An Accidental Accomplice (The Carvarell Royals #1)

Prologue

ELLA

Two suitcases, endowed with all my worldly goods, land on the airport curb with a thud.

A long, slow breath slips its way out between my lips. This is it. The end of an era. The turn of the page. The whatever cliché one wants to give to moving on and growing up.

“We’ll miss you,” the sweetest voice says behind me.

I blink back a few tears before turning to the couple who’d taken me in for the last two years.

We Langfords don’t have much by way of family in this corner of Virginia.

And if it weren’t for our church, and dear people like Mr. and Mrs. Schwagen, I would have been sent into the foster system at age 16, the day after my parents’ car got totaled by a drunk truck driver.

Now they’ve done their part. I’m done. Done with high school, as salutatorian of my class. Done with SATs. I’m headed to New Jersey with a one-way ticket and a stack of scholarship papers in my backpack. By all accounts, it’s a beautiful success story.

Sure, it’s a little rattling—suddenly, truly, being all on my own. But I’m not ungrateful.

“I’ll miss you too, Mrs. Schwagen.” I reach out to hug her. Her husband waves at me, also teary-eyed, from the driver’s seat of their modest sedan. “Now you can finally have your spa room back.”

“Silly child.” She laughs before pulling back. She swats away a few tears. I blink. It’s a little hard not to cry when everyone else is crying. “Keep in touch, won’t you?”

“Of course.” I smile. I may be uprooting myself from the only place I’ve ever called home, but there are also new horizons to explore. New friends and family to find. At least, I hope so.

“Now off you go. Don’t marry the first boy you run into.” She gives me another squeeze before shoving me away, probably for her benefit as much as for mine.

I manage to smile and sob at the same time. How’s that for multitasking?

“Maybe the second one?”

“If he’s better than the first.” Mrs. Schwagen shrugs.

We laugh together. The airport security officer gives us a side eye for stopping too long on the curb. Apparently, gentrifying Ground Springs means being stricter about being sentimental and human.

“I’ll message when I land.” I readjust my backpack straps and reach for my suitcases, one of them my parents’ and the other a graduation gift from the Schwagens. As if they haven’t done enough yet.

We exchange final greetings before I head for the entrance.

It’s not my first time flying. As part of a mission trip two years ago, and thanks to the help of generous church sponsors, I’ve managed to travel before this.

My parents and I also managed to fly once to a cousin’s wedding, in between mortgage payments.

But knowing it’s potentially my final time flying away from Ground Springs hits a bit different.

As does the wall of reporters that swarm me the moment I enter the terminal.

“What?” I balk at the flashing cameras and microphones thrust my way. Sentimental as Mrs. Schwagen is, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t pull a stunt like this.

“False alarm!” Someone hollers from the back of the crowd, and they all back off with various sounds of disappointment.

I look behind me. Whichever big shot they’re waiting for is probably late. Given the relatively easy traffic in Ground Springs, probably intentionally late.

Is it the mayor? It’s not like we have celebrities passing by this part of the country every other day.

Then again, maybe that’s why it’s a big deal?

Maybe the latest hit K-Pop boy band has inexplicably decided that Ground Springs, Virginia, is the place to launch their US career.

And nothing rouses frenzy more than boy bands.

Behind me, I hear a roar of multiple vehicles approaching the curb. I look behind me just in time to see a veritable motorcade pulling up to the airport. Well, that explains the strict security.

“Excuse me, miss!” One of the reporters shouts.

It’s a timely reminder that I am Miss False Alarm.

And being the modest human being that I am, I squeeze my way through an increasingly-tightening crowd of eager fans and press members until I emerge on the other side of the human wall relatively unscathed.

There are a few squeals, a few shouts. More clicks from both smartphones and professional cameras. Hey, maybe I’m not that far off with the K-Pop boy band theory.

Determined to avoid the mayhem, I turn away from the main, large hall and squeeze through one of the side hallways that I know will still lead to the check-in kiosks.

The people up front are still screaming by the time I’m done paying for my luggage, printing my boarding pass, and getting ready to head for security.

What can I say? I guess being a fan is a time-consuming passion.

I take another shortcut, going around a side door rather than the automatic large one in the middle. Except this time, I’m not alone. Because a very tall man, with a baseball cap and a blue face mask, and yet wearing a very tailored suit, steps right in front of me from an employee entrance.

I stop before I can run into him. Barely.

He, on the other hand, doesn’t stop. He just looks around him, a little bewildered. I can see even from where I am standing that he’s lost, and definitely not an employee.

My first thought is that I hope this guy is not some sort of secret terrorist. My second thought, after remembering the Armageddon that is the airport entrance, is that he’s probably hiding something—or, more likely, hiding himself.

I clear my throat and catch his eye—his rather distinctive ice blue eyes.

I hope dismissing the terrorist thing wasn’t a mistake.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

It’s an innocent question, the sort of question that really should not take five whole seconds to ponder.

“Actually, yes,” his voice comes out with the hint of a vaguely European accent. There goes my K-pop theory. “Would you happen to know where I can—wait around here?”

I purse my lips. “People usually do their waiting after security.”

“Yes, of course.” Now he sounds apologetic, even if very rigidly apologetic. “It’s just that I—I don’t have my passport with me. And I need to wait for my team, and I—”

He looks around again, like he’s unsure of himself despite the clearly expensive suit he’s wearing.

Then he tugs down his mask to show a square, handsome face to go with those ice-blue eyes.

“I promise I’m no harm. I just need a quiet spot to wait while my Per—while my companions sort some things out. ”

It’s probably not the best idea to trust a stranger these days. But if he really is the guy those screaming fans and reporters are looking for up front, as I suspect, then I sort of understand.

Sure, I don’t recognize the guy. But I’ve never been the type to follow celebrity news. I’m more of a Jane Austen and classics sort of girl.

It takes me a few more seconds to decide. Then I smile. “I know just the place. Follow me.”

Archer

“Here you go.” The tray of chips, or, I suppose French fries, slips onto the laminated surface in front of me.

I look up at the mystery girl whom I still haven’t decided is an airport employee or not.

She smiles, her eyes friendly underneath her glasses.

She has sort of an adorable nerdy way to her, especially in her plaid shirt.

She cocks her head to the side, making her wavy brown hair longer on one side than the other.

“I know it’s nothing gourmet,” she says, “but I promise it’s as good as airport cafeteria food gets.”

Considering that I don’t recall ever having had any airport cafeteria food at all (I didn’t even know airports had cafeterias until today), I suppose anything she serves me will technically be, by the sheer lack of competition, the best airport cafeteria food I’ve ever had.

“Thank you,” I say. I take a piece and eat it as casually as I can.

After decades of etiquette lessons, it feels almost criminal to be eating with my hands outside my own palace quarters.

It’s even more illegal, by Northandrian standards, for the crown prince to eat anything foreign that hasn’t undergone the fancy-light testing they do, but I’m not about to make a fuss about that. “It’s good.”

Her smile brightens, as if she is somehow gratified that I like the food she got someone else to cook for me in this quiet little cafeteria.

There are a couple of other occupied tables, so we’re not entirely alone.

But she's not wrong--she really does know the perfect place to hide away from the media frenzy while my team figures out how to fly out my private plane with as little press notice as possible.

She might not know exactly how she is helping me, but she’s certainly doing a good job of it.

"Have more," she offers readily before picking a piece for herself. I almost laugh inside at how many young ladies in Northandria would die to be in her place right now, casually sharing fast food with the heir to the throne. "Are you flying out today?"

I tense a little, bracing for the inevitable probing questions. Anonymity never lasts. "Yes. Are you?"

"Yeah," she says. She smiles, but her eyes look like they're touched by the tiniest shadow. "It’s my last trip out of Ground Springs."

"I see."

I should ask more. I should talk to her. It's not like I have anything else better to do. But years of training in keeping myself private jam my tongue.

I take another ill-advised bite of deep-fried potato.

"I'm Ella," she says. "I guess I should get used to that."

"Get used to being called Ella?"

"What? No, I mean--" she laughs. There is a sweetness to her, an innocence that I rarely see from the primped and polished girls they present at court.

"I grew up in Ground Springs, and everyone in my neighborhood knows me.

But I'm off to university now, so I need to get used to introducing myself. "

I nod. She makes sense. I didn't have to introduce myself when I was off at uni, but I did pretend that I had to, and most people played along.

"I'm Arch," I say, allowing her to think it's short for Archie or Archibald rather than my real name. It usually works. I offer my hand, and she shakes it. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you. I take it you're not from around here?"

That is a land mine of a question.

I pause, trying to think how much I can reveal about myself to this friendly little stranger with the sweet, bespectacled smile.

She certainly looks harmless enough, but who knows if she'll turn around and post about her story on social media or sell an interview to some reporter or another?

Is our entire conversation being recorded?

I swallow and scold myself for being far too paranoid. I'm not a Windsor, or a Hollywood A-lister. Most people in America don't know me.

"I was visiting near Virginia." As far as I know, Washington D.C. is nearby. "But I am supposed to fly out today too."

"We might be on the same flight."

"I doubt it."

"Not headed to New Jersey?"

"Europe."

She looks impressed for a second before her brow scrunches. "They fly international in Ground Springs now?"

I recognize my faux pas. For me, they'll fly international. But I'm not an ordinary citizen. Anyone whose assassination could potentially set off World War III is not an ordinary citizen, like it or not.

"I'll check again later," I manage. "Perhaps there is a layover first."

"Ah, right. That makes sense."

She smiles again.

Could all this pleasantness just be an act?

I look down at the paper tray of greasy potatoes. I hope it's not an act. Because I like her, a lot.

Not that it ultimately matters.

"There you are!" A familiar voice calls out. I look up to see my personal protection officer rushing into the cafeteria behind Ella. I try to squeeze myself out of the very tight cafeteria seat as gracefully as I can. "We were looking everywhere, Your High—”

"Hi!" I intercept him. I walk forward and shake Sven's hand. I angle myself to hide his bewildered face from an understandably curious Ella. I try to communicate using only my facial expression that I need him to play along. "Here, meet my new friend Ella. Ella, this is Sven."

The poor man plays along manageably, eyes round and strange as he shakes Ella's hand once I step away.

"Hi Sven," she says sweetly. "I hope you've sorted out whatever you and Arch needed?"

Sven turns to me, eyebrows raised, and I shoot him a look that tells him to shut up.

"I'm sure it's all sorted out, right, Sven?" I say.

"Yes, yes, of course, Your—you're ready to go?"

"Certainly."

I turn my eyes back to Ella, who is looking at us kindly again.

A part of me whispers that I should stay—that I should allow myself just a few more hours of basking in her innocence and kindness.

My mind, which is usually much saner, reminds me that there is literally no good outcome that can result from doing that.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“My pleasure.” She smiles.

I nod. Sven nods. In another world, in another life, I might have asked for her number, or at least asked to follow each other on social media.

But this isn’t some sort of divinely-orchestrated meet cute with soaring background music and sentimental camera work.

The life of a royal might look that way sometimes, but that’s just editing and filter—smokescreens created by carefully-crafted PR campaigns.

Real life is a lot more boring, a lot more serious, and a lot more complex. It’s probably why I feel ancient at age 24.

Other men might get to flirt with the cute, friendly brunette. But when I discover a seed of a potential for something special, all I get to do is to tuck the memory of that smile away as just another souvenir from America.

That’s just all it’s ever destined to be.

Such is the life of a future king.