I see, but it’s hard to concentrate on my homework when I’m still so angry and embarrassed about what just happened between Reed and me.

The rational part of my brain understands where my outburst came from. Less than a week ago my entire life was uprooted. Callum wrenched me out of Kirkwood and brought me to this strange town and his fancy house to face off with his asshole sons. The Royal brothers have done nothing but antagonize me since I got here. Their friends shamed me at that stupid party and humiliated me at school today. And through it all, Reed Royal is spouting his golden rules and then changing them every other second.

What normal seventeen-year-old girl
wouldn’t
lose her shit?

But that other part of me, the one that tries to protect me at all costs by shielding my emotions…that part yells at me for allowing myself to cry in front of Reed. For letting him see just how uncertain and vulnerable I feel in this new world I’ve been thrust into.

I hate myself for being weak.

Somehow I manage to finish my assignments, but now it’s six o’clock and my stomach is grumbling.

God, I don’t want to go downstairs. I wish I could just order room service. Why doesn’t this place have room service? It’s pretty much a hotel already.

Stop hiding from him. Don’t give him the satisfaction.

If I skip dinner, Reed will know he won, and I can’t let him win. I won’t let him break me.

Still, even after I decide to face the jerk, I continue to stall. I take a long shower and wash my hair, then change into a pair of tiny black boxers and a loose red tank top. Then I brush my wet hair. Then I check my phone to see if Valerie texted. Then—

Okay, enough procrastinating. My empty stomach agrees, rumbling the entire way down the spiral staircase.

In the kitchen, I find one of the twins at the stove, stirring a spatula in what looks like a wad of noodles. The other twin is poking his head in the fridge, griping to his brother.

“What the hell, man. I thought Sandra was back from vacation.”

“Tomorrow,” the other twin answers.

“Thank fuck. Since when do housekeepers go on vacay? I’m tired of cooking our own meals. We shoulda gone out for dinner with Dad ’n Reed.”

My forehead wrinkles as I absorb the information. One, these boys are
so
spoiled—they can’t even cook their own meals? And two, Reed went out for dinner with Callum? Did Callum hold a gun to his head?

The twin at the stove notices me lurking in the doorway and frowns. “What are you looking at?”

I shrug. “Just watching you burn your dinner.”

His head whirls to the pan, and he groans when he notices the smoke rising from it. “Goddammit! Seb, grab an oven mitt!”

Jeez, these boys really are useless. What the heck does he plan on doing with the oven mitt?

The question answers itself when Sawyer slips on the mitt his brother tosses him and lifts the pan by its handle, which, unless it’s a defective pan, wouldn’t have a hot handle. I get a kick out of watching the boys try to salvage their dinner, and I can’t fight a snicker when hot oil splashes out of the pan and burns Sawyer’s non-oven-mitt-covered wrist.

He howls in pain as his brother shuts off the burner. Then they both stare at the burnt chicken and noodles in dismay.

“Cereal?” Sebastian says.

Sawyer sighs.

Even with the terrible burning smell in the air, my stomach is still growling, so I saunter over to the wall of cupboards and start grabbing ingredients while the twins watch me warily.

“I’m making spaghetti,” I tell them without turning around. “Do you want any?”

There’s a long silence before one of them mumbles “yes.” The other follows suit.

I cook in silence while they sit at the table like the lazy, entitled Royals that they are, neither one offering to help me. Twenty minutes later, the three of us are eating our dinner. Not a single word passes between us.

Easton walks in at the tail end of the meal, his eyes narrowing when he spots me shoving my plate in the dishwasher. Then he looks at the table, where his brothers are on their second helping of spaghetti.

“Sandra back from vacation?”

Sebastian shakes his head and shovels more pasta into his mouth.

His twin jerks his head toward me. “She cooked.”

“
She
has a name,” I say curtly. “And you’re welcome for dinner. Ungrateful jerks.” I mutter that last part under my breath as I stalk out of the kitchen.

Instead of going back to my room, I find myself wandering into the library. Callum showed it to me the other day, and I’m still in awe of the sheer amount of books in the room. The built-in bookshelves go all the way up to the ceiling, and there’s an old-timey ladder you can use to reach the top shelves. On the other side of the room is a cozy sitting area with two overstuffed chairs positioned in front of a modern fireplace.

I don’t feel like reading, but I flop down in one of the chairs anyway, breathing in the scent of leather and old books. As my gaze moves to the fireplace mantle, my heart speeds up. Photographs line the stone ledge, and one in particular snags my attention. It’s a shot of a young-looking Callum in a Navy uniform, with his arm slung over the shoulder of a tall, blond man also in uniform.

I think it’s Steve O’Halloran. My father.

I stare at the man’s chiseled face, the blue eyes that seem to twinkle with mischief as they meet the camera lens. I have his eyes. And my hair is the same shade of blond.

When footsteps echo behind me, I turn to see Easton stride into the library.

“I heard you tried to kill my brother today,” he drawls.

“He had it coming.” I turn my back to him again, but he comes up beside me, and from the corner of my eye I see that his profile is harder than stone.

“Let’s be straight with each other. Did you really think you’d show up here on our father’s arm and we’d all be cool with it?”

“I’m not on your father’s arm. I’m his ward.”

“Yeah? Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not fucking my dad.”

For God’s sake. Gritting my teeth, I meet his surly gaze head-on and say, “I’m not fucking your dad. And ew for even suggesting it.”

He shrugs. “It’s not a stretch. He likes ’em young.”

That’s obviously a reference toward Brooke, but I don’t comment on it. My gaze travels back to the picture on the mantle.

Easton and I go silent, for so long I wonder why he’s even still here.

“Uncle Steve was a baller,” he finally says. “Chicks dropped their panties when that dude walked into a room.”

Double ew. That is
not
something I ever wanted to know about my father.

“What was he like?” I ask reluctantly.

“He was all right, I guess. We didn’t spend much time with him. He was always holed up in my dad’s study. The two of them would sit there talking for hours.” Easton sounds bitter.

“Aw, your daddy liked my daddy better than you? Is that why you hate me so much?”

He rolls his eyes. “Do yourself a favor and stop provoking my brother. If you keep getting in his face, you’re just gonna get hurt.”

“Why bother with the warning? Isn’t that what you want, for me to get hurt?”

He doesn’t answer. He just steps away from the mantle and leaves me in the library, where I continue to stare at my father’s picture.

I
wake
up at midnight to the sound of hushed voices in the hallway outside my bedroom door. I’m groggy as hell, but alert enough to recognize Reed’s voice, and even though I’m lying down, my knees actually feel weak.

I haven’t seen him since our fight in the car earlier. When he got back from dinner with Callum, I was already locked up in my room again, but judging by the angry footsteps and slamming door, I’m pretty sure dinner didn’t go so well.

I don’t know why I slide out of bed, or why I tiptoe toward my door. Eavesdropping isn’t really my style, but I want to know what he’s saying and who he’s saying it to. I want to know if it’s about me, and maybe that’s really conceited, but I still need to know.

“…practice in the morning.” It’s Easton talking now, and I press my ear to the door to try to hear more clearly. “…agreed to cut down during the season.”

Reed mutters something I can’t make out.

“I get it, okay? I’m not crazy about her being here either, but that’s no reason to…” Easton’s sentence cuts out.

“It’s not about her.” I hear that loud and clear, and I don’t know whether I’m relieved or disappointed that whatever they’re discussing doesn’t involve me.

“…then I’m coming with you.”

“No,” Reed says sharply. “…going alone tonight.”

He’s going somewhere? Where the hell is he going this late, and on a school night? Worry tugs at my gut, which almost makes me laugh, because all of a sudden I’m
worrying
about Reed Royal, the guy I attacked in the car earlier?

“Now you sound like Gid,” Reed accuses.

“Yeah, well, maybe you…”

Their voices go hushed again, which is so fricking frustrating because I know I’m missing something important.

I’m tempted to fling open the door and stop Reed from doing whatever he’s about to do, but it’s too late. Two sets of footsteps echo in the hall, and a door clicks shut. Then it’s just one set of footsteps, barely audible as they descend the stairs.

A few minutes later, a car engine rumbles from the courtyard, and I know Reed is gone.

T
he next morning
I find Reed in the driveway leaning against Easton’s truck. He’s dressed in sneakers, long gym shorts, and a muscle tee that is open at the sides, and looking hotter than any jerk has the right to. A baseball cap is pulled low over his forehead.

I look around, but the black Town Car is nowhere in sight. “Where’s Durand?”

“You planning on going to the bakery?”

“You planning on burning it down so I don’t tarnish the Royal name by working there?”

He grumbles in annoyance.

I grumble back.

“Well?” he mutters.

I scowl at him. “Yes, I’m going to work.”

“I’ve got football practice, so if you want a ride, I suggest getting in the car because otherwise you’re going to be walking.” He opens the passenger door and then stomps to the driver’s side.

I look for Durand again. Dammit, where is he?

When Reed guns the engine, I start moving. What harm can he really do in a twenty-minute ride?

“Buckle up,” he snaps.

“I just got in. Give me a minute.” I cast my eyes upward and say a tiny prayer for patience. Reed doesn’t take off until I’m all buckled in. “Do you have male PMS or are you just in a shitty mood twenty-four/seven?”

He doesn’t answer.

I hate myself for it, but I can’t stop looking at him. Can’t stop sweeping my eyes over the side of his movie-star face, his perfect ear that is framed by his dark hair. All the Royals have varying shades of brown hair. Reed’s runs closer to chestnut.

In profile, his nose has a tiny bump on it and I wonder which of his brothers broke it for him.

It’s really not fair how hot this guy is. And he’s got this whole bad boy vibe that I’m not usually into, but for some reason it makes him even hotter. I guess I like bad boys.

Wait, what the hell am I thinking? I don’t like bad boys, and I don’t like
Reed
. He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever—

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks in annoyance.

I push away all my crazy thoughts and counter, “Why not?”

“Like the way I look, do you?” he taunts.

“Nope, just committing to memory the profile of a jackass. You know, so if I’m ever called upon to draw one in art, I’ll have some inspiration,” I reply airily.

He grunts and it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. For the first time in his presence, I start to relax.

The rest of the trip passes quickly, almost too quickly. I feel a tiny kernel of disappointment when the bakery comes into view, which is all sorts of fucked up because I
don’t like this guy.

“You driving me every day or just this morning?” I ask when he brakes in front of the French Twist.

“Depends. How long you planning on keeping up the charade?”

“It’s not a charade. It’s called earning a living.”

I get out of the truck before he can manage another stupid and mean retort.

“Hey,” he calls after me.

“What?” I turn around, and that’s when I get my first full look at his face this morning. My hand flies up to cover my mouth. The left side of his face, a part that I now realize he kept shaded from me the entire ride, is bruised. His lip is puffy. There’s a gash over his eye and a bruise on the upper edge of his cheek. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”

I raise my fingers to his face, not realizing that my feet carried me from the bakery back to the truck.

He jerks away from my touch. “Nothing.”

My hand falls uselessly to my side. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It is to you.”

Grim faced, he speeds off, leaving me behind to wonder what he did last night and why he called me over just now if he wasn’t planning on saying anything important. I do know one thing. If I got hit that hard in the face, I’d be pissy the next morning, too.

Despite my better judgment, I worry about Reed throughout my morning shift at the bakery. Lucy casts me some concerned looks but since I work hard like I’d promised, she doesn’t say anything.

After my shift, I hurry off to school, but I don’t see Reed. Not on the path leading to the gym, not in the halls, and not even at lunch. It’s like he doesn’t even go to Astor Park.

And when classes are over, it’s the big Town Car that’s waiting for me. Durand’s holding the door impatiently, so I can’t even loiter in the parking lot.
It’s better this way
, I tell myself.
No good can come from thinking about Reed Royal.

I lecture myself all the way home, but as we pull through the wrought-iron gates, Durand gives me something else to think about.

“Mr. Royal would like to see you,” his double bass voice informs me when the car comes to a stop at the front steps.

I sit there like a dummy as I process that Mr. Royal means Callum. “Um, okay.”

“He’s in the pool house.”

“The pool house,” I repeat. “Am I being called to the principal’s office, Durand?”

His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Don’t think so, Ella.”

“That’s not very encouraging.”

“Want me to drive you around some more?”

“Will he still want to see me?”

Durand nods.

“Then I better go.” I sigh dramatically.

The corner of his eyes lift slightly in what is considered a broad smile for him.

I drop my backpack at the base of the sweeping staircase and then make the trek to the back of the house, across the long patio, and to the end of the yard. The pool house is glassed in on three sides. There must be some trick to the walls because sometimes the side nearest the pool is reflective rather than see-through.

As I get closer, I realize that the walls are really a series of doors on a slider and they’ve been opened, allowing the ocean breeze to drift from the shore up to the house.

Callum is sitting on a sofa facing the ocean. He turns around when my shoes scrape on the tiled floor.

He nods in greeting. “Ella. You have a good day at school?”

No trash in my locker? No pranks in the girls’ room? “Could have been worse,” I reply.

He gestures for me to come sit with him.

“This was Maria’s favorite place,” he tells me. “When all the doors are open, you can hear the ocean. She liked getting up early to watch the sunrise. She told me once it was like a magic show every morning. The sun draws back the curtain of inky black to reveal a palette of colors more gorgeous than even the greatest masters could conjure.”

“Are you sure she wasn’t a poet?”

He smiles. “She was rather poetic. She also said the rhythmic push and pull of the waves against the shore is a musical score as pure as the most brilliant orchestration.”

We listen to it, the tinkle and wash as the tides creep up to the sand and then slide back as if pulled by an invisible hand. “It’s beautiful,” I admit.

A low moan slips from Callum’s throat. In one hand, he clutches his usual glass of whiskey, but in the other, gripped so tight his knuckles are white, he holds a picture of a dark-haired woman with eyes so bright it’s like sun shining from the frame.

“Is that Maria?” I gesture to the frame.

He swallows and nods. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

I nod back.

Callum tips his head and empties the glass in one swift gulp. He barely sets the glass down before reaching for a refill. “Maria was the glue that held our family together. Atlantic Aviation hit a bad patch about ten years ago. A series of reckless decisions coupled with the recession placed my sons’ legacy in jeopardy, and I threw myself into saving it, which took me away from the family. I missed seeing Maria. She always wanted a daughter, you know?”

I can only nod again. It’s kind of hard to follow along this weird disjointed speech. I have no idea where he’s going with all of this.

“She would have loved you. She would have taken you from Steve and raised you as her own. She wanted a girl so badly.”

I sit still as a stone. None of this sad story can be leading anywhere good.

“My sons blame me for her death,” he says suddenly, startling me with the unexpected confession. “They’re right to do so. Which is why I let them get away with all kinds of shit. Oh, I know all about their little rebellions, but I can’t bring myself to raise a harsh word. I’m trying to pull the threads together now, but I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a mess. And I’ve made a mess of this family.” He draws a shaky hand through his hair, still managing to hold his glass, almost like the crystal object is the only thing keeping him tethered to this earth.

“I’m sorry,” is all I can think to say.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.”

“A little.”

He gives me a crooked, rough smile that reminds me so much of Reed that my insides flip over.

“Dinah wants to meet you.”

“Who’s Dinah?”

“Steve’s widow.”

My pulse speeds up. “Oh.”

“I’ve been putting her off because you just got here, and, well, I wanted you to come to me about Steve. She and Steve toward the end there…” He trails off. “It wasn’t good.”

My guard snaps up. “I get the feeling that I’m not going to like whatever you’re about to say.”

“You’re pretty perceptive.” He hastily finishes off his second glass. “She’s demanding you come alone.”

So I’m supposed to meet my dead dad’s wife, who Callum dislikes so much that he’s mainlining whiskey, without anyone at my back?

I sigh. “When I said my day could be worse, it wasn’t meant as a challenge.”

He snorts at this. “Dinah reminded me that my connection to you is more tenuous than hers. She’s your father’s widow. I’m just his friend and business partner.”

A chill skates across my skin. “Are you saying that your guardianship isn’t legit?”

“It’s temporary until Steve’s will has been probated,” he admits. “Dinah could contest it.”

I can’t sit. I jump up and walk to the edge of the room, staring out at the water. I suddenly feel so stupid. I let myself believe I could make a home here even though Reed hates me, even though the students at Astor Park delight in tormenting me. Those things are supposed to be temporary nuisances. Callum has promised me a future, dammit. And now he’s telling me this Dinah woman can take that future away?

“If I don’t go,” I say slowly, “then she’ll start making trouble, won’t she?”

“That’s a fair assessment.”

Mind made up, I turn back to Callum. “Then what are we waiting for?”

D
urand takes
us into the city and stops in front of a high-rise. Callum tells me he’s going to wait for me in the car, which only makes me more nervous.

“This sucks,” I say flatly.

He reaches out to touch my arm. “You don’t have to go.”

“What other choice do I have? I can either go up and keep living with the Royals, or stay in the car and get taken away? That’s messed up.”

“Ella,” he calls as I step onto the curb.

“What?”

“Steve wanted you. When he found out he had a daughter, it tore him up. I swear to you, he would have loved you. Remember that. No matter what Dinah says.”

With those not-so-encouraging words in my ear, I let Durand escort me inside. The lobby of Dinah’s building is gorgeous, but the effect of the pretty stone walls, crystal lights, and deep wood trim doesn’t stun me like it would have pre-Royals.

“She’s here to see Dinah O’Halloran,” Durand tells the desk clerk.

“You can go right up.”

Durand gives me a little push. “Last elevator. Press “P” for penthouse.”

The carpeted, wood-paneled elevator is almost completely silent. There’s no music, only a slight mechanical whir to accompany its movement upward. It stops way too soon.

The elevator doors slide open and I step into a wide, short hallway. At the end is one set of double doors. Holy shit. Does she live on the entire floor?

A woman dressed in a maid’s outfit opens one of the doors as I get close. “Mrs. O’Halloran is waiting for you in the sitting room. May I get you a beverage?”

“Water,” I croak. “I’d like a water, please.”

My sneakers sink into the heavy carpet as I follow the maid down the hall and into the sitting room. I feel like a little lamb walking to her slaughter.

Dinah O’Halloran is seated beneath a large painting of a nude woman. The model’s golden hair is down and she’s looking over her shoulder, green eyes narrowed seductively at the viewer. It…oh my God. The woman’s face is Dinah’s.

“Do you like it?” Dinah asks with raised eyebrows. “I have others in the house but this is the most conservative.”

Conservative?
Lady, I can see your ass crack in the picture
. “It’s nice,” I lie. Who has a bunch of nude paintings of themselves hanging around their house?

I start to lower myself into the other chair in the room, but Dinah’s sharp voice stops me.

“Did I tell you to sit down?”

Cheeks flaming, I stiffen. “No. I’m sorry.” I remain standing.

Her eyes rake over me. “So you’re the girl who Callum says is Steve’s daughter. Have you taken a paternity test yet?”

A paternity test? “Um. No.”

She laughs, a hollow, awful sound. “Then how do we know you’re not Callum’s bastard that he’s trying to pass off as Steve’s? That would be convenient for him. He always claimed he was faithful to his little wife, but you would be direct evidence that he wasn’t.”

Callum’s daughter? Brooke had implied the same thing, but Callum looked offended when she’d said it. And my mother said that my dad was a man named Steve. I have his watch.

Still, I feel sick to my stomach, even as I straighten my shoulders with false confidence. “I’m not Callum’s daughter.”

“Oh, and you know that how?”

“Because Callum’s not the type of man to ignore that he has a kid.”

“You’ve been with the Royals for all of a week and you think you know them?” She sneers, then leans forward, hands pressed into the arms of her chair. “Steve and Callum were old SEAL buddies. They shared more women than a kindergarten class shares toys.”

I stare in open-mouthed shock.

“I have no doubt that your whore mother screwed them both,” she adds.

The slur against Mom wrenches me out of a stunned stupor. “Don’t talk about my mother. You know nothing about her.”