Page 74 of Royal Trouble
“I’ll just be a few minutes.”
She climbed to her feet and headed for the bedroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It was the last thing he needed. The apartment was too quiet, leaving far too much space in his head for self-deprecation and worry.
What if he wasn’t actually a prince?
What if his whole life had been a lie?
Would his brother and sister shut him out? Would his father?
He leaped to his feet, taking a long pull on the beer.
Fuck. He needed to know, but would he be able to handle the truth? He honestly wasn’t sure.
And that scared the piss out of him.
Everly’s voice drifted down the hall, and his mind automatically focused on her words. “The time is right and the truth will come out eventually. I might as well be the one to do it.”
What the fuck? What truth was she talking about? Guilt pricked at his conscience. It was none of his business, but it wasn’t like he could help listening. Sound carried in the tiny apartment, and she hadn’t bothered to shut the bedroom door completely.
There was a beat of silence, and he barely dared to breathe.
“Okay, but I want a big advance,” Everly said forcefully. “If I’m going to do this, I want top dollar.”
This time the silence stretched on as whoever she was talking to replied. He would’ve given his left nut to hear the other end of the conversation, because it sure as hell sounded like she was brokering a deal to sell information. The beer in his stomach began to sour as his unease grew.
“An auction?” This time she sounded uncertain, though he couldn’t be sure if she was questioning the decision or the feasibility of an auction. “You think it could be that big?”
Her voice dropped, and he couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation, though it wasn’t for lack of trying, which left him feeling like a nosy prick.
“Sorry about that,” Everly said when she returned. She exchanged her phone for her beer and sank into the couch, patting the cushion next to her.
Xander dropped onto the couch and considered his options. He could admit what he’d heard, but he didn’t want her to think he’d been eavesdropping. Even unintentionally. He knew what it was like to live under a microscope, and he didn’t want to thrust his insecurities onto Everly. Not when things between them were going so well. Besides, it was probably nothing. He hadn’t even heard the entire conversation. Which meant he’d have to tread lightly if he wanted answers.
“No problem.” He checked the time on his watch, noting the late hour. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, it’s nothing.” She toyed with the label on her bottle. “Just my agent checking in.”
“Kind of late for business, isn’t it?” he asked, striving for a casual tone. “It must be what, like, seven in New York?”
Everly shrugged, still not meeting his eye. “What can I say? She’s a workaholic.” She glanced up at him, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I see what you’re doing. Enough stalling. Did you make a decision about the test results?”
Was she right? Was he stalling and acting like a paranoid arsehole because he didn’t want to deal with his own shit?
Not everything is about you, you arrogant bastard.
He sighed and drained his beer, wishing he could float away in an alcohol-induced haze. Life would be so much easier if he didn’t have to think. Just one day without the weight of reality pressing down on his shoulders.
No, that was the old Xander talking, and it was a version of himself he didn’t want to revisit. Not when things were finally starting to go his way. He turned to Everly, who looked at him with such tenderness, such concern he nearly forgot his worries. This was Everly. She’d never do anything to hurt him, regardless of how the call sounded.
He wasn’t going to fuck this up by insinuating otherwise, but he also wasn’t going to open the envelope. Not tonight, anyway.
Chapter Nineteen
Everly’s fingers flew over the keyboard, moving faster than her conscious mind could form the words. That was okay, though. That’s what revisions were for, right? Marisa, her agent, wanted another four chapters submitted within the next two weeks, which meant she needed to get her butt in gear.
Not that she wasn’t properly motivated.
Marisa had loved the first three chapters she’d submitted. Her exact words had been enthralling and utterly addicting. It was high praise coming from a notoriously fickle reader—Marisa’s words, not hers—and she was still basking in the warm glow of the compliment. The agent’s confidence bolstered her, but three chapters did not a book make. If Marisa was going to pitch the big five publishing houses, the proposal needed to shine like the freaking queen’s silver.