Page 29 of Scarred Crown

“Perhaps we should call Robbie over and give him the scoop.”

“He wouldn’t believe it. I’m sure he thinks you slept with her too. Probably planning to write a woman scorned article.”

“Wouldn’t be the first.”

“Not likely to be the last either.”

“You really think so little of me?” I turn in my chair to meet her gaze. Her words shouldn’t cut so deep. Women I’ve slept with, and ones I haven’t even met, have sold me out to gossip rags or posted shit on social media for likes and retweets. Anything for a buck or five minutes of fame. The story doesn’t need to be real—just needs to sound real.

Means I’ve had to become more selective of the company I keep. The Laurens of the world don’t get a peek in my pants unless I decide I’m fine with the exact dimensions of my dick being splashed across social media again. I wish I was kidding. Youth and alcohol lead to poor decisions.

She searches my face. “I suppose if you wanted me to think more of you, you’d have to show me something different, wouldn’t you?” She pats my bearded cheek and drains her water. “Bed for me. Jet lag and all that.” Without waiting for a response, she strides over to a staff member with her empty glass and, flashlight in hand, is escorted back to our tent.

I stare into the fire, considering her words. What do I care what Julia thinks of me? Her opinion of me doesn’t mean anything. So what if she thinks I’m a philandering man-whore? She’s squandering her life working for my father. Of course, if my father is retiring, her new boss will be my older brother Alex. The thought sours my stomach. I tip up the last of my beer just as Lauren gathers her courage to approach me again.

I suppress a sigh while she wobbles over, coming perilously close to the fire.

“Are you leaving?” Lauren cries, and her high-pitched voice draws stares from the remaining safari goers around the fire.

“Did you get a chance to talk to Robbie?” Not that I want her talking to Robbie and feeding him whatever narrative she decides to construct about me, but it’s a small sacrifice to keep Robbie away from Julia. She doesn’t need him hounding her for palace gossip.

“Robbie isn’t as much fun as you,” she says with a pout. “Are you and your secretary together? You’re sharing a tent.”

I’m tempted to lie and tell Julia I fabricated a relationship to get Lauren out of my lap. Would Julia go along with it? When we were kids she would have. Now? I don’t know.

“Lauren,” I say, smoothing down her hair and framing her face, forcing her to make eye contact with me. “You should cut yourself off and go to bed.”

“Do you need somewhere to sleep?” She peers at me hopefully.

“I do not.” I let her go and wave to everyone around the fire and head for my tent. Julia should have been there to see me handle Lauren. Honest and not even an asshole. Pfft. Show her something different? Maybe she just needs to pay better attention.

A worker walks me to my tent, and I unzip it, prepared for Julia to be sprawled across the bed again. Instead, I’m struck dumb a second time.

On the floor in a pile of blankets is Julia, sound asleep.

How can that be comfortable? Why did she take the floor tonight?

I replay the evening, but I can’t pinpoint a moment where I was a big enough dick to make her want to sleep on the hard ground. She’ll be exhausted in the morning.

While I get ready for bed, Jules stirs, asleep, but clearly uncomfortable. When I’m all set, I slide into bed and consider turning out the light, leaving her on the floor. If she wants to judge me and be so fucking stubborn about it, maybe she deserves the ground.

But the longer it takes me to snap off the light, the more the knot in my chest dissipates. No point in having her grumpy tomorrow, right?

With a sigh, I throw back the covers on the other side of the bed. Then I crouch down and lift her gently into my arms, trying not to disturb her. I’m not in the mood for another fight when I’m taking the high road.

At her side of the bed, I slide her under and tuck the covers around her. A strand of chestnut hair falls across her face and with the lightest touch, I smooth it back. The urge to linger, to feather a kiss across her forehead, to curl myself around her is ridiculously strong.

God, I’ve missed her.

Instead of touching her, I rub my hands along my beard and suck in a deep breath.

Christ, I need to get her out of Tanzania. This slope is far too slippery. I can’t let myself slide down it again.

Jules

Fourteen years ago

I’m on the palace grounds, following a trail of text clues from Nick—a little game he likes to play whenever I’ve tried his patience with my lateness. Guess where Nick is? Juvenile and frustrating, but at least he’s still answering my texts.