Chapter 3
chapter
three
Evelyn
Despite the long, overnight flight, I find myself alert and energized. It could be because I’m about to meet my husband. After freshening myself up in the ladies’ room as best I can with some lip gloss and a hairbrush, I follow the signs to the baggage area.
I’m thankful that I finally convinced my parents to allow me to fly unaccompanied to the States. Obviously, that wouldn’t be an option if our monarchy was one the tabloids over here follow. But for the most part people outside of Saldania don’t know anything about us.
The luggage carousel rattles to life with a metallic groan, and I step back before the moving metal grabs onto my skirt. I’m no stranger to embarrassment, but my family is usually there to cover up my faux pas. They’re not here now, though. It’s just me.
My nose twitches. Not sure if it’s Houston or just the airport, but the mixture of burnt coffee and a myriad of fried foods makes my stomach knot in discomfort.
I remind myself that it’s likely just nerves.
I glance up at the flashing sign letting me know that the first bag from my flight number has been put on the carousel. Which means this is definitely where I’ll find my suitcase.
I adjust the shoulder strap of my carry-on and scan the crowd. He could already be here waiting. My heart flutters at the thought.
But then I see a man standing near the chairs, white sheet of paper held to his impossibly broad chest.
Birdie said he would be easy to spot. But I thought she meant he’d be wearing a brightly colored shirt or something. Not that he’d be both enormous and stupidly handsome.
I glance down at the paper he’s holding just to double-check. But yes, the handwritten name is definitely mine. Evelyn Barlow.
My breath catches. Wow. He is just not at all what I expected.
Not a stiff businessman. Not polished. Not someone who looks like they belong in a palace or a boardroom.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a faded gray Henley that looks soft from too many washes.
The fabric hugs his boulder-sized shoulders.
His worn jeans and cowboy boots do things to me.
Make my insides all warm and squishy. Dark hair, that’s just a little bit longer on top than the sides.
Scruff covers his impressively hard jawline, giving him a roguish appearance.
He’s not smiling.
But when his eyes lift and lock on mine, something in his expression shifts—focus sharpening, posture straightening like he’s clocked a target.
Me.
I swallow and walk toward him.
“That’s me,” I say, gesturing to the sign. “Evelyn.”
Relief flickers across his face before he schools it away.
“Good,” he says, voice low and calm. “I was starting to worry you’d changed your mind.”
I laugh, nerves bubbling over. “About picking up my luggage?”
“About everything,” he replies easily.
That sends a little thrill straight through me.
He wads up the sign and chuc ks it into one of the waste receptacles nearby. “Luggage?” he asks.
“Yes, but just one. I need new clothes that don’t make me look like I’m an extra from a Nineties Lifetime movie.”
He chuffs a laugh. At least I think it’s a laugh. Then he strides over to the carousel.
“Just point,” he says.
I’m almost certain he doesn’t mean I should point at his bottom, which is perfectly accented in those jeans. That is, in fact, what I was paying attention to, so I just stare at him.
He lifts a chin towards the carousel. “To your bag. When you see it, you can just point and I’ll grab it.”
“Oh, yes. Right, of course.” He probably thinks I’ve never seen a man in person before. Or maybe that I’ve never been out of my palace. I’ve done both. But in truth, I don’t think any of the handsome men I’ve ever encountered holds a proverbial candle to this man.
He reaches for my carry-on without asking, lifting it off my shoulder like it weighs nothing.
That’s when my giant suitcase comes barreling down the chute. “Uh, that’s it,” I point.
His eyes narrow in on the bags tumbling over each other. Then he glances back over his shoulder at me, and I simply nod, as if to say: Why yes, that giant black suitcase emblazoned with the crest of the royal family of Saldania is mine.
“Not very subtle,” he murmurs.
“I realize, but it was my only option. And the trip itself was sanctioned, just not anything that happens after I arrive.”
He lifts the bag and rolls it behind him. “This way,” he says.
As we walk toward the parking garage, I sneak glances at him—his steady stride, the way his attention seems split between me and the world around us.
Protective. Competent. Rugged.
And apparently… mine?
What was Birdie thinking, asking a man like this to marry me? And why on Earth did he agree? Aren’t men like him normally married and procreating with their gorgeous wives?
He doesn’t talk as he leads me to a large white truck. Before I can even try to figure out how to climb inside, his big hands are on my hips, lifting me into the passenger seat.
I think that maybe my panties are on fire. Which probably means that I am not prepared to marry a man like this. I might pass out if he kissed me. Actually die if he touched me somewhere other than my clothed hips.
Pull yourself together!
His truck is big and clean and smells faintly like leather and something woodsy.
I don’t even bother trying not to stare as he rounds the hood and slides into the driver’s seat.
The engine rumbles to life.
A worn cowboy hat sits on the dashboard.
I bite my lip, smiling. I never imagined I’d get to marry a cowboy.
As we pull out of the airport, I casually pull my phone from my purse and fire off a text.
Me: I’ve landed in Houston.
Me: You did NOT warn me he was this hot. I may combust before Vegas.
I glance sideways at him.
He’s focused on the road, jaw set, hands steady on the wheel.
Even his hands are sexy. Veins and scars and a dusting of hair. Yep, definitely attractive hands.
What is happening to me?
“So,” I say. “I guess we should talk.”
His brow creases. “About what?”
“Our marriage,” I say, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He chokes.
Not dramatically—but enough that he has to clear his throat.
“Marriage,” he repeats carefully.
“Yes,” I say, suddenly flustered. “I mean, not right this second. But at some point. We haven’t discussed expectations or boundaries or—well—anything.”
Silence stretches.
I barrel on, nerves taking over.
“I just want you to know I’m very flexible. I understand this is unconventional, but I’m completely on board with whatever arrangement you’re comfortable with. Traditional. Non-traditional. Friendly. Passionate.” I shrug. “Marital pleasures included.”
He spits out the swig of water he just took. Then he does choke.
Awesome. Now I’m going to kill him before we even get married.
The truck swerves slightly before he rights it and pulls over onto the shoulder, coughing.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
“Oh God,” I say, mortified. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, not like that, I just—”
He turns to me, eyes wide.
“Evelyn,” he says slowly, his voice hoarse from the coughing fit. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”
My stomach drops.
“I’m not Mike.”
I blink.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m Mitchell. Mike’s brother.”
The world tilts.
“I’m here to keep you safe,” he continues. “Escort you to Vegas. For the wedding. That’s it.”
My face burns.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He exhales. “Yeah.”
We sit there in the quiet hum of the engine, the weight of the moment pressing down.
“I’m so sorry,” I say finally. “I thought—”
“I know what you thought,” he says gently. “This one’s not on you. I’m guessing you haven’t seen any of Mike’s messages to you?”
I press my hands to my lap, mortified. I shake my head. “Well,” I manage weakly. “This is awkward.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Just a misunderstanding. Nothing more.”
We pull back onto the road.
And I hope that some sort of wormhole opens up and swallows me into a new dimension.