The name didn’t even suit him. Tears pricked the back of her eyes and she blinked them away. She’d spent three days crying over Henry—Sebastian—whatever the hell he wanted to call himself, and she had the puffy eyes and throbbing headache to prove it.
She needed to pull herself together.
If not for her own pride, for Stanley International.
Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t had a proper meal in days. She checked the clock on her nightstand. Half past eight. The royal family was probably sitting down to breakfast at this very moment.
You can always join them. There’s probably bacon.
Her stomach seized at the thought and she cursed silently. Thanks to Henry, she’d forever associate her favorite breakfast food with heartbreak. She’d been burned by him, just like the bacon sizzling in the frying pan.
So, yeah. She was skipping breakfast. The media was having a field day at her expense and she didn’t need the royal family piling on. She felt crappy enough without listening to Their Majesties drone on about her reputation or how foolish the royal family looked considering the revelations about Henry’s heritage. It was bad enough the queen—with all the diplomacy of a treasure seeking dragon—had stopped by yesterday to discuss the merits of a Spanish alliance.
As if her broken heart were of no consequence.
Pippa sighed and threw back the covers. Broken heart or not, she needed to eat. A woman could not live on truffles alone, though she’d given it a shot. She sat up in bed, grimacing at the sight of her cotton pajamas. They were so wrinkled the tiny pink and white llamas looked more like poorly groomed hamsters. With tentative fingers, she reached up to inspect her hair. Her fingers were immediately ensnared by tangles, a reminder she hadn’t properly washed or combed it since she’d climbed into bed Sunday afternoon.
Brilliant. Nothing like a lapse in personal hygiene to make a person feel like total shite.
The door to her bedroom swung open, and she started, a shrill yelp of surprise bursting from her lips.
Three days of virtual solitude will do that to a person.
Her eyes darted to the door. Where the hell was Sarah? She was supposed to be running interference, keeping the staff and her family at bay. Either Sarah had abandoned her post or the future queen—who stood in the doorway of Pippa’s bedroom, chin lifted regally—had refused to take no for an answer and strong-armed her way past the bodyguard.
Pippa’s money was on the latter.
Even worse, Lena had reinforcements. Evie stood beside her, eyes wide as they swept the room, taking in the discarded laundry that littered the floor and the tray of sticky ice cream bowls.
She did a quick inventory. It wasn’tthatbad.
At least there were no animals involved.
Lena scrunched up her nose and cocked a hip. “Girl, you need to open a window or something.”
“And by something,” Evie added, staring at the bird’s nest on top of her head, “she means take a shower.”
Bloody Americans. No filters whatsoever.
It was like they just said whatever came to mind and damn the consequences. Most days it was a trait she admired, but today?
Not so much.
“It’s nice to see you too.” She crossed her arms over her chest. So what if her hair was out of sorts? It wasn’t like she smelled. Much. “I asked not to be disturbed.”
“We brought truffles!” Evie said, holding up a square white box with brown print. Her attention flicked to the nightstand, where two empty boxes of Richart truffles sat abandoned. Her brows flattened. “Dammit. I knew we should’ve gotten vodka. You can never go wrong with vodka.”
Lena rolled her eyes and moved toward the window. “You can never have too much chocolate either. Or too many donuts.” When she reached the window, she yanked the drapes open, not bothering to ask permission. Light spilled into the room, the early morning rays revealing yet another box of truffles peeking out from under the bed. Pippa squinted as her eyes adjusted to the harsh light. “Me? I love donuts. The sprinkled kind,” Lena continued, as if the situation were perfectly normal and she wasn’t completely invading Pippa’s privacy.
Maybe this was another American thing, barging into other people’s sleeping chambers uninvited. But why? It wasn’t like she needed a bloody intervention.
Don’t be so sure about that, Bunny. Looked in the mirror lately?
“What are you guys doing here?” she demanded, straightening her pajama top. Not that it helped. She loved her llama jammies, but it was hard to look dignified when your clothes were covered in barnyard animals.
The women exchanged a furtive glance. She couldn’t decipher the silent message that passed between them. Of course. Another secret too precious to share with the Crown Jewel.
Jesus. Was there anyone in her life not keeping secrets from her?
