Page 26 of Royal Crush
Shit.
Camillo was on my little couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table, his head lolling to the side, mouth open just slightly. And he was snoring.
The prince was asnorer.
I fought off an intense urge to pull out my phone and record him. Instead, I backed out quietly and glanced around until I found another far less nervous-looking PA. He had a hot nerd vibe going with his square-framed glasses and plaid shirt. But he didn’t look terrified when I got his attention.
“Is there any chance you can grab some food for me and a guest?”
He lifted a brow. “A…guest?”
“Not that kind of guest. He’s my wheelchair coordinator on set.”
The guy coughed in surprise. “You mean Prince Camillo?”
“Mm.”
“Yeah. Yes. I mean, he has an entire staff here just for him. They bring him whatever he wants, so?—”
“Oh, great. Okay. Can you find out what he likes and bring it, then?”
He choked out a laugh. “Um, of course I can. I’m not interested in getting thrown in a fucking dungeon.”
I didn’t bother to tell him that the country hadn’t used dungeons for the last five hundred years. I had a feeling some of the royal family liked the old-school reputation of a monarchy. Ihad a feeling Camillo would laugh himself out of his chair if he’d heard that one.
I gave him a quick wave of thanks, then snuck back in. Camillo didn’t move other than to twitch his eyebrow and shift his fingers, which were resting over his stomach. This was the first time I’d gotten to really observe him without him knowing I was looking. And this was definitely the first time he’d ever been relaxed around me.
He was somehow even more beautiful in sleep. It took years off his face, and his natural expression wasn’t his angry frown. It was soft—a little boyish—and really sweet. He had the thickest lashes I’d ever seen, and I could only just make out a collection of freckles over the apples of his cheeks.
It was an interesting contrast to his thick, strong hands and the ink that decorated his forearms. I wished he didn’t hate me the way he did. Knowing him sounded…fun. Or, at least, interesting.
In a different life, we might have been friends. We might have been more. He might have used his love for bossing people around in a way that made my knees shake whenever I was brave enough to think about it.
“You know, watching people sleep is creepy.”
“Not when you’re playing them in a TV show,” I choked out, almost ruined by the sound of his rumbly, sleep-thick voice.
Camillo pushed himself up slightly with his hands, then rubbed at his eyes. “I can’t believe I passed out like that.”
“I have a feeling you don’t normally sleep well.”
He snorted. “Not unless they drug me.” His words were punctuated by a knock at the door, and he raised his brows. “Tell me you didn’t invite someone here to see me like this.”
“I’m not that much of a shithead,” I told him. I turned and opened the door. The PA was standing with one of Camillo’s security guards behind him, holding two paper bags.
“I have it on good and terrifying authority that this will make him happy,” the guy said, thumbing at the older man behind him.
I took the bags. “What’s your name?”
He looked surprised. “You actually want to know?”
“Yes. I actually do.”
The guy bit his lip, then shrugged. “Oisin.” He pronounced it with his light Dublin accent: Ush-een.
“Oisin,” I repeated, and he nodded. “Thanks a bunch.” I stepped back and closed the door so no one could get a look at Camillo. I figured if his guard wanted in, nothing I could do would stop him, so I turned back to the prince and held out the food. “I have no idea what this is.”
“Did…I order that?” he asked, frowning.
