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Room Mate 153

Chapter 153

There were exactly 113 things she’d rather be doing than fix up His Royal Dumbass’s life.

Drinking wine. Calling her sisters. Helping with Sutton’s upcoming wedding. Rewatching Pride and Prejudice, the 1995 mini–series, obviously, because Colin Firth was seriously fucking hot. He could get himself into her bed any day. He might be in his sixties, but he was one of those men who got better with age. Plus, there were the rumors about his sex life… yes, please.

What had she been thinking about? Oh, yeah, things she would rather be doing… filing her taxes. Going to prison. Now, she would have to admit, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d almost gone to prison. She really should have been born a redhead instead of a blonde. Her temper did get the best of her sometimes.

But no. Keira Warner, age twenty–four as of precisely six days ago, thank you very much, was yet again sitting in her converted corner cubicle outside the Crown Prince’s inner office, replying to reporters about the latest incident involving Prince Alexei “Naked Again” Stavros, second in line to the throne to a ‘ancient micro–kingdom‘ called Wystovia and some big–busted model.

Now there was no way she was going to run down a model’s brain cell count. Her sister Sutton had been one. And we all know how smart she is. Keira could not say the same about Barbie here. She’d heard her talk on TV once. She had been so dumb, Keira had felt like slapping her own forehead.

“Could someone please tell His Highness to stop removing his pants in public,” she muttered, stabbing at her keyboard. She had seen the photos, how could she not, when the reporters insisted on sending them to her and asking how the Prince would like to respond?

Thank God for long zoom lenses. Not because she wanted to see his bing bong, but because zoom lenses didn’t take the sharpest photos. Praise the Lord for that. “I’d like to see what I can accomplish when I’m not rescuing Prince Arrogant Man Whore’s image like it’s my full–time job, which, fun fact, it technically isn’t.”

Yes, she was talking to herself. It helped calm her down. And also, sometimes in this office, she was the only one that made sense. It was either that or kick Prince Dumbshit in the ass. She could even say he was overcompensating for having a small dick.

Pulling up the last photo on her screen… because the shadows on the image told her he was hung. She closed it quickly and got back to the matter at hand. Yes, this bullshit was part of her job.

She had to be insane to do this.

According to the increasingly sarcastic–sounding job description she had rewritten three times herself, Keira was “Administrative Executive Secretary to His Highness Prince Alexei of Wystovia,” a title that loosely translated to: personal assistant, PR firefighter, schedule tamer, personal barista, wardrobe whisperer, walking calendar, and, once, emergency medical responder, he’d thought

vodka was water. Long story…

“One which I would be happy to share at the right price.“No, she wouldn’t, but it sounded fearless. She had signed an NDA and, for all the shit she gave His Royal Uptightness, she was ever so slightly scared of what he could do to her.

Had she mentioned diplomatic immunity?“He could kill me, and no one in the US could do a thing about it.”

Snorting, she wished she had one of those herself, then she could have gotten rid of a few people in her life. Dan, her sister’s ex- fiancé, and their cousin Laura. Uncle Peter was rotting in jail. At one time she would have said Luca De Santis, her sister Sutton’s husband, but he had redeemed himself just in time.

She hit send on the email to a reporter at the New York Post.

Market the scandal before it markets you. Step one in the Royal PR Survival Bible.

Not that she believed in books these days. She believed in coffee. And sarcasm. And that Alexei Stavros was personally sent by the gods to test the limits of her patience, her professionalism, and her birth control pills.

Now where the fuck had that come from?

Before she could even think about it…

“Let me guess…” said Mark, head of palace communications, as he swept past Keira’s desk holding a copy of Gilded Weekly. He pointed to the cover shot of Alexei bending down naked to pick up a towel from the sand and the Barbie beside him, also naked.

“Another misunderstanding?”

“More like another under–standing,” Keira quipped. “As in, his pants… must have come off in the water… He isn’t a merman, you know. What was he to do? The water’s currents were very strong that day. The ocean must have had needs.”

Mark groaned like the weary soul he was, tossed the tabloid on her desk, and kept walking toward his own office.

“Just clean it up. Again.”

“I’ll add it to the ever–growing list,” she muttered, dragging out an internal sigh that had lived in her tungs since her first week at the palace. How the hell had she ended up here?

-Flashback, Two Years Ago-

She’d applied as a joke.

Fresh out of university, broke and living off her sister Sutton, and stuck working at a café near Central Park, selling overpriced pastries to influencers, she’d overheard about this job. Her résumé was one glitter bomb away from being laughed into the trash.

Instead, three days later, she was standing in a marble hallway waiting to be grilled alive by some uptight head of staff.

“Miss Warner,” the interviewer had said, deadpan. “Your CV includes… managing influencer brand crises, temp admin at a dog grooming boutique, and a summer as an English tutor to French tourists.”

“Multilingual, versatile, fast–thinking,” Keira had replied. “Also, excellent at diffusing hissy fits. Human and canine.“Truth was, most of that had come from working in a café. Why spoil the illusion? This was a joke after all.

His left eyebrow twitched in what she now recognized as laughter suppression.“Why this position?”

Keira hadn’t missed a beat.“Honestly? I need rent money. But also… fixing fires and calming egos is kind of my thing. If I can make

a TikToker apologize for filming me without my ok… he was liveat the time. I think I can handle a prince. It’s a little like babysitting, right.”

He’d blinked. Twice.Apparently, that was good enough.

-Present-

Keira’s phone buzzed. She checked it… 13 new mentions and 2 direct media inquiries.

And a text from her boss. noveldrama

HRH Dumbass: Boring party. Entertain me.

Keira Warner: Currently drowning in photos of your ass. Entertain yourself.

HRH Dumbass: Jealous?

Keira’s face went nuclear. Not because she was offended. But somewhere in the back of her sleep–deprived, adrenaline–fueled brain. her ovaries had the audacity to purr.

“Traitors,” she muttered to her uterus. “All of you.”

Blair: I could be married to a dentist in Prague right now. I regret everything.

His reply was instant.

HRH Dumbass: You love me.

She set the phone facedown on her desk in defiance, stood up too aggressively, and took her emergency chocolate stash out from the drawer.

God, he was impossible.

Gorgeous, infuriating and charming… when he wanted to be… and dangerously good at making her want to kill him.

But also spoiled, reckless, and arrogant.Completely unaware of what his last debauchery cost everyone else, meaning her.

He’d never noticed the circles under her eyes. Or her unpaid overtime. Or the fact that her birthday had passed last week, and she’d spent it fixing his goddamned travel visa after he lost it somewhere between Barcelona and “Oops, I think I left it with that bartender.”

Keira dropped her head into her hands, massaging her temples.

Not for the first time, the thought crept back in

She should quit.She could quit.She was only twenty–four.She could take a normal job. In a PR company, because she was so good at this PR shit now. For celebrities, maybe. Normal celebrity jerks instead of royal jerks. Jerks who didn’t text her selfies at 2 a.m. from yachts with the caption “Guess where I am?”

Instead, here she was.Saturday night. No date. No plans. Just her, a laptop, a chocolate bar, and the tabloid image of Prince Alexei flashing his cock for all to see.

She looked at the clock.11:02 PM.

He was still at the gala.At least officially. Knowing him, he’d be in an underground club by midnight.

She made a bet with herself about whether she’d be dealing with a diplomatic complaint or an Instagram influencer meltdown by morning. Prince Manwhore had taken enough of her time today.

Keira shut her laptop halfway and leaned back in her chair, mind buzzing from caffeine and frustration. But under all the stress and sarcasm, the weirdest part was… she still didn’t want anyone else cleaning up his messes. Or making his frigging coffee.

She took pride in her job..

Deep down, really deep… like Mariana Trench deep, a part of her enjoyed it. The pace of working with him.

And even deeper, even more shameful?

That same part wanted to see what would happen if that stupid text of his, You love me, wasn’ta jake,