King of the Crease (The Comebacks #3)

1. Nick

NICK

Despite being someone who’s spent his whole life being looked at, there’s nothing I love more than people watching.

People think because I’m a literal prince, my life is inherently more fascinating. Not true. Unlike a Disney prince, I can’t even carry a tune. I believe everyone lives an interesting life, chock full of tiny details weaving together to form a mosaic of humanity.

I stare out my window at the hubbub in midtown Manhattan and find those quiet, individual moments: A woman checking her hair in the reflection of a store window. A little girl catching snowflakes on her tongue. A sidewalk Santa sneakily scratching under his fake beard.

At a corner, steam rises from a hot dog cart as its owner whistles to himself. I roll down my tinted window a touch to inhale the savory, salty smell of hot dogs and pretzels.

“Your Highness,” Agnes arches an eyebrow. “Are you warm?”

Alfred, my bodyguard, turns his head around from the front passenger seat, light bouncing off his shaved head. “Your Highness, you should roll up your window. Exposing yourself is a potential security hazard.”

“Have you ever eaten one of those?” I nod at the hot dog cart.

“I would not trust any food that’s prepared on wheels.” Agnes scrunches her nose. As my private secretary, she’s in charge of my schedule, correspondence, and briefings. She’s the Prince Nicholas gatekeeper, and she runs a ship as tight as the bun on top of her head.

“Let’s stop and grab some hot dogs. Maybe a pretzel, too.” My mouth begins to water at the thought of those salt-soaked delicacies.

“Your Highness.” Agnes lets out a tiny laugh, no more than a compact gust of air. “You don’t want to be out for a stroll in that weather.”

She’s been with my family since I was born, and in the occasional instance when I push back on her, she’ll remind me that she used to wipe my bottom.

The limo cuts across Manhattan, through the clogged arteries of Midtown.

My morning at the UN was a blur of handshakes and policy.

I check my reflection as I roll up the tinted window of my limo.

I look a little tired with slight bags under my dark blue eyes.

I’m thirty-six, but I’m still told I’m boyishly handsome, which I know I should take as a compliment.

It motivated me to grow a neatly trimmed beard, something that required multiple rounds of discussion with the king and the royal public relations liaison.

“Where are we going again?” I quit trying to remember my daily schedule a long time ago. It’s densely packed with meetings and commitments that are constantly shifting around.

“We’re meeting the French ambassador to discuss joint green energy initiatives.” Though her iPad sits in her hands, she doesn’t have to reference it.

Agnes’s mind is a miracle that runs on Fig Newtons and Diet Coke.

“After that, we’re meeting with Ardenia’s fund managers to go over the country’s investments and review the year’s portfolio performance. And then…you have that dinner.”

“Dinner date,” I confirm. “Grace Muldoon, right?”

The corners of her mouth droop south for a split second as she nods yes.

“What about the children’s hospital?” I ask.

“Your Highness, unfortunately your schedule is a bit too packed to stop there on this trip. But next time—”

“We can find the time,” I shoot back, flexing my royal might. “We will make the meeting with our investment advisors short and sweet and head over to the hospital afterwards. As the queen used to say, ‘Those who live fortunate lives have a responsibility to help others.’”

Agnes loved my mother almost as much as I did. Everyone was enthralled with her wit, her kindness, her generosity. I’ve thought about her every day for the past twenty-one years. These acts of service are a small way to keep her memory alive.

“We can make it work, Agnes. It’ll really make their day.” Children get a kick out of meeting a crown prince. We make paper crowns and sing songs. It’s a good time, better than a stuffy meeting talking investments.

“Very well.” She bows her head. She unwraps a Fig Newton from her stash and takes a bite, covering her mouth. “I can see about pushing back dinner. Or perhaps…canceling?”

I let out a sigh. “Agnes, the king put this dinner date on the schedule, correct?”

She bows her head. “I was overruled. Ms. Muldoon’s father owns a chain of luxury hotels. He and the king thought it would be a good idea, especially as Ardenia is looking to expand its tourism offerings.” Agnes looks down at her iPad, afraid to meet my eye.

Nothing says romance like two powerful men trying to pair off their children for mutual financial benefit.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.”

“Don’t be. One day, I will be king, and that means I need to find a queen and produce heirs.

The crown is bigger than our personal desires,” I say, the line drilled into me by my father for decades.

It’s his guiding principle. We can’t afford another scandal, Nicholas, is another greeting-card-worthy saying he loves repeating to me.

“I understand, Your Highness,” Agnes responds quietly.

Every so often, I agree to these setups, hoping maybe I’m just bisexual and merely haven’t found the right woman.

And every time, the answer is a big, fat, homosexual no.

The limo maneuvers through traffic until we reach Columbus Circle, the busiest roundabout in all of New York. Straight ahead is the entrance to Central Park. We crawl into the roundabout, which comes to a complete standstill as a gaggle of pedestrians cross the street.

Agnes reviews the schedule and scrolls through emails on her tablet, while my attention gets pulled outside the window.

A group of four male friends stand outside a coffee shop huddled in a circle, all of them shivering but none of them leaving.

They’re engaged in animated conversation that seems to have followed them from the restaurant.

One of them talks so fast, his hands and mouth are barely able to keep up with the story spilling out.

His friends are rapt with attention. Then, he pauses and says one final thing, likely a punchline that sends them rolling with laughter, the vibrations of which I feel through my door.

I let out a soft chuckle, too, imagining for a brief, fleeting moment that I’m shivering in that huddle alongside them.

One of the friends takes out his cell phone, and they cram into a selfie, with each of them holding up their index finger. It makes no sense. It must be some kind of inside joke.

I look down and find that my index finger is also sticking up in desperate solidarity.

When they disperse, two of the friends head up north…holding hands. They smile at each other, eyes filled with beaming warmth that wards off the wind and the snow. One of them pulls the other closer, gives him a quick kiss on the lips, then hugs him tight to keep him warm.

The firm hand of jealousy wraps itself around my stomach and squeezes, making it hard to breathe for a second.

The windows are tinted, so they can’t see me, but for a moment I wonder if they can feel me watching them. When you want something badly enough, and it’s right there in front of you, it’s hard to look away.

Before I can gawk at them any longer, the limo pushes out of the roundabout onto Central Park West.

Snow peacefully rests on the branches of trees lining the passing streets. Christmas garland loops around the awnings of swanky high-rises.

“I do love New York during the holidays,” Agnes says. “Nothing beats it.”

Being a member of a royal family and a closeted gay man, I am the world’s foremost expert on holding in one’s true feelings.

So instead of reacting or letting Agnes see any of this, I simply exhale and clear my throat.

“Right,” I say as the men fall out of view.