Royally Endowed (Royally, #3)

by Emma Chase

A counselor told me I was dyslexic when I was nine. It was a relief to know I wasn’t just a dumb fuck. She taught me how to get by, but even now reading doesn’t come easy.

At this moment, she’s at the bar, undeniably delectable in a champagne-colored silk gown that hugs her in all the right places. Or . . . the bloody wrong ones, as far as I’m concerned. One eager-eyed, posh lad after another is offering her drinks, asking her to dance or trying to impress her with their lofty pedigrees. Fucking sods.

many of my ancestors wouldn’t let that slow them down, incest really isn’t my bag.”

Lie down with a half-naked woman who’s looked at me more than once like I’m an ice-cream cone she can’t wait to lick up and down? What could go wrong?

“You’re always doing this,” she whispers. “Doing what?” “Saving me.” I smile, just a bit. “I don’t mind.” “Because it’s your job?” she asks. “Yes.” “And because maybe, sort of, you kind of like me too? Just a little?” A chuckle scratches my throat. “Just a little.”

“Hey Logan?” “Yeah?” “One of these days . . . I’m going to save you back.”

“You’re not really a royal until you have a stalker—welcome to the club, Olive.”

“The first girl my brother loved was named Constance Uma Natasha Theresa,” George says. “Turned out to be a fitting acronym.”

Jesus Christ on a candy cane.